Chapter Sixty-five
“IF YOU START GOING OUT with Marcus again,” Nadia says, “you know that we’ll have to kill you.”
“It was just a date,” I insist and bury my face over my glass of hot chocolate to hide my discomfort. I’m vainly hoping that the steam might work as some sort of mini face-lift while I’m here, since all this emotional turmoil is taking its toll on my skin as well as my heart.
An emergency meeting of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club has been convened. It’s lunchtime and we’ve all managed to get here at short notice. Not that we ever take much persuasion. If we ever miss more than a few days, then Clive and Tristan begin to wonder if we’ve all died of some hideous disease brought on by the absence of chocolate. Hardly the case for me. Vast amounts of chocolate are being consumed as I contemplate this latest development with Marcus. I just had to get some impartial advice. But I’d forgotten that the members of the Chocolate Lovers’ Club are not impartial when it comes to Marcus. We have a plate of walnut brownies between us and Nadia picks at one.
“A date,” I say to myself more than anyone else. “Nothing more.”
“Involving an elaborately staged picnic and a kite with I LOVE YOU, LUCY painted on it?” Chantal chips in.
“Okay. It was quite a romantic kind of date.” I squirm under their collective scrutiny. “But that’s it.”
“So you’re not seeing him again?” Nadia asks.
“Not really,” I tell her, and then decide to fess up before I’m rumbled. I’m well aware of the penalties that can be foisted upon you for telling lies. “Not in the seeing him sense of the word. I’m having dinner with him tonight, but only because we need to be on friendly terms again before the Targa office party. After that it’s so over.”
“You could have taken one of us,” Autumn very helpfully suggests. “I would have loved to have gone. I don’t get the chance to dress up very often.” Do they make evening dresses in cheesecloth? I wonder. “Plus, it might well have taken my mind off my lovely brother’s sudden departure.”
Autumn has just come back from Heathrow where she’s been waving good-bye to her brother Richard for the foreseeable future. Despite putting a brave face on it, we can all tell that she’s really down. Her eyes are red from crying and she won’t tell us the full story of where Richard has been and what he’s been doing. We know that he’s off to a rehab clinic though—so that’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it? She’s also stuffing in brownies without a thought for the starving masses—a sure sign that she’s distracted.
“I can’t go with another girl. They’ll all think I’m gay.” I lower my voice just in case Clive or Tristan are eavesdropping on our conversation—which, of course, being gay, they normally are. “It’s not that I have anything against being gay,” I say. “I just don’t want to be it. And I’m at that funny age. Start having long gaps between boyfriends and they all think you’ve turned into a muff-muncher.”
Autumn looks shocked. “You can’t say that!”
This is exactly why I can’t take a girlfriend to the party, because this is the sort of politically incorrect terminology that would be bandied around the office about me, and I’d never be able to show my face there again. “Would you have wanted to spend the evening being looked at as if we had far too much knowledge of each other’s bikini lines?”
“No,” Autumn admits.
“Me neither.”
“You could have taken Jacob,” Chantal suggests.
I knew she’d say that. “Don’t even go there.” I shake my head vehemently. “After what happened, I just don’t fancy Jacob anymore.”
“Neither do I,” Chantal says, trying to make light of the situation. “Well, not too much.” She smiles across the table at me. “He’s had a change of career and he still asks about you, Lucy.”
“Well, give him my best wishes. I hope whatever he’s doing now works out for him.”
We’re still a little tense with each other after the revelation of our mutual acquaintance with the aforementioned Jacob, and I don’t really want to know what Chantal is or isn’t up to with him, but I’m trying not to let it affect our friendship. And there’s no doubt that Chantal is a good friend. She and Nadia have settled into a cozy routine in their new flat and seem to be getting along great. Today, they’ve brought Lewis with them and he’s sitting cuddled up quite comfortably next to Chantal on the sofa. When Nadia and I were at the counter choosing our brownies, she told me that Chantal was insisting on reading Lewis’s bedtime story to him every night and that she’d spent most of Saturday showing him how to do finger painting. Not a bad turnaround for someone who professes to hate kids. I smile to myself and think that Chantal and Lewis look quite at home together. Nadia’s son has his own plate of chocolate chip cookies to keep him amused (it’s good to see that we’re breeding the next generation of chocolate addicts) and he’s flicking quietly through a book, even though his eyes are rolling with tiredness.
“Be careful.” Nadia pats my knee. “We don’t want you falling under Marcus’s spell again. Next thing, you’ll be sleeping with him, in the sleeping with him sense of the word,” Nadia says, mimicking me. “Then the whole emotional-roller-coaster thing will start up all over again. Take it from one who knows.”
“But he seems so different this time,” I say defensively. “He’s never been quite so attentive before.”
“Lucy, sweetheart,” Chantal says. “Tread very carefully. It’s about time you had some luck, but Marcus doesn’t have a great track record. He’ll only hurt you again, and no one deserves to get their heart broken that many times. Especially not by the same guy.”
“What do you think, Autumn?”
“I think we should have some more chocolate,” she says, avoiding the question, and picks up the plate to take it to the counter.
So a unanimous thumbs-down from my dear friends. I know that I should trust their instincts—let’s face it, they can’t be any worse than mine. But if they could have seen Marcus yesterday and how fabulous he was, then they might just think, like me, that maybe, just maybe, he’s changed.
Chapter Sixty-six
I’VE BOUGHT A KILLER DRESS and killer heels for the office party. And both are killing me. The evening has hardly begun and I’m already developing bunions and hammer toes. My dress is so figure hugging—to use a euphemism for flipping tight—that I can hardly breathe. I don’t know who I bought the dress to impress, but I do know that I wanted to look my absolute best tonight. And it’s not just because this is going to be Crush’s first appearance back at Targa and I am, for some reason, very nervous about seeing him. Or the fact that he’s going to be coming along with Charlotte the Harlot.
Marcus and I have been dating again for the last few weeks. He has been a model boyfriend and, frankly, it’s scaring me. He’s so attentive that he’s almost morphed into a stalker. We’ve been joined at the hip since our brilliant day at Hampstead Heath and his courtship of me—if that isn’t too old-fashioned a word—has been relentless. I’ve been for more romantic meals than I’ve had hot dinners. Even I’m getting slightly fed up of us gazing wistfully at each other over a shared chocolate mousse. Davina and I will have to jump around together for the next five years to work off all the calories I’ve consumed in the name of love. Perhaps that’s why my killer dress is a little more asphyxiating than it was when I first purchased it.
It seems strange for us to be a couple again after I’d fervently and absolutely declared that we were no more. But is it really love? There’s definitely a part of me that can’t relax into it this time. Maybe my trust in Marcus has been eroded too much over the years, but I feel as if I’m holding something back. Can this “honeymoon period” really last? Then again, after all that business with Jacob and his “alternative” career, who can I trust? Is it better to stick with Marcus and be damned? At least I’m aware of all his faults. And, who knows, maybe this time he truly has changed. I’m planning to give up trying to analyze my relationships
, as it never works, so I’m just going to go with the flow.
The party is being held at a vast banquet hall near the office, decorated in the corporate colors of navy blue and silver. I was responsible for tracking down balloons, streamers, party poppers, jaunty hats and customized crackers in said hues, and my feet are killing me because I’ve been here all day supervising the blowing up of balloons and the hanging of streamers. The place is looking great. Helen, Human Resources’ chief harridan, has booked a Blues Brothers tribute band and a well-known club DJ—who I’ve never heard of—to provide the entertainment. Marcus and I are standing at the edge of the crowd. I’m anxious that this should all go well and he’s holding my hand tightly for reassurance. We’re imbibing pink champagne with gusto. I know why I’m throwing the booze down my neck as if it’s going out of fashion, but I’m not sure why Marcus is.
“Did I tell you that I love you?” Marcus says, lightly squeezing my fingers.
“Not for the last ten minutes,” I answer with a smile.
“Well, I do,” my boyfriend tells me. “You look fantastic.”
I try to breathe in my dress. Then, just as I’m going for a major exhalation, my efforts are arrested as Crush makes an entrance, hopping in on his crutches. Taking a gulp of my champagne, I note that he has scrubbed up particularly well tonight. He looks great in his dinner suit and even manages a nod toward suave and sophisticated despite being hampered by surgical appliances and the fact that, because of his plaster cast, one leg of his trousers is ripped to the thigh. Of Charlotte the Harlot, there’s no sign. Crush scans the room, looking as if he’s searching for someone—perhaps the old bat herself. Instantly, he’s surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers, slapping him on the back as if he’s just rowed the Atlantic single-handed. I choke on my champagne, managing to get the bubbles out of my nose, and Marcus slaps me on the back too, but in a different way.
“I ought to go and say hello to my boss,” I tell him when I’ve finished spluttering. “See how he is.”
“That’s the guy you barged off the go-carting track?” Marcus queries.
“The very same.”
There’s a frown across his brow. “He’s younger than I imagined,” my boyfriend says. “And better looking.”
It’s not as if I ever described Crush to him as an old fart, but perhaps I didn’t exactly tell Marcus quite how dishy Mr. Aiden Holby is.
“Come and meet him,” I say to Marcus.
“Maybe later,” he replies, the frown deepening. “You go. I’ll just wait here.”
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t be long.” And, leaving Marcus hanging out by the canapés, I go over to Crush. By now his merry band of well-wishers has dispersed slightly and, when they see me approaching, the remaining few make themselves scarce, as they’re all only too well aware that I’m the one responsible for his current predicament. I bet they’re worried that there might be a scene.
Crush gives me one of his winning smiles. “Hi, Gorgeous.”
“Hi, yourself,” I say. “How are you managing?”
We both cast an uneasy glance at his crutches. “I’m an expert on these now, but I’ll be glad when the plaster comes off,” he says with a sigh. “It itches like hell.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t start that again,” Crush warns. “It’s done. We’ll both look back at this and laugh. One day.” But there’s a twinkle in his eye and I know that he doesn’t hold this little accident against me. “Thanks for the regular supplies of chocolate,” he says. “Much appreciated. I’ve had a very tasty convalescence.”
“It was the least I could do.” We haven’t had the opportunity to talk properly over the last few weeks. Our conversations have been kept mainly to work issues and I’ve been sending parcels of documents and chocolate to him at home by courier—but that’s all.
“Where’s Charlotte?” I ask before I can help myself.
“She’s coming later,” Crush tells me. “With someone else.”
“Oh.” I feel myself flush.
“Couldn’t stand life with a poor old cripple,” he says.
“I’d call that very shallow,” I say, snatching the moral high ground.
“The minute our dizzy social whirl was curtailed, I didn’t see her for dust.”
“I’m sorry …”
“Stop apologizing, Gorgeous,” Crush says firmly. “That definitely wasn’t your fault.”
“I would have stayed with you,” I offer, flushing a deeper shade of mortified.
“I know you would.” His eyes sparkle again. “Maybe we can have a dance later, so that you can make it up to me. It will have to be a very slow one though.”
I giggle nervously. “I’m actually here with Marcus,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder at him. He raises his glass of champagne in our direction. “Marcus, my boyfriend.”
“Ah,” Crush says, and he looks more than a little disappointed. “You’re back together then?”
“Yes. Yes. Well, sort of. I had no one else to come with …” I don’t quite know how to explain this. I can hardly tell Crush that the only reason Marcus and I are back together is that I couldn’t face being here alone watching him and Charlotte getting down to it. Instead, I sigh inwardly and mumble, “And we’re … Yes. We’re back together.”
“Another time then.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course.” I’m babbling and can’t stop. “I should get back to Marcus.”
“I’d better hop to it then,” Crush says rather sadly. “Have a great evening.”
“Thanks,” I reply stiffly. “You too.”
He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek, whispering, “You look beautiful, by the way.” With an ungainly hop, he then turns on his crutches and lollops away, leaving me touching my skin where his lips have been.
Chapter Sixty-seven
I AM GLORIOUSLY, FABULOUSLY AND thoroughly drunk. My killer shoes have gone, I know not where, and I am currently feeling no pain. No pain at all. If success can be measured by degrees of drunkenness and debauchery, then the office party has been a huge success. Even the harridans from Human Resources are happy.
The Blues Brothers tribute band is in full swing and so am I. Marcus and I are on the dance floor strutting our funky stuff to “Mustang Sally.” As I jig about, I notice that Crush is sitting by the edge of the dance floor with his broken leg up on a chair. Our eyes meet and he gives me some sort of rueful, regretful look. He looks a lot more compos mentis than I am and I have a brief window of sobriety in the depths of my drunken stupor. For one mad moment, I think that it would be nice to be sitting there quietly with Crush rather than lurching about to the band and I give him a warm smile. As he returns it, Marcus snatches my arm and flings me round again. My boyfriend spins me in some sort of exuberant Strictly Come Dancing twist and I twirl wildly away from him on unsteady legs. My feet feel suddenly very slippery on the floor and my balance goes all to pot. My legs get themselves in a lovely tangle and, with more enthusiasm than grace, I find myself heading straight for Crush. Tripping over my own toes, and with an unhealthy thud, I land sprawled out on his lap.
Crush does a magnificent job of breaking my fall, despite being physically incapacitated himself. His strong arms are round my waist, holding me to him, lest I fall to the floor and disgrace myself further.
“Thank you,” I breathe.
“No problem, Gorgeous,” he says as he grins down at me. “This is an improvement on your rafting technique. This time you get ten out of ten for artistic interpretation. Are you trying to break my other leg?”
“I have to be going,” I slur. I’d like to reach up and stroke his face, even though it’s ever so slightly blurred. Maybe even give those sexy lips a big, fat kiss.
Then I feel Marcus’s arms pulling me up. “Thanks, mate,” he says to Crush. But he says it rather crisply.
My boyfriend pulls me into the middle of the dance floor and, in a slightly more subdued fashion, we resume our bopping—but I can still f
eel Crush’s eyes on me as the music comes to an end.
As we all look suitably exhausted by our exertions, the Blues Brothers sound-alikes slow the tempo down and move into the mellow strains of Van Morrison’s “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You?”
“This one’s especially for Lucy Lombard,” the sunglass-wearing singer announces and there’s a ripple of polite applause while I turn forty shades of red.
Marcus pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly as we stagger round drunkenly We’re both being a support for each other, as far as I can tell.
“Thank you,” I say. “That’s very nice.”
“I love you,” he tells me earnestly. “Do you love me?”
This isn’t the time to voice any doubts about our renewed relationship or to discuss the finer points of what “love” actually means, and I can’t fault how Marcus has behaved recently. He’s clearly been reading the How to Be a Great Boyfriend manual. So I say, “Yes,” and he nearly squeezes the life out of me.
There’s a catch in his voice as he tells me, “You don’t know how much I’ve wanted to hear that again.”
Van the Man’s lyrics drift over me as we stagger round in ragged circles and I try not to look over at Crush too much to see if he’s still watching me. But every time I casually glance his way, he’s steadily returning my gaze. As the music comes to an end, Marcus gives my arm a squeeze and says, “I’ll be right back.”
He leaves me standing alone on the dance floor as the other couples start to drift away. I turn to leave and think about going over to talk to Crush, but then the singer says, “Can I have your attention, please, ladies and gentlemen!”
Looking back at the stage, I see that Marcus is standing next to him, looking flushed.