About Last Night

by Adele Parks

  She was a terrible friend and an irresponsible mother and a slut. That’s what she was. A slut.

  Carefully, with tiny imperceptible movements, so as not to wake him, she inched her head around to look at him.

  Oh, he was gorgeous!

  Even so, it was wrong, it was unacceptable. He was in her bed and she’d known him – how long exactly? Not quite forty-eight hours.

  But it was hard to maintain the self-loathing when he was so gorgeous. She had behaved horribly selfishly last night. She really had! She knew it but somehow she couldn’t quite feel it, she couldn’t quite regret it. She was too happy. She forced herself to think back over the events of the previous evening. Stephanie had arrived and landed all that terrible news on her doorstep. Then she’d disappeared in a flash! Pip had felt awful, just awful, then she’d felt frustrated and infuriated as she’d repeatedly called Steph, over and over again, only to be sent straight through to voicemail. How could Steph turn her phone off at a time like that? Pip would have chased after her but she couldn’t very well wake up Chloe and bundle her into the car, could she?

  She probably would never have answered the phone to Robbie at all but she assumed it was Steph finally returning one of hers and so she’d picked up in a hurry, not even pausing to check the caller ID. She probably wouldn’t have allowed him to come round either if she hadn’t been so agitated. She hadn’t been thinking straight. She’d never had a guy back to her flat, there was Chloe to consider and, truthfully, no one had ever really intrigued or interested her enough for her to risk exposing them to her home. Not that she was afraid that they’d catch E. coli or salmonella crossing her doorway (yes, she was slovenly but not that slovenly!), it was more the risk of what she would be exposed to if she allowed a man into her home, into her life.

  But, after an hour chatting on the phone (finishing off the bottle of champagne on her own was probably a mistake but Pip couldn’t be blamed, it really did seem crazy to let Bollinger go to waste), she’d agreed to Robbie’s suggestion that he pop round with another bottle. That was the thing with champagne, it wasn’t the sort of drink that encouraged temperance. It was much more of an indulgence drink, a let-your-hair-down type of drink. Maybe she should have said no. She certainly hadn’t played the evening out according to the rules of the various dating books she’d read. She probably should not have told him that he was perfect. Just because a man arrives at her house with a bottle of champers and a box of Cadbury’s Roses was not a reason to think he was perfect, let alone tell him. Alcohol and chocs were probably standard issue for a booty call and she was in no doubt that she was indeed a booty call, what else could she be at that time of night? Of course Robbie said he just wanted to chat for longer, he wasn’t going to come out and simply say he was horny.

  When she opened the door to him, he struck her as being leaner and taller than she’d remembered but then, what did she know? She hadn’t seen him standing up until that moment. She must have been a bit tipsy because she made some joke about theirs certainly not being a longstanding relationship. He’d smiled politely but clearly didn’t really understand what she was going on about. Truthfully it wasn’t her funniest comment ever, some way off it. She was never any good at being funny in front of men she fancied. She was always too nervous to be her best self. When she was with just Chloe or Steph she could catch balls, even juggle, she was witty and funny, but as she opened the door to Robbie, she’d tripped and banged her head and then said, ‘Well, that trip wasn’t as good as a trip to Margate.’ This was something her grandfather used to say to her as a child, every time she went splat. Sometimes she wished she’d been born without a tongue.

  Robbie was wearing combat trousers, they were slipping around his hips in a provocative, somewhat dangerously sexy way. A thick belt stopped an act of indecency and its weight seemed not only to hold up the trousers but also to anchor him to the ground. He stole her breath.

  At least she’d managed to temper the way she’d told him he was perfect. She’d managed to be little bit droll, as she’d served the compliment as a backhander. There must be points in the dating rule books for backhanded compliments rather than out-and-out straightforward ones lobbed over the net. It was just after he’d patiently listened to her offload Steph’s dramatic story (maybe in retrospect she shouldn’t have shared that particular tale of woe quite so quickly and willingly, the problem was Steph’s upset was playing on her mind). He’d listened carefully and when she’d finished dishing up the gory details, instead of weighing in with some half-cooked solution to the problem or inadequate, ill-considered advice, he’d simply offered to massage her feet. Which at the time had seemed pretty damn perfect and she couldn’t help telling him so.

  ‘You are too good to be true. Champers, not cava, chocolates and now a foot massage. And do you know Cadbury’s Roses are my absolute favourite, especially the purple ones with the hazelnut in caramel. It’s official, you are the perfect man,’ she’d declared, as she swung her feet on to his lap. Up until then they’d been sitting at a formal distance, each at one end of the sofa, careful not to actually touch each other.

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ he’d replied with a cocky but not altogether unattractive, grin.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Pip had paused and taken a moment to enjoy the foot rub. He circled his thumb on her instep in a way that provided so much pleasure it was probably illegal but she wasn’t so keen on Robbie’s reaction to her declaration that he was perfect. He accepted the compliment as though he was used to receiving it. She could only surmise that other women had benefited from this foot rub too. Perhaps the alcohol, calorific goodies and rub were just standard practice on a Tuesday evening, she just happened to be this week’s lucky recipient. She hadn’t wanted to appear as soft as putty so, rallying, she’d managed to mutter, ‘I’ve always been fascinated when meeting perfect people.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I like spotting the flaws that they are so desperately hiding.’

  Robbie had gasped, pretending to be shocked or offended.

  ‘Come on, no one is perfect,’ she’d insisted.

  ‘Seriously,’ he said with a grin that suggested he was about to be anything other than serious, ‘I’ve given it a lot of thought and I am.’ His self-confidence should have been off-putting but Pip had been stunned to find that she liked it even more than the foot rub.

  ‘No, you’re not. You probably have a mad wife in the attic, or a gay lover in the closet or at the very least a stack of festering washing-up in your sink.’

  Pip wished that all her metaphors had not been quite so domestic – attic, closet, sink. Marvellous. She really needed to get out more. If she’d had broader experiences then maybe she might have been able to accuse him of more glorious and adventutous crimes than neglected washing-up. Robbie had stared at her as though she was certifiable. She did sound a bit bonkers but then she wasn’t the one claiming to be perfect. That was sheer madness. And vanity!

  ‘OK, well, how about I stay until we’ve finished this bottle and we can chat about anything you like and I promise to be totally honest and you can see if you can discover my flaws, as you call them. Then we can decide if they are deal-breakers for you,’ said Robbie.

  ‘How will I know you are being honest with me? I don’t know you well enough to recognise any tell-tale tics that expose you when you’re fibbing.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be fibbing. I promise.’

  ‘Just like that. No lies.’

  ‘It’s sort of a rule of mine.’

  Pip had eyed Robbie sceptically but thought she had nothing to lose by quizzing him.

  ‘Are you in a relationship?’ she’d asked, going straight for the jugular. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d fallen for someone hook, line and sinker only to discover that someone else already held the ownership deeds.

  ‘No, I split up with my girlfriend of four years about eight months ago.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Long story.’

  ‘
I have time.’

  ‘We weren’t compatible. Not ultimately. Isn’t that always why people split up?’

  ‘It took you four years to work out that you weren’t compatible?’ Pip had asked suspiciously.

  ‘No. It took three years to work it out and another for us both to accept it,’ he’d replied plainly.

  Pip laughed. Fair enough, it might have been the champagne, but this answer struck her as pretty perfect. It was truthful, straightforward and hinted at a man with insight.

  ‘Were you faithful when you were with her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you ever been unfaithful?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Pip triumphantly.

  ‘When I was eighteen. I was deeply sorry and since then I’ve always sacked or been sacked before I jump into some new sack.’

  ‘That sounds a bit like a practised line.’

  ‘No, actually, as a matter of fact, it just came to me now. I’m a poet and I don’t know it.’

  ‘Maybe your flaw is your use of silly rhymes.’

  ‘Maybe but is that a deal-breaker?’

  ‘No, suppose not.’ Pip had grinned.

  She’d been impressed. No matter what she asked him, she found that his answers, while not predictable, were always believable and, seemingly, honest. He did have flaws but they weren’t insurmountable. After grilling him for two hours while they finished off the bottle of champers and started in on the whisky she kept on the bookshelf, the worst things she’d managed to discover about him were that he nearly always drank directly from the milk carton, during washing crises he had been known to wear his underwear for two days in a row and that he occasionally masturbated in the shower. They weren’t deal-breakers.

  He’d discovered that she was a fragile, wounded, single mum, with little grasp on popular culture, an overactive imagination and an inability to talk for longer than twenty minutes without referring to her ex. On the plus side, she was refreshingly straightforward, the only game she was interested in playing was Monopoly (and then only if she could be the Top Hat), she was creative, independent, intelligent and drop-dead stunning to look at.

  ‘So what now?’ she’d asked after they’d drained their whiskies.

  ‘Well, now it’s up to you, Pippa. It’s all up to you. I could stay for another hour or so, or the night or longer. It’s all up to you.’ He’d stared at her with such sincerity when he said this that for a moment she felt incredibly powerful. He was putting her in charge, saying they could take this – this relationship or fling or whatever it was – at exactly the speed she wanted.

  ‘Right,’ she’d nodded.

  ‘So what do you say?’

  Pip had opened and closed her mouth. No was the word she was planning on finding, no. Perhaps no, thank you because she liked his Scottish charm and cheek and she had invited him over in the first place.

  ‘Well . . .’ She’d hesitated.

  ‘It’s all up to you. But you probably should know that I’m enormously well-endowed and a fabulous kisser,’ he’d said with a grin.

  Pip had laughed. ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Well, there’s only one way to find out for sure.’

  This was true enough.

  Now, Pip checked the clock on her bedside table. It was 6 a.m. Did she dare wake him? Ought she ask him to leave before Chloe woke up? Probably. That was certainly the most sensible thing to do but somehow Pip couldn’t bring herself to place her hand on his arm and gently shake him awake. It wasn’t shyness about reaching out to him (after last night, when she’d had her hands all over his body, why would she worry about touching his arm?). The truth was she didn’t want to wake him because she liked him in her bed. It had been a long, long, long, long time since she’d shared her bed in such a wonderful way. The problem was, despite Robbie talking about staying as long as she wanted him to, Pip couldn’t help but fear that was unlikely. Once she woke him, he would go on his way and then that would probably be the last she’d ever see of him. Pip mentally stuck out her chin. Of course she hadn’t ever really believed him when he’d said it was all up to her as to how long he stayed. She could spot a line when she was fed one, she wasn’t a fool. But she’d wanted to nibble the line, what was the harm in that?

  It had been nice, though. Last night had been very nice. Not just the sex, which she had to admit, was – well – very, very nice but she meant the rest of the night too. Watching him breathe, in out, in out, was lovely. Feeling him roll over in his sleep had been so pleasant. On some level, even hearing the gentle little putt of his snoring was reassuring.

  Pip had suspected it to be the case. Obviously, she’d vigorously denied it, what self-respecting woman would admit to it? But last night, having his company, had categorically confirmed it. The fact was, she was lonely. Her loneliness was not debilitating, it was not all-consuming. She had Chloe – darling Chloe, the centre of her world – she had Steph and Steph’s boys and her other friends and now she even had a contract with Selfridges and an emerging career but still, the loneliness had stained the air around her. It seemed to hang about like a bad smell.

  She knew she couldn’t keep him locked in her room.

  Could she?

  No, she really couldn’t, no matter how much they’d laughed the night before, no matter that they’d talked into the early hours and had sex twice. Twice! She couldn’t keep him a moment longer than he wanted to stay but she did wish he would stay.

  Not for ever, obviously.

  Well, not unless he wanted to stay for ever. Might he?

  No, she was being silly, just joking. Of course not for ever but for the morning at least. She wondered whether she was capable of managing to get Chloe off to school without making her aware of Robbie’s presence. Then she would be able to sneak back into bed and they could do it again. God, she’d missed sex. Not the energetic throes of orgasm (she hadn’t actually had an orgasm last night, she’d had far too much to drink to hope for that) but she missed the closeness, the kissing, the holding one another. One more time wouldn’t hurt, would it? She might as well. When did an opportunity like this come along? Not once since Dylan, she’d be mad to pass it up. Then they could have breakfast together. Maybe even go for a walk as the sun was seeping through the curtains, the weather looked promising.

  She was close enough to smell last night’s alcohol on his breath. Would she still be able to taste it on his lips if she kissed him? He was almost too long for her bed, his feet stuck out of the duvet. They were big, bony feet. The manliness of him was quite breathtaking. Pip and Chloe’s world was so entirely feminine. They lived in a mass of floral scents, glitter, pretty stationery and mail order catalogues. They had a basket of small hand soaps in the bathroom, it didn’t get more girly than that. Robbie was so different and unexpected. So exciting.

  What was the best course of action? Should she wake him and ask him to be silent and beg him to stay but risk the fact that once he woke he might leave? Or should she just lock him in the bedroom, make Chloe breakfast with maximum noise (to drown out the sound of him hammering on the bedroom door and begging for his freedom) and hope against hope that he didn’t shimmy down the drainpipe in a desperate attempt to escape from her clutches?

  Imagine what the neighbours would say.

  No, she couldn’t risk it. On balance it made more sense to wake him and deal with him leaving before Chloe was any the wiser about her mother’s loose morals and wild antics.

  Pip placed the palm of her right hand firmly over Robbie’s mouth and then gently shook him awake. The instant he opened his eyes she put her finger from her left hand to her lips and muttered, ‘Don’t say a word.’ He nodded, like the hostage he no doubt felt himself to be, so she explained. ‘My daughter mustn’t know you are here. OK?’ He nodded again. ‘If you want to stay until after I’ve taken her to school, we could have sex again when I get back.’ He nodded for a third time. ‘But in the meantime, you must be a ninja, OK?’ This time he licked her h
and, which tickled and surprised her enough to loosen her grip.

  ‘I like your agenda,’ he whispered. ‘But, Pippa, do we have time to move directly to the sex bit if I promise not to yell out when I come?’

  This time it was Pip who nodded.

  25

  Stephanie glanced at the clock. It was 6 a.m. which meant she’d had another night with hardly any sleep. She might have drifted off for ten minutes at a time but she didn’t feel at all rested or ready to face the new day, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever sleep soundly again. Her head was beginning to hurt so much she thought it might crack. She yawned and rubbed hard at her bleary eyes. She was still dressed in yesterday’s clothes because when she’d finally come home and relieved Mrs Evans last night, she hadn’t thought to have a bath or shower. She was too traumatised, too devastated to imagine managing something so mundane. Turning the taps, pouring in bubble bath and undressing would require a Herculean effort that Steph simply wasn’t capable of. Instead she’d poured herself a glass of whisky – the drink her father recommended for shock – and then she’d dug out the large cream leather photo album that stored their wedding photos.

  The photographer had worked with film and not a digital camera, which was unimaginable now. But Steph rather approved of film. A photographer had limited chances with film, he couldn’t keep endlessly snapping, hoping that some of the shots would pass muster, comforting himself that if they didn’t then there was always Photoshop. No, photographers who used film knew that they had limited chances and so they worked harder at capturing those fleeting, glittering moments, they captured life with more skill and conviction. Stephanie loved her wedding photos as the photographer had managed to grab the instant of smug delight and splendid unfettered excitement. At least those moments were preserved between the acid-free sheets of paper. Safe from harm.