‘Lunch is all ready,’ announced Conor, guiding them both across the polished floor. ‘Easy journey here, Angela?’
‘Oh yes. Ten minutes on the train, like you predicted.’
‘I’d have been more than happy to pick you up at the station.’
‘Oh, but I enjoyed the walk. Loxton is blessed with such leafy ‒ boulevards.’
She was perspiring as they reached the kitchen. He seemed very eager to stuff lunch down her neck, without the preliminaries of an aperitif or a guided tour. Already, she and Conor were playing mannered roles. Here in his home, where he should’ve been at his most natural, he’d become a hostly automaton. She missed the little she knew of him so far ‒ his grunting, scratchy inability to chat her up or ooze slick patter.
The kitchen made her gawp again.
Utensils gleamed from hooks on a terracotta-tiled wall. A pine dresser heaved with ‒ presumably original ‒ Delft. The huge pine table in the centre was set with pale blue plates, matching linen napkins, and a blue plumbago trailing from a blue-and-white marbled vase. ‘Gosh, how colour-coordinated,’ she gasped, seeing Conor in yet another new light. He didn’t exactly need a woman’s touch about the place. Unless.
‘Did your cleaning lady set the table?’ she asked with innocent bluntness.
His mouth curled good-humouredly. ‘Shane’s touch, mostly. He’s also been slaving away over a hot oven, preparing a vegetarian chilli for you. Not too hot, of course. Wine before you eat?’
‘Oh, I brought some.’ Angela thrust a paper-wrapped bottle at him, relieved that she’d plumped for a respectable Chilean red instead of the Blue Nun. She should’ve guessed from the four-wheel drive that Conor was worth a bob or two. Not that it made any difference to her ‒ or to him, she guessed. He clearly didn’t go in for designer togs, haute cuisine or name-dropping at the golf club. Today, he wore a navy T-shirt over baggy chinos. His brown arms were sprinkled with a fine down of red-gold hair, like the fuzz on a newly-hatched chick.
She realised she was gazing at it when Shane touched her elbow and pointed to a chair. ‘That’s your seat, Mrs Carbery.’
‘Call me Angela.’
She unfolded her napkin, peering at its fringed edges as if it held clues to buried treasure. Sounds filled the kitchen. Conor uncorking and pouring wine. Shane rattling the oven door. Everything except the easy flow of conversation.
The chilli looked and smelt delicious. Angela smiled up at Shane as he placed a black earthenware pot on top of her pale blue plate. ‘I’m looking forward to this! I’m not totally vegetarian, but I draw the line at white meat, breast of chicken, that sort of thing.’ She remembered the rejected in-flight meal from Morocco. ‘Even then, I’m a fussy eater.’
‘Dad likes veal,’ mumbled Shane.
‘Er ‒ only now and then, when it’s served at wedding receptions and the like,’ grunted Conor, slapping two plates of pasta down on the table. ‘You can trust Shane to ensure that all my warts get the full glare of publicity.’
‘Never mind his warts,’ said Shane. ‘You should see his bikini-line rash.’
Angela expected Conor to explode, but he didn’t turn a hair.
She took an eager mouthful of chilli ‒ and nearly exploded herself.
God, it was laced with gunpowder ‒ all detonating on the roof of her hapless mouth! Eyes and nose streaming, Angela plunged into her wine glass.
‘You OK?’ frowned Conor, cocking an eyebrow at Shane as he spoke. ‘Chilli’s not too full of chillies, I hope?’
‘Blimey!’ Angela extracted herself, gasping, from her glass, and ran to the sink. There was no time for the niceties of introducing a glass under the tap. She stuck her head under the tap and gaped like a blind fledgling in search of worms. She gulped, dribbled, and finally groaned into her napkin, produced at her side by Conor.
‘I might’ve accidentally made it a teensy bit hot,’ said Shane contritely. Conor missed Shane’s evil smirk as he turned back to the table. But Angela didn’t.
‘What’s for afters ‒ bombe surprise?’
‘Lemon sorbet,’ said Conor, in a soothing tone that was new to her. ‘A nice mouth coolant. Here, leave the hot stuff and tuck into some pasta. Shane will dispose of your tex-mex ‒ without involving next-door’s cat,’ he added warningly. ‘The last thing the neighbourhood needs is an exploding cat.’ He sighed at Angela. ’Shane sent a West Highland terrier into orbit last month with a strategically placed biryani in the outside wheelie bin.’
‘That’ll teach the varmints to forage!’ said Shane triumphantly.
Angela sat down gingerly at the table. ‘But I’m not a varmint,’ she grumbled directly at her tormentor. ‘I’m a blameless member of a higher species.’
‘Honest, it was an accident, Mrs Carbery!’
‘Call me Angela,’ repeated Angela heroically, touching her burning inner mouth with her tongue. She wouldn’t give up just yet. One more practical joke, though, like a firecracker leaping out of her lemon sorbet, and she’d wring his scrawny neck.
She was surprised that he was such a horror. Conor had all the makings of a firm disciplinarian. But then, he was away a lot. The kid must run riot. Spare the rod and all that. Hang on, Angela chided herself, taking a careful mouthful of pasta. She’d been a victim of Sadie’s strong-arm parenting. Sadie was a big fan of corporal punishment for the under-twelves. Angela had grown used to offering the back of her legs for a good smacking before Sadie’s hand even descended.
No, thumping the physically weaker was not the answer.
‘You’ve got spaghetti sauce on your front,’ said Shane helpfully.
Angela looked down and blushed. She’d chosen her blue dress for the visit. She’d bought it in Morocco, a soft shift dress in swirling sea and peacock blue, set off with a pale blue bolero cardigan. The only advantage of her lack of curves was that she looked good in angular, tube-like dresses that flattered her fashionably boyish slimness. But there was nothing fashionable about the threadworms of orangey pasta stuck to her front. She dabbed sadly.
Conor said in a tone of desperation, ‘Tell Angela about that project you’re doing at school, Shane. The rain forest one.’
Shane threw his father one of those dagger-drawn looks that only pass between child and parent. ‘It’s dead boring, there’s nothing to tell,’ he snapped.
‘Let us be the judges!’ roared Conor suddenly, making Angela jump as well.
Shane turned to her reluctantly. ‘Like, we each have to represent a different aspect of the rain forest, so I’m doing parrots and bird life and stuff. Then we stick it on this big mural thing and the idea is, it’s put in the foyer of the local library, so people can see what a rain forest is like.’
‘And which bird is your favourite?’ asked Angela, clutching at a straw of potential conversation.
‘None really. Matty Hyde, like, got to do monkeys and stuff. Female monkeys have periods.’
‘Wearing your contact lenses these days?’ Conor asked Angela firmly.
‘Yes, they’re enjoying a new lease of life.’ She batted her lashes experimentally, only to find that Conor’s jade eyes were looking deeply into her own.
‘Sorry your husband’s dead,’ said Shane at her elbow.
‘Shane!’
‘No, no, that’s OK,’ twittered Angela. ‘Um, thanks for your condolences.’
‘We were doing marriage in RE,’ began Shane.
‘RE?’ interrupted Conor. ‘I thought it was called sociology or general studies now, with a bit of sex education thrown in.’
‘It’s still RE at my school,’ said Shane pompously.
‘Ach, well.’ Conor raised a coppery eyebrow at Angela. ‘Apparently, there are still some advantages in sending your kid to an RC comprehensive.’
‘We were doing marriage,’ repeated Shane doggedly. ‘And Sister Imelda was saying that you’re still married to someone even if they die.’
Angela sucked in her teeth. ‘That’s kind of true, I suppose. I still w
ear my ring.’
‘Like, circumstances beyond your control forced you apart,’ rumbled Shane. ‘You’d still be married to Mr Carbery if he hadn’t snuffed it.’
‘That’s enough RE, thank you, Shane,’ thundered Conor. ‘Dish up dessert and put a sock in it.’
Three spoons scraped blue bowls in tense silence. Angela began to feel wibbly. The whole situation was unreal. Eating lunch in a designer pad with a barely-known man and his nakedly hostile son. And the kid was right in his own unsubtle, hands-off-my-dad-you-golddigging-harridan way. She was still married to Robert. Betrayal was unthinkable.
To her horror, her eyes filled up.
‘Just going to powder my nose,’ she announced, looking into her bowl as she rose.
‘Upstairs, first on the right,’ grunted Conor, who’d apparently also chucked in the towel and let his son win.
She scuttled towards the stairs, followed by Shane’s loud whisper, ‘She’s gone to have a snoop!’
‘Load the bleeding dishwasher,’ came the non-whispered reply.
In the tastefully appointed bathroom, Angela sat down on the champagne-coloured toilet lid and cried into several yards of quilted toilet paper, before stuffing the reams into her cardigan pocket, causing an unsightly bulge in her streamlined blueness. Her slimline shoulder-bag ‒ sans tap-dancing frogs and equipped with essentials ‒ was downstairs.
At last she rose, examining her puffy eyes in the mirror. Given her pale complexion, she had those slightly piggy-pink eyelids that went bright red at the first hint of a tear duct cranking into gear. She splashed her face with cold water and descended the staircase with what dignity she could muster.
She snatched her bag off the phone table, preparing to sneak out. It was better to end things this way.
‘Angela!’ She turned to see Conor lounging on the cream sofa. ‘I’ve poured you a coffee. The brat is cleaning the kitchen with a toothbrush, and then I’m hiring him out to clean the chimneys at Battersea Power station. There’s a lot to be said for exploitative child labour.’
Angela smiled wanly, and stepped into the lush sitting-room.
‘Shut the door ‒ please,’ begged Conor with gruff humility.
She obeyed. Avoiding a close look at the framed photos covering polished surfaces, she sat down on the edge of the sofa. Conor passed her a cup of coffee and offered an Amoretti biscuit. She shook her head palely.
He kicked off his olive-green loafers to reveal holey socks and stretched out with a sigh.
Angela concentrated on his big toe escaping from a sock. There was something poignant in the sight.
‘Angela?’ He’d said her name like a whispered incantation.
She glanced up in alarm and found him leaning towards her, big brown palms cupped under his chin. Solemn green eyes lasered into her own.
‘What can I say? Except that he is fairly human under the outer layer of monster.’
‘Oh. You mean Shane? He was fine.’
‘It’s a tricky one. Do I get to know a woman properly and then introduce her to him? Or is that overplaying the issue, making a meal out of the whole single father thing, instead of letting things find their natural level?’
‘I don’t know, Conor. I’m no expert in the field.’ How many women did he make a habit of introducing? No wonder Shane was wary and hostile ‒ not to mention downright mischievous at being given the Nero-like power to deliver the thumbs-up or down.
‘Angela ‒ don’t look like that.’
‘Like what?’ she snapped, sipping coffee to cover her confusion.
She looked on, mesmerised, as he took the cup from her hands, sturdy knuckles brushing her own. Then he took her hands, enveloping her in a tent of warmth.
‘Please relax,’ he half-grunted, half-implored.
She raised narrowed eyes, and was too late to deflect the descent of his mouth on hers. It rippled hotly against her quivering fieldmouse of a mouth. A chaste yet lustful kiss, burning intent mingled with brotherly respect. A kiss waiting for her response before it decided which way to jump. But oh, it was delicious. Too delicious.
Closing her eyes involuntarily, she pressed back.
He moved closer. She swayed back onto over-stuffed cushions and he fell next to her, his dislodged lips now clasping barnacle-like to the hollow of her neck. But the pressure was like a butterfly grazing. Little flurries of kisses swooped up her neck and nudged her jawline. His weight lay across her, but finely judged, careful not to crush. Her right shoulder began to feel pins and needles, pressed into the cushion, but she was afraid to break the spell and scare him off. She realised, with surprise, that it wouldn’t take much to shatter his confidence. He wasn’t an assertive seducer at all.
The sitting-room door flew open. ‘I’ve tidied up,’ announced Shane icily. ‘All right if I go round to Matty’s?’
‘So you found out nothing!’ accused Rachel, shifting on the splintered wicker chair.
‘I found out the son hates me.’
‘All fourteen-year-old boys are rampant misogynists. Conor won’t let that put him off and neither should you.’
‘I glimpsed the mother in a photo on the window-sill but couldn’t get a proper butcher’s. I did clock that she’s stunning.’
‘So? What are you, the Elephant Man’s kid sister?’
‘Easy for you to talk, Rache. You also happen to be stunning.’
‘Oh fiddlesticks, Angela. He wants you, doesn’t he? He tracked you down, rang you up, Might’ve even kissed you and ravished you senseless if the child of the damned hadn’t interrupted proceedings. And you’d have enjoyed it.’
Angela sipped tea warily. She’d given Rachel and Sadie a very potted history of events, by-passing Conor’s successful kissing attempt, hinting only at its suggestion in his attentive manner and careful manoeuvring of cushions.
‘So when are you seeing him again?’ probed Rachel.
‘The twelfth of never, I reckon.’
‘Oh come on, Ange. But if you’re going to play silly beggars, allow me to break the news about my new man.’
‘Rache!’ Angela thwacked down her cup with a mixture of relief and genuine excitement. ‘You old dark horse, you! Will this one be another interlude or something more permanent?’
‘Early days,’ replied Rachel smoothly. ‘You know me. The interlude’s usually more attractive than settling down for the main programme.’
Shane banged the front door loudly, signalling that he was back from Matty Hyde’s, and prepared for a showdown.
Conor was leafing through technical specs on the kitchen table.
‘Walked her to the station, did you?’ Shane got the ball rolling.
‘Who? Oh, my lunch-guest. The extremely nice woman you poisoned, insulted and drove upstairs to weep in the bathroom.’ Conor shuffled papers. ‘Yes, she’s gone. And no, we didn’t take things further than a kiss on the sofa. Another one bites the dust.’
Shane hovered. Conor’s alternative to sound and fury was often scarier. He oozed with disappointment in his son. And Shane, competitive by nature, hated to be labelled a disappointment. ‘You seeing her again?’ he muttered.
‘Is it worth it?’
Shane looked askance at his father. ‘How should I know? You’re the one who fancies her.’
‘I mean ‒ is it worth it, if you’re going to chuck a giant spanner in the works every opportunity you get? What is it with you, anyway ‒ lack of love and attention? Are you punishing me for screwing up your childhood by screwing up my marriage?’
‘I can’t follow that logic, Dad.’
Conor’s green eyes snapped. ‘Look. I’ll make a deal with you. When you get to thirty-five, you can turn round and say, “It’s all your fault,” like most kids do when they hit early middle-age and need a scapegoat for their ordinary lives and ordinary failures. But lay off me for the intervening years. Let me get a life, however pathetic and wrong you think it is. I won’t stop putting you first. Haven’t I always put you first?’
> Shane scuffed a trainer on the cork tiles. ‘Yeah, suppose so. Enough already with the Waltons crap. She was quite human, as it happens. Compared to ‒ ’ He clamped his lips shut.
‘Rosie?’ asked Conor quickly.
‘Compared to what I was expecting,’ shrugged Shane. ‘And she left a tenner sticking out of my school bag.’
Conor grunted. ‘In your book, I suppose that’s currying favour.’
‘I’ve no objections,’ said Shane smoothly. ‘Think of all the stuff you and Mum have bought me off with over the last two years.’
Conor lowered his gaze to the papers on the table. He was mortified by a sudden desire to cuff Shane. Usually, he had to suppress an equally misplaced desire (from Shane’s viewpoint) to ruffle the gleaming quills of hair as they bent over homework or poked above the duvet.
With an effort, Conor said reasonably, ‘It’ll be a long time before I treat you to a pair of new trainers or a meal at the Fire Station again, so think on.’
At such empty threats, Shane’s heart bled a little for his innocent fool of a father.
Chapter Six
‘All I’m saying is, how well do you know him?’ repeated Val, breathing wine fumes over Angela. ‘Plausible bloke with good looks, distant ex-wife and apparently no decomposing bodies under the floorboards. Ah ‒ but is that the whole story?’
Marla and Pauline looked expectantly at Angela, who was busy kicking herself and resolving never again to drink alcohol on a lunch date with her colleagues. The occasion was Marla’s birthday. They’d only had a glass each, but even that amount had been enough to loosen Angela’s tongue and bring out the inner philosophers in her workmates, with their, ‘ah, grasshopper, you have much learn’ take on the battle of the sexes. ‘Us women never wise up,’ brooded Val. ‘We trust too early, commit too soon, practically inviting our hearts to get broken.’
‘Jean-Paul Sartre, eat your heart out,’ muttered Angela.
‘Sorry, Ange?’
‘I was just saying, I’ve only committed to attending his son’s sports day next Saturday. He’s pretending it’s the son’s idea to invite me, which is quite sweet.’
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