It didn’t do a lot for my life either, I seem to remember.
‘But I simply can’t seem to stop . . . well,’ he says sadly. ‘You know only too well what I can’t stop doing.’
I certainly do.
‘I’m even considering signing up for some sort of sex addicts’ course.’
A course to stop him being a sex addict rather than one to teach him how to be one, I assume. Marcus has more than enough expertise in that area.
‘Well . . .’ Lots more sighing and pauses. ‘I’d better go. I just wanted to tell you that I’m thinking about you and that I hope you have a great Christmas.’ His voice cracks. ‘I’ll always love you, and if you ever want to give me a call then you know where I am. Be happy, Lucy. Bye.’
And then Marcus hangs up. I stare at the television screen. The demented flashes of Nell’s Nike sportswear blur in front of my eyes. There’s nothing quite like a call from your ex to bring you down. Sinking to the floor, dazed, I reach for my Bounty Bar. If there was ever a time I deserve to experience the taste of paradise, it’s now. Sod the thunder thighs and the rest of this exercise routine. I need the sort of comfort that only chocolate can bring.
Chapter Five
Autumn Fielding glanced at her watch and saw that her next mosaics and stained-glass class at the Stolford Centre was due to start in ten minutes. Or ‘doing good for the terminally disaffected’ as her brother sneeringly called it. Learning how to make a basic suncatcher might not seem that important in the scheme of things, but if she could teach just one of her students enough to give them a glimmer of enjoyment or relaxation, or even show them that they had an untapped seam of creativity in their abused bodies then it was worth it for her, no matter what anyone else said.
It was rare that any of her students came in early, but she always liked to have the workbenches ready prepared for them with their latest work-in-progress laid out or a selection of brightly coloured sheets of glass for them to choose from. Her clients might all be thieves, drug addicts and down-at-heel, but she cared deeply for them and wanted to make their short time in her classes as enjoyable as possible. And she hoped that what she did might occasionally reach out and touch some of the kids, improving their tough lives.
Most of the students were currently working on seasonal pieces – cheery Santa suncatchers, coloured glass stars with silver thread to hang on the Christmas tree, a festive candle-holder or two – some to brighten up squalid squats, some to go to the dysfunctional homes where the problems so often started, some to be left behind on the workbenches because there was no home for them to go to. It was hard to find a place to hang a suncatcher when your residence was a cardboard box.
Recently, there had been a new intake of clients joining the KICK IT! programme, but a few of the stalwart drug addicts remained or came back with dismal regularity, unable to KICK IT! for a depressing variety of reasons.
Addison slipped in through the door and wound his arms around her. ‘Hi, there.’ He kissed her warmly and soundly on the lips, crushing her to his broad chest.
She’d always loved her job, and now she had an extra reason to rush in here every day with a smile on her face. It perhaps wasn’t ideal to be having a love affair with one of her colleagues, but it certainly felt very nice. Addison had been the first person that she’d dated in a long, long time who had been on her wavelength. He was socially responsible, Green, kind, caring and not in any way unattractive to look at. Being Green, she’d found in the past, had meant that most men had an excess of facial hair, body odour and a penchant for brown jumpers with holes in them. They didn’t generally dress like Addison, in sharp black jackets and crisp shirts. He looked more like a drug dealer than someone from the other side of the fence; perhaps that was what made him so successful with his charges.
His job as the Centre’s Enterprise Development Officer involved him in finding gainful employment usually for people who’d never managed to hold down a job in their entire lives. He was exceptionally good at it and, with his easy charm, managed to cultivate and keep a raft of extraordinarily tolerant employers on board – employers who frequently overlooked their troubled employees’ tendency to abscond, not appear for work at all or even steal from them more often than not.
Autumn eased away from him, glancing nervously at the door. ‘Someone might see us.’ She tried to smooth down her mass of burnished ginger curls which had suddenly seemed to bounce madly with excitement. If only she had sleek hair like Chantal’s, that didn’t mirror her emotions but remained well-behaved on all occasions.
‘Don’t you think your students would be pleased to see that their tutor’s in love?’
‘Who said I’m in love?’
His beautiful black face broke into its trademark wide grin. ‘I think that was me.’
‘That’s very presumptuous of you, Mr Addison Deacon,’ she said, trying to sound stern.
‘Admit it,’ he said. ‘You’re crazy for me.’
‘I’d be crazy not to be,’ she agreed. ‘But my students would all tease me mercilessly and they already make fun of me for my upper-class upbringing and my supposedly posh accent.’
‘They love you really,’ he said fondly. ‘Just as I do.’
She grinned back at him and carried on with the preparations for her lesson while he leaned on the workbench and watched her over his dark glasses.
‘Did you decide yet what you want to do for Christmas?’ he asked. ‘It’s only a few days away.’
‘Two more shopping days, I think you’ll find.’
‘Do your parents still want us to go to them for lunch?’
Autumn wrinkled her nose. ‘Mmm.’
‘You don’t sound very keen.’
‘Addison,’ she said. ‘I haven’t taken anyone home to meet my parents for many years. With good reason. I’m not feeling very comfortable with this.’
‘They’ll love me,’ he said. ‘I’ll be the perfect guest. I’ll try not to get drunk. I won’t tell your mother dirty jokes. I might even help with the washing-up.’
‘There are things that I haven’t told them about you.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well . . .’ Autumn tucked a recalcitrant curl behind her ear. ‘I haven’t told my parents that you’re—’
‘Extremely handsome?’
She smiled. ‘Yes, but—’
‘That I don’t have my own trust fund?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘That I’m younger than you?’
‘Are you?’
‘I sneaked into the Human Resources office and checked in your files.’
‘How much younger?’ Autumn asked.
‘A measly five years.’
‘Wow.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘No.’
‘Then everything will be fine.’
‘Yes, but . . . Addison, they don’t know that you’re . . . black.’
He looked shocked. ‘I’m not, am I?’ He picked up a mirror from the workbench. It was in the middle of having a fat-bottomed Santa attached to one corner of it. Her boyfriend stared at it in amazement. ‘My Lord, I am. When did that happen?’
Autumn burst out laughing.
‘So they won’t mind that I’m younger than you or poorer than you, but they might object to me being from an ethnic minority.’
‘I’m embarrassed to admit this, but they’re white, upper-class and very conservative. I’m worried how they’re going to react to you. I know that we’re supposed to be a fully integrated, multi-cultural society these days, but I don’t think anyone has told my parents.’
Addison laughed. ‘You mean that they didn’t envisage their daughter hooking up with an impoverished black social worker specialising in crack addicts – and a toy boy to boot?’
‘I think they were rather hoping that I’d settle down with a middle-aged, spectacle-wearing barrister called Rodney, who would be able to curb the worst of my liberal excesses and introduce me to the joys of golf.’
‘Then they’ll be very disappointed in me.’
Autumn took his hand. ‘I’m prepared to risk it, if you are.’
His arm curled round her again. ‘I happen to think you’re worth a little parental scrutiny,’ her boyfriend said. ‘Perhaps even a little disapproval. I’ve spent my whole life having to fight my own corner, so I’m sure I’ll be an adequate match for anything white, upper-class Mr and Mrs Fielding can throw at me.’
‘Thank you.’ Autumn kissed him tenderly. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’
Chapter Six
‘Hey, Lewis,’ Chantal said. ‘Pass me over one more of those baubles, please.’ Nadia’s son’s interest had already waned and was drifting towards the Chicken Little DVD that was playing on the television. She smiled indulgently at the back of his head and folded her arms. ‘I thought you were supposed to be helping me?’
‘Sorry, Aunty Chantal.’ The child tore his attention away from the TV and dipped his hand into the box of tree decorations that she’d bought from Harrods. They were tin toys – soldiers, trains, trumpets and guitars fashioned in garish colours – all chosen to appeal to the tastes of her new four-year-old best friend rather than her own cream, minimalist leanings. Lewis pulled out a Jack-in-the-box. ‘Cool.’ He handed it over to her with a smile, handling it as if it were made of glass.
Who could blame him for being a little bored with the build-up to Christmas? She’d had more than enough of it herself, but when you were four years old, the wait must seem interminable.
Chantal had spent the last couple of months doing pieces on festive homes for the magazine that she worked for, Style USA. She’d had her fill of fake holly garlands and had seen enough red ribbon to last a lifetime. Her fellow Americans who were living over in Britain still went for dressing their homes for the Christmas period in a big way. If she were simply staying at this apartment by herself then she probably wouldn’t have even bothered to pretty the place up – all this was being done for Lewis’s sake. Not that her young friend seemed to appreciate her efforts. He was leaning against the sofa absently sucking his thumb and staring into middle distance.
‘That looks great,’ Nadia said, coming to join them. At least Lewis’s mother was more appreciative. ‘Do you do everything so perfectly?’ she wanted to know.
‘Yes,’ Chantal said. ‘Everything except relationships.’
‘You and me both.’ Nadia toyed with a jolly Santa. ‘I know that you’re only doing this for us.’
‘Don’t be so sure about that. This is fun – right, Lewis?’ Chantal sat back and ran her fingers through her glossy dark hair as she admired her handiwork. ‘That doesn’t look so bad.’ The apartment that they were currently sharing was comfortable, stylish and filled with fun now that Lewis was here. It wasn’t home, but it was certainly a close second.
‘I don’t know how we would have managed without you, Chantal.’
‘Now,’ Chantal said with a wave of her hand, ‘don’t start up with all that again. I’ve loved having you and Lewis stay.’
Nadia and her son had moved in with her when they’d left their home to escape Toby’s gambling debts – something else that Chantal had been able to help out with. By giving Nadia an indefinite loan of £30,000, it had got her out of immediate trouble. If she hadn’t stepped in, then maybe Nadia would have been looking at Toby facing bankruptcy or having their home repossessed. For her own sanity, Nadia had decided to split from her husband until he could straighten himself out – if he could.
The shock of losing his wife and son had, by all accounts, helped Toby to stay away from the glittering lights of the casino websites. Chantal and Nadia’s current co-habitation was a temporary arrangement to tide them both over until they could, hopefully, start to repair their marriages – but it was one that Chantal hadn’t imagined would suit them both quite so well. Lewis came over and leaned against Chantal, wrapping his small, sturdy arms around her. Chantal squeezed him fiercely. ‘I love you so much,’ she said.
Lewis giggled. ‘I love you too,’ he lisped in return and an unexpected surge of joy ran through her.
‘Who would have thought that you’d have got on so well with children,’ Nadia noted.
‘One child,’ Chantal corrected. It seemed ironic that when her marriage had broken down due to her lack of desire to have children, that she should become so attached to the first kid that she’d really had anything to do with. Maybe she had been missing out here. She ruffled Lewis’s hair. ‘Let’s not get so carried away.’
‘Still not inclined to hear the patter of tiny Hamilton feet?’
‘It’s something that Ted and I are still working on.’ Her husband was so keen to have children, yet it was never something that had figured in Chantal’s life plans.
When she had asked Nadia to move in here with her after they’d both split with their respective husbands, she had to admit that she’d completely forgotten about Lewis’s existence. Even though she’d tried to factor him into her lifestyle, it was still a shock when he’d turned up carrying his appropriately named teddy, Mr Smelly, under his arm. It had taken even longer to get used to the regular addition of chocolate fingerprints on the pristine Kelly Hoppen paintwork. Now she couldn’t imagine life without him, for who else would race to the front door and throw himself into her arms the minute she arrived home? But if Nadia was hoping to effect a reconciliation with her husband over the holidays, it was something that Chantal would have to get used to pretty soon. And what of her and Ted? Was her husband ever going to be able to forgive her infidelity and begin to trust her again?
‘More toys.’ Lewis clapped his hands together. Now Chicken Little was the tedious one.
‘Okay. Go for it,’ Chantal suggested. The boy searched through the reams of tissue paper and, finally, handed her a red and gold trumpet with glee. ‘Fabulous. I would have made just that choice. Where should we hang it?’ Lewis pointed to a suitable spot. ‘Then there it is.’ Chantal slipped the bauble onto the selected branch. ‘You wanna do the next one?’
Lewis jumped up and down excitedly, his face the picture of ecstasy as he pulled a toy train out of its wrapping. It was a moving sight. Maybe Ted was right when he’d said that their materialistic lifestyle was all pointless without the addition of a family to share it with. It would be nice to see her husband doing this kind of thing with their own son. Chantal smiled to herself. Perhaps, after all, she was going soft in her old age.
She guided Lewis as he hooked the perfectly formed miniature train over a branch, then gave him a squeeze. ‘Good work, champ.’
Chantal then turned to her friend. ‘We’re nearly done here. I’ll just tidy the boxes away.’ She noticed that Nadia’s eyes had filled with tears. ‘Then I think you and I should put our feet up, open some festive champagne and some of Clive’s finest chocolates, and drink a toast to our future.’
‘I’m frightened to think what mine might hold,’ Nadia admitted quietly.
‘We’ll both work something out, I’m sure,’ Chantal said, as she took her friend’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. But her voice didn’t sound convincing, even to herself.
Chapter Seven
Back at The Chocolate Lovers’ Club, as it’s Christmas Eve, we exchange presents. Autumn gives us all a selection of Fairtrade chocolates. I love the idea of Doing Good while eating chocolate. Frankly, there are cocoa-bean farmers living in tin shacks all around the Equator who rely solely on my emotional crises for their livelihood. I’m already doing my bit for the world economy. If I had a quiet life, they’d all be bankrupt.
Nadia gives me a book of chocolate recipes. Chantal has found us all trendy T-shirts dyed with cocoa beans on one of her trips to America. They smell divine and are a delicious shade of chocolate, and I’d definitely be tempted to eat mine if I was desperate – which I frequently am. I take a moment to wonder what Crush would have bought me if we’d still been a couple this Christmas – something wonderful, I think – and I feel my heart squeez
e painfully once more. I try to push the vision of his bare bottom and his comely companion to the back of my mind. I will not waste time fretting over yet another man.
We coo over our respective gifts, much kissing and hugging ensues and then we return to the job in hand. Clive has brought us all a slice of chocolate cheesecake with a sublimely smooth topping of his salted caramel that’s just waiting to be devoured. He’s already closed Chocolate Heaven for the evening, so now we’re his favoured guests. Chantal has paid for a babysitter for Lewis so that Nadia is able to join us. We wouldn’t want her missing out on this, our last choc-fest before Christmas. Our host hands round the chocolate vodka and we top up our shot glasses.
‘Where’s Tristan tonight?’ I ask.
Clive looks discomfited. ‘He’s already left,’ he tells us. ‘He’s spending Christmas with his family.’
We’re all taken aback. I stop pouring my vodka mid-flow. ‘You’re not going to be together?’
‘Well,’ Clive says with an uncomfortable cough, ‘things are a little difficult between us at the moment.’
This is the first we’ve heard about this. Clive and Tristan seemed to be the only ones around here who’d got their shit together. How depressing to think that relationship difficulties aren’t purely down to the battle of the sexes.
‘You’re not going to be alone?’ Although I’m sorry that Clive won’t be spending Christmas with his loved one, there is a little glimmer of hope that I might have found another sad sack single to spend my holidays with. It won’t just be me and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang after all. Hurrah. I could save my Cadbury’s Selection Box for a rainy day, as Clive is bound to bring great truffles!
‘I’ve already made alternative arrangements,’ Clive tells us mysteriously.
My heart sinks. And then Clive looks all embarrassed, so he disappears off into the back of the shop.
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