He stirred the milk in the pan, having shunned the modern microwave method of milk heating—insisting that before you knew it, and ages before the thing went ping!, the bottom of the microwave was invariably swimming in escaped over-boiled milk. He returned to his languid milk-stirring. ‘Teri,’ he said tentatively. ‘Would you mind very much if we slept together?’
Teri put the finishing touches to the underpants and stood back and admired them. ‘I thought that was the general idea when you were having an affair.’
‘No, I mean actually sleep together—rather than, well, stay awake together.’
‘Oh.’ Teri tried to feel philosophical. ‘I see.’
‘It’s just that I don’t much feel up to it tonight. If you’ll pardon the expression.’ He stirred the hot-chocolate granules into the pan with the milk.
‘Is it me?’ Teri asked. ‘Don’t you find me attractive?’ She leaned against the work surface behind him. The first person in the house after she had moved in had been the kitchen fitter. He had skilfully replaced the seventies orange mela-mine cupboards with tasteful limed oak—only affordable because the kitchen had so few cupboards.
‘Don’t think that, Teri. I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t absolutely besotted with you.’ He slid his arm round her waist and pulled her to him. ‘I just don’t think I’m a natural adulterer.’
Reaching behind him, she rescued the milk that was just about to bubble over the top of the pan and, moving away from him, she poured it into two mugs.
‘Some people can dive headlong into irresponsible debauchery and hedonism. I think I’m the sort that has to put one toe in at a time until I’m accustomed to the temperature of the water.’
Teri laughed.
‘Does that make me sound terribly wet?’ he asked.
‘No, but it makes you sound terribly cautious. Little wonder you ended up in insurance.’ Teri put the pan into the sink. ‘Why on earth did I end up having an affair with the world’s only conscientious objector?’
‘Come here.’ He pulled her to him again. ‘I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean for this to happen. You deserve someone far better than me. Someone who is free to give you what you want.’
‘If you’re going to start getting depressed, I’ll hit you with the milk pan.’
Jamie turned on the tap and let cold water run into the pan. ‘There’s a nasty black mark on the bottom. I think I’ve burnt it.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘You’ll need something abrasive to get it off with.’ Teri sighed. ‘What a pity Clare isn’t here, she’d do a great job.’
‘Is she giving you a hard time?’
‘Not as hard as Sister Mary Bernadette.’
‘Who?’ Jamie looked perplexed.
‘It’s a long story.’ Teri picked up the two steaming mugs of chocolate. ‘Come to bed and I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘I mustn’t forget my undies in the morning.’
‘Are you likely to?’ Teri laughed.
He looked bashful. ‘I suppose not.’
‘Your hanky’s there, too—the one you lent me when I fell over. I washed it and ironed it. You’re very honoured.’ She looked at the hanky distastefully. ‘Though I have to say, I couldn’t get all of the stains out.’ There were shadows of blood, and dirt-traces that formed random patterns on the cloth and reminded her of the ink-blot test.
‘Perhaps I should frame it to remind us of what started it all?’
‘Yes—we should frame it and sell it to the Tate,’ Teri suggested. ‘That grubby hanky could fetch thousands of pounds’ worth of lottery money. It ranks up there alongside a pile of bricks or sheep pickled in formaldehyde any day. We could entitle it Hankering After An Affair.’
‘We could,’ Jamie agreed thoughtfully, then he took her hand and pulled her to him. ‘Or we could be minimalist and simply call it Hanky Panky.’
While the whole country was covered by a blanket of snow, they huddled under a Laura Ashley duvet cover. They hugged it to their knees and clutched their mugs of hot chocolate, which had been made marginally more romantic by the addition of a large slug of brandy and some aerosol whipped cream—half fat—that Teri found in the fridge.
Jamie was naked under the duvet, a fact which Teri found most disconcerting. He might feel inhibited about sharing his body with her, but he had no inhibitions about showing it to her, it seemed. He was long and lean. All over.
She had sneaked her pyjamas into the bathroom and had changed there—either as a barrier against temptation or frustration, she wasn’t sure which. Torture by platonic adultery was probably worse than having your fingernails pulled out one by one. It wasn’t an opinion she would voice too loudly though, as Clare would more than likely be keen to oblige if she ever wanted to carry out a real-life experiment. Teri lay on her back and sighed. The barrier of Marks & Spencer’s imitation silk was proving useless against the ache of desire that buzzed in her veins like caffeine drunk too late at night. Blow Trevor Howard and his Brief Encounter. She wanted this to be a distinctly briefless encounter—a full-blooded millennium fling, not some soppy, old romantic movie where the undergarments stayed firmly in place and the nether regions well out of camera shot. They were all knowing eyes and puckering lips, but not one half-decent snog. She wanted to rummage in Jamie’s underwear, fling his knickers to the four corners of the earth, not just have them hanging limply on her radiator. He had a tighter bottom than any Lycra-clad derrière she’d ever seen pushed tautly at the television camera in the Tour de France. So often in her dreams her fingernails had fondled his firm bare flesh—leaving her breathless and sweating like someone in their first flush of early menopause. Usually, just as the alarm went off. Why couldn’t they just be like everyone else and get their togs off without all this ensuing guilt? Knowing her luck, it would be just like Brief Encounter—not a bit of nooky in sight. But it would probably all end in tears just the same. This was one of the few sayings of her mother’s that was invariably true. Why couldn’t Jamie be playing the part of Michael Douglas in Fatal Attraction? The opening credits had barely finished before he had his kit off. She’d hardly had time to eat her Mexican chilli nachos and cheese sauce—which looked suspiciously like cold custard—before the woman with the blonde curly hair and the big nose was splashing about in the sink with her bottom bared to the full house at Cineworld Multiplex Cinema. Mind you that all ended in tears, slit wrists and boiled rabbit. Very nasty. It probably wasn’t a comparison worth pursuing.
Jamie pulled her to him, and Teri nestled into the crook of his arm. She had left the curtains open, and together they watched the snow fall soporifically through the dark window panes. His body was hot and comforting, and considerably more muscular than the Winnie-the-Pooh hot water bottle that she usually took to bed for warmth. He had a moustache of whipped cream on his lip, and she hoped that she didn’t.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Jamie whispered as he stroked her hair.
‘Trevor Howard.’
He twisted his head to look at her. ‘Who?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘If you won’t tell me about Trevor, then tell me about your dreams.’
‘My dreams?’ she said wryly. ‘They’re all X-rated these days, Jamie, and you usually play the leading role.’
‘Only usually?’ He looked hurt. ‘Is Trevor a rival for your affections?’
‘No.’ She nudged him with her elbow. ‘It’s you in my dreams. Mostly.’ He challenged her with his eyebrows, and she squirmed against him. ‘Okay, then—always. It’s always you. Satisfied now?’
He frowned at her, trying to hide the smile that twitched at his lips. ‘Anyway, I didn’t mean those kind of dreams. I meant dreams—life’s ambitions, goals, hopes for the future.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I believe in dreams anymore. None of them ever come true.’
‘What did you used to dream?’ He squeezed her. ‘Before you became a cynic.’
; ‘I used to dream that one day I’d be a famous television presenter like Oprah Winfrey or Kelly Ripa.’
‘Couldn’t that still come true?’
‘I still have some hope, but I’m reaching my sell-by date quicker than yesterday’s milk. I’m the wrong side of thirty—only just—and I haven’t had a single presenting job yet. I’d even be prepared to read the weather.’ She tutted sadly. ‘The programme I work on—Out and About— ’she rolled her eyes and shrugged her dismay ‘—prefers spotty youths with attitude problems, and the producer is a homosexual alcoholic with a chronic ulcer, so I can’t even sleep my way to the top.’
‘Well, I think you’re absolutely beautiful and would make a great television presenter.’
‘What a shame you’re not the head of City Television.’ She smiled and snuggled further into him. ‘What about you? Did you dream of working for an insurance company?’
‘No,’ he said pensively. ‘I didn’t dream it. I really do work for an insurance company.’
She kicked him in the leg. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I wanted to be a racing driver. Formula One.’
‘That’s a little bit different from a database manager for the Mutual and Providential.’
‘I’m haunted by unfulfilled dreams,’ he said wistfully. Which was closer to the truth than he dared to admit.
‘Why a racing driver?’
‘Glamour, danger, thrills, chicks and huge pay-cheques.’
‘So a lot like the insurance business?’
‘Don’t mock!’ He tickled her rib. ‘There are similarities between being a racing driver and working in insurance. I get a pay-cheque, possibly not huge but not insubstantial. I also get the thrill of leaving the office every night—and there’s always the danger of dropping a disk drive on my toe.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Admittedly there’s not much glamour, and there are definitely no chicks. Two industrial tribunals have seen to that. Now we have an egalitarian policy of mutual respect and opportunity in the workplace irrespective of gender, creed, colour and whether you went to a comprehensive school. We have lots of that, but definitely no chicks.’
‘What do you dream of now?’
‘My dreams are simpler these days. I dream of paying off my mortgage, of the London Weighting allowance keeping pace with the amount my season ticket costs, and I dream that one day trains will run on time.’
‘They’re not very ambitious dreams.’
‘No, but they’re equally impossible to attain.’
‘What do you think makes us such dreamers?’ Teri asked dreamily.
‘Too many hours spent sitting on trains with too much time to think.’
‘Talking of which,’ Teri said, ‘in a few short hours, we’ll be squaring up to do battle again with British Rail. I don’t know about you, but I need to get some sleep.’
‘Do you think I could hold you?’
‘Is this wise?’
‘If we were talking about wise, I wouldn’t be here at all.’ ‘True,’ she agreed. They slid down into the bed together. Teri turned off the bedside lamp. Their bodies fitted together perfectly, and Teri resisted the urge to rest her leg across his thighs. His mouth was moist against hers, anxious and searching. Her hand travelled over his chest to the hard lines of his stomach. Jamie let out a low groan.
‘If you want to just sleep together and not stay awake together,’ Teri reminded him, ‘then we need to stop this now.’
‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘You can.’ She moved away from him. ‘I don’t want to be held responsible for leading you astray. If you’re going to go astray, you must do it of your own volition.’
‘You’re a hard woman.’
‘And at the moment you’re a hard man.’
‘It hadn’t escaped my attention.’ He sighed unhappily. ‘Goodnight, Jamie.’
‘Goodnight.’ There was a pause, just long enough for three little words, which neither of them wanted to be the first to fill.
They lay awake on their backs, a foot apart, holding hands. ‘Let’s make a wish,’ Jamie said into the snow-lit blackness.
‘We’re too old to make wishes. They’re like dreams. We know they’ll never come true.’
‘Well, I’m going to make a wish anyway.’ He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it.
‘Aren’t you supposed to follow a ritual?’
‘Not that I know of—unless you happen to have a wishing-well under your bed.’
‘No.’
He lay perfectly still, and she could hear his breathing shallow and uneven. ‘I wish there was another way I could do this. I wish I didn’t care about my wife and the kids. I wish I could walk away from you and not give you a second thought, and I wish I’d left you sprawled on the platform with your scabby knee and tearstained face and had cold-heartedly caught the train. And more than anything, I wish I could forget who I am and make mad passionate love to you and damn the consequences.’
‘That was actually five wishes,’ Teri said with a lightness she didn’t feel. ‘And you had your eyes open, so I don’t know if it counts.’
‘I thought you weren’t interested in wishes?’ Jamie twisted onto his elbow to look at her, his face framed by the moonlight.
‘It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.’
‘So you do want to make a wish?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go on then.’
‘I wish you’d shut up and go to sleep.’
He flopped onto his back. ‘Granted.’
‘Goodnight, Jamie.’
Chapter 12
‘He was out all night. He told me he was staying with a work colleague in Watford, but he wasn’t—he was in Leighton Buzzard.’ Pamela sat back in her chair.
‘There are worse places to be,’ Tom Pearson said laconically.
She shot him a withering glare, the one she usually reserved for Jamie. ‘I phoned the 1471 redial thing and it gave me her number. Then I rang her house in the morning after I thought they would have left for work. It was her answer-phone. She’s called Teri.’ Pamela wrinkled her nose. ‘And she sounds terribly young and terribly beautiful.’
Tom clasped his hands behind his head. ‘How does someone sound beautiful on an answerphone?’
‘Just the same as you can tell when someone is smiling down the phone—or lying.’
‘Any more singing in the shower?’
‘“Torn Between Two Lovers.”’ They looked at each other and pulled the same face.
‘Subtle,’ Tom said.
‘It was always Jamie’s strong point,’ she agreed.
‘I must say, you’re taking this very well.’ Tom swung his legs off the desk.
‘I’m not, I’m just a good actress. My mother always said I should have been on the stage. My time limit for pretending that everything’s all right is two hours. If Jamie stays in the house any longer, I have to go up into the shower room and have a good cry, and then I’m all right for another two.’
‘Did you take my advice?’
‘What—and prance round the house like something out of Playboy?’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘I know, but it’s what you meant.’
Tom’s face creased into a half-smile. ‘Well did you?’ ‘If I didn’t know that your philandering days were over, I’d accuse you of being voyeuristic.’ Pamela unconsciously pulled her skirt down towards her knees. ‘And anyway, I haven’t had time to be Playmate of the Month. Jack’s had tonsillitis, and Francesca’s just gone down with a stinking cold.’
‘So you’re still playing at being a mother.’
‘I am a bloody mother!’
‘What you need is a revenge affair.’ Tom stood up and paced the floor, slapping the palm of his hand with his pen. She could tell he had been watching too many American cop films again.
‘I probably need a hole in the head more,’ she said dismissively.
‘I’m serious.’ He certainly looked as if he wa
s. ‘A pretend revenge affair, that’s what you need.’
Pamela’s smile twisted sardonically. ‘This pretend revenge affair? It wouldn’t happen to be with you, Tom, would it?’
‘Well, if you insist.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Tom, you’re more transparent than some of Liz Hurley’s dresses.’ She walked to the coffee machine and poured herself a cup from the constant supply.
‘I bet it’s a long time since you’ve been wined and dined by someone other than your husband.’ He wagged his finger at her.
She held up a cup to Tom, and he shook his head. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve been wined and dined by someone including my husband.’
‘Give him a taste of his own medicine,’ Tom said expansively. ‘A few mysterious nights out, a few bits of frilly lingerie, a few phone calls that cut off when he answers.’
‘I can’t do that to him.’
‘Why not? He’s doing it to you.’
‘I know, but he’s a man. Men do this sort of thing. It comes naturally to them.’
‘I’ll take you for a couple of nice meals out, we’ll stay a bit later than we should, you’ll have a bit more to drink than a married woman ought to—and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Bob might be your uncle, but I’m not sure he’s related to me at all.’
‘I’ll take you to that new Thai restaurant in town.’
She could feel herself weakening, despite the fact that it was a ridiculous plan; however, no one else had come up with anything better. ‘Can’t we take Shirley with us?’
‘Supposing he follows us? How can you be having an illicit night out with your boss if his wife is coming along too?’
‘Jamie isn’t the jealous type. He wouldn’t suspect anything.’ She circled the bottom of her cup thoughtfully with her spoon.
‘Then make him suspicious.’
‘Oh, hell, Tom. I can’t stand all this subterfuge. It’s not in my nature. Can’t I just have it out with him?’
‘You’ll force him into her arms.’
‘He’s there already.’
‘Then you need to wheedle him out.’
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