“If we’re not one of ‘those couples’ who are we?”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. I don’t want to talk to some stranger about my marriage. All right?”
She inhaled deeply. “Will you at least think about it?”
“No.”
Sometimes Maggie wanted to kill him. If I had a gun I’d put a bullet in his brain here and now, she thought. Sitting so smug and self-righteous and self-obsessed on the sodding seat nearby.
“I’d rather sort things out my own way,” he said.
He clearly meant in a way that suited him. This convinced her. “Fine. I’ll go on my own.”
“You can’t go on your own!”
“Oh, can’t I?” she said. “Just watch me.”
31
Summer gave way to autumn and just as a patch of mild weather kept leaves hanging on branches in semi-browned suspension, so reluctance permeated Chloë’s mental state regarding her affair. She sensed James was equally unwilling to face the sobering consequences of their actions, thus instead of making demands or precipitating a confrontation, she let their relationship drift on as it had before they’d been away.
“He’s having his cake and eating it,” Rob cautioned her. “Allow things to slide now, and it’s all too easy to do it indefinitely.” Heedless of his warning, Chloë continued to see James once a week—twice if she was lucky—but at least this allowed her to focus on work, which might otherwise have suffered.
As well as asking Craig to write a piece on children and divorce as promised, she commissioned one writer with a reputation for investigative ruthlessness to produce a particularly provocative feature, and another known for her soul-searching interviews to go one step further than usual with a star profile. She invited a favorite freelancer to come up with the sharpest, wittiest column he could conceive of, a second to vent spleen with a biting series of reviews, and a third to compose an up-to-the-minute social exposé. “I want you to stretch yourself,” she said to each. “Don’t hold back. Write as if there was no editor or advertising director limiting what you are allowed to do.”
But she couldn’t assign all the work out to others and, anyway, she wanted to draft some of the features herself, so one morning she decided she could do with a hand from Patsy. Given that Patsy wasn’t employed on All Woman and Chloë had no wish to antagonize Jean by stealing her during working hours, she phoned her and suggested they go for lunch.
They met in the foyer. “It’s a bit embarrassing explaining this in an open-plan office,” Chloë said, ushering Patsy out of the building.
“Blimey! It must be hush-hush—I didn’t think you ever got embarrassed!”
“You’ll discover what I mean soon enough,” said Chloë.
“Tell me, tell me!”
“Patience.”
“Oooh!” She could see Patsy was both infuriated and thrilled.
They made their way down Long Acre, crossed onto Endell Street, and headed to Shaftesbury Avenue.
“Where are we going?” panted Patsy; dysfunctional footwear and legs even shorter than Chloë’s meant it was hard for her to keep up.
Chloë tapped her nose knowingly. “Aha.”
Along Denmark Street, with its music shops that had been there forever, over the pelican crossing on Charing Cross Road, and they were there.
“Ann Summers!” Patsy giggled. “Are you sure this isn’t something you should be doing with your man, not me?”
But Patsy doesn’t know I have a man, thought Chloë, momentarily flummoxed. Still, this wasn’t the moment to ask what she meant, so she moved on, saying firmly, “No. This is a project, Patsy. Work. Not play. Research.”
“You’re having a laugh!”
Chloë grabbed a basket and strode purposefully past the underwear, nurses’ uniforms, and maids’ outfits, and up the steps into the back. Here the lighting was less harsh. She noted there were no lone women shoppers, only couples, and men, presumably buying for their girlfriends or wives. She scanned the shelves—hmm, not the videos or magazines, or the handcuffs, and certainly not the rather tacky “play” whips or masks. (Far more creative to improvise, Chloë believed.)
She halted in front of the biggest display. “This is what we’re after.”
Patsy was close behind. “Dildos!” she whooped.
“Vibrators,” said Chloë, mock-sedately. “They call this the Vibrator Bar.” They peered at the samples lined up like giant lipsticks before them. There were small pink ones and huge black ones, ridged ones and ribbed ones, ones with curved ends and straight ones, ones with rather alarming prongs, and ones that looked more like massagers. There was even a pretty butterfly-shaped device that didn’t resemble a penis at all. Patsy switched it on and jumped back, alarmed, as it sprang to life in her hand. “Now, then,” Chloë directed, “let’s decide on six different kinds.”
“Six!”
“Yup.”
“Bloody hell, Chloë, I always thought you were a bit of a goer, but six? You’re insatiable!”
“They’re not all for me,” laughed Chloë. “One’s for you.”
“Are you implying Doug’s not enough for me?” Doug was Patsy’s boyfriend of several years.
“Far be it from me to criticize the prowess of your true love, Patsy dear. I wouldn’t dare.” Doug was six foot four and built like a rugby player. “No, my friend, this is a little project for girls, toutes seules. You know those consumer panels they have in the Sunday papers and Good Housekeeping? ‘Tried and Tested’?”
Patsy nodded.
“You, my sweet, innocent Patsy are going to head up my specially selected panel for All Woman to put six of these lurve machines through their paces!”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. Who wants to know which is the best bottle opener or variety of baked beans? They’re hardly the most important thing in a woman’s life. And as for stay-on lip gloss and waterproof mascaras, how unadventurous! All Woman is going to test those things that you always wanted tested, but were to afraid to ask.”
“But we can try them out here.” Patsy examined one with an intriguing extra prong.
“Not where it counts, you can’t.”
Patsy giggled. “They’ll never let you!”
“Who’s they?”
“Advertisers. UK Magazines. You know.”
“Depends how it’s done. Okay, so maybe Estée Lauder won’t buy the space opposite, but I’m convinced somebody will. Black Lace novels or Durex, for instance. We simply have to make sure it’s written with humor”—Chloë scooped up a mammoth chocolate-colored vibrator called Throbbing Muscle and put it in her basket—“and grace.”
They stopped off at Prét before returning to the office. Perched on high stools at the window so that they could watch passersby, Chloë wolfed a hummus sandwich and Diet Coke at ninety miles per hour, while Patsy picked at a vegetarian sushi.
Partway through, Patsy ventured, “I’m glad we did this.”
“I told you, you’re in need of a little more buzz in your love life,” Chloë teased. “You and Doug have been going out way too long.”
“No, not that. I meant I’m glad I’ve got the chance to have a chat, just us two. There’s something I wanted to ask.”
“What’s that?”
“Are you seeing anyone at the moment?”
Chloë swallowed a large mouthful. She felt herself coloring immediately. “No.”
Patsy looked at her carefully. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” That was probably a touch too defensive. “Why do you ask?”
“I thought maybe you were.”
“What on earth should make you think that?”
“Lots of things.”
Chloë took another bite. She couldn’t possibly be seen to be put off her food—Patsy would glean something was up. “Like what?”
“Like … talking on the phone opposite me in hushed whispers during your last few weeks at Babe … your increasingly sexy wardrobe … your gen
eral glow … that mysterious ‘vacation’ when you wouldn’t reveal where you were going or who with … Do you want me to carry on?”
And Chloë thought she’d been so discreet. “Mm.”
“Look.” Patsy took a deep breath. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I have my suspicions but, actually, in this case I’d be happy to keep them to myself.” Chloë raised an eyebrow. It was uncharacteristic of Patsy to volunteer to keep mum. Normally she’d only do it if asked. “It’s just I’m not alone in having them.”
“What do you mean?” Now Chloë paled.
“I might as well get to the point. You always were crap at lying. And your every gesture is giving you away. Are you having an affair with James Slater or what?”
Chloë felt her face turn from white to scarlet.
“Obviously you are.”
In vain Chloë tried to bluff her way out. “I am not!”
“I’ve told you, I’ve known for ages that you’re seeing someone; I wasn’t sure who it was but then Jean said something and I put two and two together—”
“And made five!”
“And made four. You’re playing with fire, you know.” Patsy looked at Chloë sternly. The effect was diminished by her tiny stature and crazy pixie hairstyle, but Chloë could tell she was genuinely concerned.
What was the point of denying it any longer? It was more important to find out who else knew, and what they knew. After all, if she begged, Patsy would keep it quiet. If there was one thing Patsy liked more than gossip it was to be privy to a juicy secret. “You swear not to tell a soul?”
Patsy nodded solemnly. “Cross my heart.” She made the age-old schoolgirl gesture.
“And you’ll tell me everything Jean said to you?” This was what most worried Chloë.
“My foremost allegiance is to my old features editor, natch.”
“Okay … Here goes.” As swiftly as she could—the minutes were ticking by and they were due back at work—she gave Patsy a brief outline of her liaison with James.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Patsy, when she’d finished.
“I do really like him,” she said quietly. “I like him a lot.”
Patsy ignored this. “One question. Then I’ll tell you what Jean said, promise.”
Chloë checked her watch. “Okay, but only one. I’ve got heaps to do this afternoon.”
“Is he a good shag?”
“Patsy!”
“Ooh, go on, tell me … I’m the one who spotted his potential.”
“I’m not sure I should reveal that,” said Chloë haughtily.
“For goodness’ sake!” Patsy jigged up and down impatiently. “You take me to Ann Summers to buy vibrators and then go coy on me.”
“Yeah, I s’pose.” Chloë felt uncomfortable. Joking aside, she didn’t like reducing her relationship to such a low level. She could see that dragging out her colleague on a shopping trip to buy sex toys had done little to enhance her image as an old-fashioned romantic. I want Patsy to understand that we care deeply for each other, she thought. Yet she was too self-conscious to reveal she was in love with him, so she said: “It’s great—he’s great, if you must know, but that’s all you’ll get out of me. Go on, your turn. Jean. Shoot.”
“Well, so far you’re safe. And”—Patsy lifted her chin proudly—“you’ve me to thank for that. I’ve batted off every suggestion she makes with a denial.”
“Thank you. You’re a star.”
“Though you ought to be careful. Bloody careful. That woman”—she leaned in close for effect—“has eyes like a hawk and a nose like a bloodhound.”
“No need to tell me that. I worked under her editorship. What did she say?”
“Obviously she doesn’t have access to your feeble attempts at ‘secret’ phone calls like me, and she hasn’t said anything to me outright. I’m not sure she even realizes that it’s James—at least, she’s not told me she thinks it’s him. Though I don’t think she would, what with Maggie being her friend. But she does believe you’re seeing someone on the sly. She asked me point-blank the other day but I hotly refuted it—and she did see you in New York. She said it was odd you hadn’t told her that was where you were going when you knew she’d be there.”
Chloë felt rather foolish. “Actually, I’d forgotten she would be. It was all so last minute my going.”
“She’s getting close to sniffing you two out, that’s what I reckon. Only the other day I heard her bitching to Vanessa she didn’t understand why on earth you hadn’t let Maggie Slater write for All Woman. That’s how I worked out for sure it was James. I know you; you’re a tight cow when it comes to commissions. So I couldn’t think of another reason why you wouldn’t want to work with someone with such a good reputation who was prepared to contribute free of charge.”
“Oops.”
“Oops indeed. Anyway”—Patsy got to her feet—“we better go.”
They grabbed an Ann Summers carrier bag apiece, slung their empty sandwich packets in the bin on their way out, and raced back up Long Acre.
“Next time she asks, pretend you’ve found out who I’m seeing, and that it’s someone else.” Chloë gasped for breath.
“Will do,” said Patsy. “Just you watch your step, you femme fatale, you.”
* * *
Although Chloë’s relationship with James hadn’t moved on apace, there was one important development: he was going to meet Rob.
Using the well-worn squash-night excuse, James had agreed to come around, and Rob had offered to make a meal. He was a better cook than Chloë. “If you do it, it’s”—he made a slicing gesture across his throat, accompanied by a choking sound—“to your affair. His wife is Margaret Wilson, woman!” It hardly made Chloë feel like donning a pinafore and dusting off her one cookbook.
She ensured she was home at a reasonable hour—if she wasn’t permitted to cook, she wanted at least to create the right ambience. On her way she stopped at the big Asda nearby, and bought candles, paper napkins, three bottles of wine—more expensive ones than normal—and some cat food.
The bags weighed a ton. As she staggered home up St. John’s Hill in the dusky drizzle, they sliced into her hands, and when she’d finally dumped them on the kitchen table, they’d left cruel red marks on her palms. One of the tins of Whiskas rolled onto the floor and nearly tripped up Rob. He was slicing onions with tears streaming down his face and, glancing down at the offending object, took his eyes off the knife and cut his finger.
“Fuck!”
“Sorry.” She winced. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live,” growled Rob, running his finger under the tap. “This man had better be worth it.”
She was nervous already; this didn’t help. Other than her dad and her brother, James and Rob were the two most important men in her life. She tried to cheer him. “So, what are we having? It smells gorgeous.”
“Roast halibut with spiced lentils and coriander.”
He’s making a big effort, Chloë thought.
“I hope he’s not going to be late. All this needs timing to the minute.”
About this she was confident. “He’s never late.”
“No, I’m sure every second counts when you’ve a wife to get back to.”
She let the jibe pass. “Do you mind if I freshen up before setting the table?”
“Go ahead.”
Chloë headed into the bathroom for a speedy shower. Back in her room, Potato was mewing pitifully at the door, keen to get out for a share of the fish. Ignoring him, she struggled to pull clean knickers on when she’d not allowed herself time to dry. Rummage rummage—where was that top? Ah, yes! Rush rush, quick quick, pull on her shiny black trousers—ugh, they were sticking to her thighs—and those mules, James hadn’t seen them before, two minutes on her makeup, a few seconds scrunching her hair with the dryer—it had gone a bit frizzy in the rain—and phew, she was ready.
She panted back into the kitchen and began setting things up. There
was just enough space to entertain at the small table if she cleared it of gubbins, so she swept up the piles of magazines and unpaid bills and dumped them in a corner of the living room. She grabbed the broken chair from the hallway and banged the leg back into place—it might possibly take her weight for the evening if she was careful. Next she hunted for three matching wineglasses—in vain. Oh, well, once you’ve put a folded napkin in each you can’t really tell, she decided. She had the same problem with the crockery—theirs was a motley collection of plates. But mix ‘n’ match is supposed to be in, she persuaded herself. Finally, she ran around the apartment scooping up every tea-light holder she could find and dropped a candle in each.
“There,” she said, turning out the main light so that they could have a quick look.
“Wonderful. Almost wouldn’t recognize the place. Now, stir this. It’s my turn.”
Obediently Chloë took the spot at the stove while Rob disappeared into the bathroom. While he was gone her anticipation mounted.
I do so want them to get along, she thought. I know Rob’s disinclined to like him, but hopefully James’s charm will win him over …
Just then the landline rang. With one hand, she reached over and picked up the phone.
“Hello.” She tucked the receiver under her chin so she could carry on performing her culinary duties. Well I never, she thought, I’m surprising myself, I am really enjoying this.
“Hi,” said a familiar voice, muffled by the sound of a train. “It’s James.”
“Oh, hi!” Chloë could scarcely contain her excitement. “Where are you?”
“Waterloo.”
“Ah, good—you’ll be here any minute!”
A particularly loud train thundered past. “I’m afraid I’m not coming.”
Chloë thought she must have misheard. “What?”
“I can’t make it. I’m terribly sorry.”
“Oh.” Chloë was so disappointed, she didn’t know what to say. There was a long pause. “Why not?”
“It’s Maggie, I’m afraid.”
“Ri-ight…” She knew she sounded pissed off. But, hell, I am pissed off, she thought. Gutted.
James elaborated: “She went to see this woman today, and now she wants to talk.”