by Joan Ellis
‘I’ll rewind it,’ I offer.
‘Don’t bother,’ he says.
He clicks his lighter and wrestles with the inch-long flame threatening to shoot up his nostrils. Eventually, it dies down.
‘Our Little Arrangement will have to wait,’ he says ignoring what I told him about it being null and void. ‘I’m celibate this month - I must restore my energy levels. I have to put myself first.’
I must have been away the day he put himself second.
‘Staff morale needs a boost so we’re organising a team-building event and Jill’s heading it up,’ I tell him quickly before I do something rash and hand in my notice.
‘Jill? She’s hardly the sharpest pencil in the box. I told her I’d had the stairs in my mother’s bungalow painted blue and she believed me. She only got this job because I like having something nice to look at. No offence, Ella.’
I glare at him.
‘She’s sourced the venue and negotiated a very competitive rate so we can afford to go for two days.’
‘An over-nighter? Sounds fun.’
He glances round the room and declares, ‘This place needs Feng Shuing.’
‘Wally got the cleaners to give it a good going over last night,’ I say.
‘Feng Shui isn’t some sort of industrial jet-wash. It is an ancient art and science developed in China over 3,000 years ago. ‘Feng’ meaning wind and ‘shui’ meaning water.’
Piss and wind? Sums you him up perfectly. He eyes me slyly.
‘To hell with it! Let’s just pencil Our Little Arrangement in for next week. That’ll give you time to lose weight, Ella,’ he says as he flicks open his Filofax.
‘Fire me but you can’t keep me here under threat.’
‘Perhaps you’d like to reconsider. After all, your mortgage won’t pay itself. And interest rates have just gone up. Now, have you got an opening on the twentieth?’
‘Not if I can help it.’
He looks at his diary again.
‘Oh no can do. I’m strengthening my sacral chakra that night.’
‘Your what?’
‘Sacral chakra. My chakra practitioner says it is under-active and I need to remain open to intimacy.’
The last thing the universe needs is for Peter to be any more open.
‘How about next Friday?’ he asks.
‘And your vow of celibacy?’ I ask desperate to hold him off.
‘Vows are made to be broken. Shall we firm it up now?’
‘No, let’s not firm anything up,’ I say feeling sick at the thought.
‘There’s no need to tell your boyfriend. Think of it as evening-up the score card.’
‘Meaning?’ I am past caring about Tom but I still want to know what he got up to behind my back.
‘Ella, if you imagine he hasn’t so much as kissed another girl, you’re more stupid than you look. Of course he sleeps around. He’s a musician; it’s what he does for an encore.’
I knew about Tom flirting with Cara. But I thought that was a one-off. I thought that was his one mistake. One he was sorry for and would never repeat. I thought he loved me. Looks like my love for him enlarged my heart and shrunk my brain. No wonder Tom often slept over on gig nights. Thanks for the wake-up call, Peter.
Chapter twenty-eight
Use the word ‘you’. Lots.
I am a working girl, professional and independent. So why am I considering giving Tom a second chance? Since I told him to leave, my mind is never free of him, one minute thinking how much I love him and the next wondering what the hell I want with someone who claims to have spent the night in a Photo-Me-Booth.
I’ve never taken the safe option. I work in advertising
To begin with Tom was exciting and hot. He swept me off my feet which was a feat in itself given I was at least half a stone over weight. But then he changed. He became someone I didn’t know or like. But I can’t quite let go of the notion, he might change back into the Tom I fell in love with.
Like an addict looking for the next fix, I tell myself I’m okay. I can handle him. Just one more night with him won’t hurt. My mind hunts out the good, not the bad or the ugly in him. But, I am my Mother’s daughter and eventually I find the strength to discover the truth. That’s why I’ve agreed for him to come to my place and talk things through. I’ve got Adam on standby at the end of the phone just in case things get awkward.
My palms are sweating as I see Tom walking up the path. I rush to open the door. He looks amazing in a new black leather jacket and jeans. I step away from him. Like any recovering addict, I can’t risk getting too close.
‘Sorry, they didn’t have any roses,’ he tells me handing me a bunch of carnations.
I still don’t quite trust him. I can’t help wondering why he has chosen one pair of jeans over another. Is it because the black ones are tighter than the blue or because the zip is quicker to release than the button-fly?
He smiles at me. I look away. I am too vulnerable. I can’t let him back in just like that. I remind myself this is the man who autographed another girl’s boobs. Of course girls throw themselves at him. He is gorgeous. He is also a performer making him public property. If I couldn’t accept it, I should have settled for an ugly man. Darren springs to mind, ugly inside and out, just to make doubly sure. I can’t believe I am spending next weekend with him.
‘How’s work?’ he asks.
‘We’re off on an agency jolly this weekend. Oh and Peter’s back but I always knew that was coming.’
I study Tom’s face. Not so much as a flicker of recognition at the mention of Peter’s name.
‘Is that okay? Having Peter as your boss again?’
‘Not really. Anyway, you haven’t come here to talk about Peter, have you?’
‘No,’ he shifts his weight from one foot to the other.
‘Fancy a coffee?’ I ask as an excuse to leave the room. The tension is too much.
‘Yes, please, thanks.’
His politeness unnerves me. I go into the kitchen and make two cups of instant coffee. When I take them into the living room, he is standing by the mantelpiece checking out his reflection in the mirror.
‘Oh, great, thanks,’ he says, spinning round.
He takes a sip and can’t resist watching himself as he swallows.
‘I’ve really missed you Ella. Being away from you has been hard for me. I don’t want those silly girls who throw themselves at me at the gigs. I want you.’
I say nothing but, like an alcoholic uncorking a bottle, there’s no going back now. I’m hooked. He looks vulnerable, broken almost. He looks up at me with soft, imploring eyes.
‘How are the gigs?’ I ask.
‘Great, yeah, they love Tom Tyler. I’ve written some new songs and yeah, it’s all good.’
He runs his hand through his hair and I can picture him on stage, the crowd at his feet.
‘You’re wearing your ring,’ I say surprised and happy as I catch sight of it.
‘Yeah, of course. I never take it off.’ I smile.
‘Oh Tom,’ I say, letting him take me in his arms and hold me like he never wants to let me go. “ I have missed you so much.’
The phone rings.
‘Leave it,’ he whispers as he covers my face in kisses.
‘No, I better get it. It might be Mum.’
Reluctantly, he steps back and I run into the kitchen and pick up the phone.
‘Hello.’
‘Sorry I must have the wrong number,’ says a surprised female voice.
‘Who do you want to speak to?’ I ask.
‘Tom.’
‘Tom?’ I murmur buying myself time. I want to know what she has to say.
‘I’m his girlfriend,’ I tell her. ‘Can I help?’
Obviously, I only mean the statement not the question.
‘His girlfriend?’ she asks unable to mask the disbelief in her voice. ‘Lucky you. He’s quite a guy.’
‘He is?’
‘Yes, he c
ame to my rescue last week and lent me the money for a cab after I missed the last tube.’
Last week? We were still together then.
I torture myself imagining what they were up to that made her late for the train. Drinking? Snogging? Bonking? All three at once, probably.
‘And he gave you this number?’ I ask incredulously.
Why would he do that? If he had been up to no good surely he wouldn’t have been so stupid? The number is ex-directory so there’s no way she could have found it.
‘I just wanted to thank him and arrange to repay him the taxi fare.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll let him know you got home safely. Bye.’
‘You sure? It was fifty quid.’
Fifty pounds? Where does she live, Lands End?
‘Goodbye,’ I tell her.
‘Thanks, tell him Jules rang. You’re so lucky. You’ve got a good one there. He’s a prince.’
I hang up and wander slowly back into the living room where Prince Charming is on his throne, cigarette in hand, with the beginnings of a beer belly beginning to show. I wonder if Jules would find him quite so regal now.
‘Was it your Mum?’ he asks.
‘No, some girl who wanted to thank you for rescuing her,’ I paused deliberately. ‘Last week. Apparently, you were a real hero.’
I watch him. Lie to me if you have to, anything but break my heart again, I think.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘You don’t remember giving some girl fifty quid for a cab?’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s right. She got pissed and missed her train, big deal,’ he mutters but knows I don’t buy it.
It was clear from her tone she had no idea I existed. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that he did the right thing. It shows he’s a good guy, doesn’t it? Now I think about it, he rescued me the first time I met him. Is this his modus operandi? I doubt it. He doesn’t look the sort to read Latin. Besides, he came back to me. He’s here now, on my sofa. That must mean something. Nevertheless, the call has made me uneasy.
‘I think you should go, Tom.’
‘Ella!’
‘Sorry, I’ve got an early start. Oh you left some dirty stuff behind. It’s in the laundry basket. I’ll get it for you.’
I go into the bedroom and pluck out his favourite pair of black jeans and white shirt. A handful of coins and some notes fall out of the pockets on to the floor. The amount of money Tom launders would put Ronnie Biggs to shame. I bend down to pick it up. It’s not cash but it is currency. And, it says more about the bearer than a note ever can. These days, anyone whipping out a condom at the crucial moment looks like a new man, someone who cares. Someone you can trust. But, it means just the opposite when you find a condom in your partner’s pocket when you’re on the Pill. I go cold. I can’t take my eyes off the repulsive thing. Its bright packaging can only be an inch square. How can something so small make such a big difference?
This is proof I have been lying to myself and Tom’s been lying to me. He was never interested in me, just in somewhere to live. How did Peter put it?
‘You don’t need to find somewhere to live in London. Just someone to live with.’
‘Found this in your trouser pocket,’ I shout running back into the living room and brandishing the small square packet in his face.
‘Calm down. Some drunk girl was coming onto me and my mate gave it to me for a laugh.’
‘Ha bloody ha! I’m not that stupid. You don’t need a condom, I’m on the Pill,’ I yell.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Silly to believe you.’
‘You calling me a liar?’
‘If the cap fits. Sorry, wrong contraceptive – if the condom fits.’
I throw it in his lap and it lands, appropriately enough, in his crotch.
‘Keep it. You’ll need it later because you won’t be sleeping here tonight or any other night. Get out, ’ I tell him, my eyes dripping with useless tears.
‘And take your all bloody rubbish with you.’
‘I can’t help it if girls fancy me. I’m a musician.’
‘And you’ve played me for a fool. All that crap about helping me with the bills. You just wanted to get your hands on my flat.’
‘What this place?’ he scoffs glancing around the room.
‘It was good enough for you when you’d run out of sofa’s to sleep on. Call Cara, you can share her bed.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cara, Cara, Cara. Blame her if it makes you feel better. But this is your fault. I’m going. I’ll get my stuff some other time.’
He gets to his feet and heads for the door. We watched enough movies together; we both know this is the end. The door slams.
My life liquefies as I cling to the last vestiges of my love like left-over cereal in a bowl. I tell myself the Bad Boy was never good enough for me. I had been so desperate for love, I gave him all the power.
My stomach is raw and empty. I feel light-headed. Nothing alters the fact I loved him and making love to him completed me. Right now, I can’t imagine my bed without him in it. Tom Tyler is going to be a hard act to follow.
No, I can’t think like that. I am not Mum, forever holding a candle for Dad. I am Ella. I am in the spotlight now.
I bend down and pick up Tom’s mug, anxious to cleanse the place of him. Two cigarette butts float in the greying dregs of cold coffee. I wash it under the running tap but the inside is still brown. I pour in a weak solution of bleach and let it stand for a couple of minutes. I work a squirt of washing-up liquid around the cup and give it a good rinse. The product works its magic, just like in the ads. The stain has gone.
Chapter twenty-nine
Be interesting
‘What prat owns the Porsche?’
‘Peter Richards,’ I tell the driver of the red Routemaster bus as he tries to park on Shaftesbury Avenue where the agency is meeting for our team- building weekend.
‘Want me to move your motor for you, Pete?’ asks Wally.
Peter pushes past him, leaps in the Porsche, fires up the engine and immediately stalls it. Thank-you, God! What a great start to the day. We all get a laugh at Peter’s expense.
Jill ticks names off a sheet as we board the bus. I am the first up the stairs, followed by Darren and his gang from the studio. One of them is carrying a sports bag. I would bet my flat on it not containing anything to do with any activity other than drinking. Sure enough, they immediately crack open the beers. Mr Media and Mr Planning sit together. Alan Ferguson is too cool to be here, no doubt holed up in his Notting Hill flat, drinking champagne, naked, with someone else’s wife. Peter and Josh are amongst the last to board and sit in the only free seat, directly behind Chloe and David.
I look out of the window, down onto the pavement below. Wally’s wife has come to wave him off. I can just see the top of her head. He holds her hand and kisses her good-bye. She hands him a carrier bag and gives him a final peck on the cheek.
‘See you tomorrow, love!’ I hear Wally say as he hauls himself up onto the platform of the bus.
His head pops up at the top of the stairs.
‘Room for a little one?’ he asks.
I nod and he sits next to me. He delves into the bag his wife gave him and pulls out a flask and a Tupperware box. ‘Egg sandwich? Help yourself. The wife made enough to feed an army.’
The smell of sulphur is overwhelming.
‘Blimey! Who’s let one off?’ shouts Darren. ‘Was it you, Ella?’
No-one takes Wally up on his offer of a sandwich. He makes short work of them and sips tea noisily from a plastic cup.
As we pull round Trafalgar Square, someone shouts,
‘Are we there yet?’
The blokes laugh and wolf-whistle as Jill walks confidently down the aisle to the front of the bus.
‘Good morning everyone and welcome aboard! Your team-building weekend starts here.’
She looks calm and confident. Darren and the boys start yelling questions at her.
‘Are you wearing stockings?’
‘Will you sit on my lap?’
‘Fancy a quickie on the back seat?’