by Peter James
‘Are you still going to love me when I’m all swollen up like a barrage balloon?’
He walked over to her. ‘Sure, I’ll get you a Certificate of Airworthiness.’
‘Bastard!’ She kissed him.
He glanced at his watch, downing a large gulp of his drink. ‘We should leave.’
‘Promise we won’t stay late?’
‘With you wearing that dress? I solemnly promise. I’m already looking forward to getting home and removing it.’ He kissed the back of her neck, then took another gulp of his whisky.
‘Yeah, yeah, darling! I’m serious. An evening of meeting all these posh strangers without drinking any booze isn’t going to be easy, you do understand, don’t you?’
‘I’ve been to parties where I can’t drink because of my job for years. I’ve got used to it, it’s fine.’
‘Which is why you’re downing a seriously large whisky?’
He shrugged. ‘If it would make you happy, I won’t drink any more tonight, either. OK?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I want you to enjoy yourself.’
‘And you’ll be the martyr?’
Georgie smiled. ‘No, not the martyr, I’ll be the chauffeur, for now. But just don’t forget it – I’m building up credits for the future. Deal?’
‘Deal.’
They high-fived.
Then Georgie said, ‘It’s too early to tell people I’m pregnant – in case – you know?’
The unspoken word hung in the air. The ever-present fear she had of a miscarriage.
‘I won’t say anything.’
‘So, what’s our story about why I’m not drinking?’
‘Easy. You’re the designated driver.’
‘Almost genius!’
He dug his hand into a packet of nuts and pulled out several. Shovelling them into his mouth, he said, ‘Mediocrity recognizes nothing higher than itself. It takes talent to appreciate genius.’
Smiling, she said, ‘So I’m just the talent?’
Putting down his glass, he swept her into his arms and stared at her face. ‘You are the love of my life. You are the reason I want to wake up in the morning. You are my life, I love you to bits. I will love you to the ends of the earth and beyond. OK?’
She looked into his eyes, grinning. ‘OK, I’ll take that.’ They stared at each other for several seconds then Georgie said, ‘And right back at you. I love you more than I can ever say. I can’t wait to be married to you.’
He looked into her eyes. ‘I can’t wait either.’
He downed the rest of his whisky, then they picked up their gifts for the hosts, went out and along the corridor, through the rear door and down the two flights of steps into the parking area. They climbed into her elderly VW Golf.
As she started the engine, Georgie felt a deep sense of foreboding that she could not rationalize. She knew just one thing. However lovely these people might be tonight, as Roger insisted they were, she was pretty sure they would seem a lot more lovely with a few glasses of wine inside her. And that was so not going to happen.
10
Saturday 8 December
At 7.30 p.m. on the kitchen clock, which was – give or take a few nanoseconds – 7.30 p.m. precisely, Claire, still wearing her apron, saw lights suddenly come on through the kitchen window. The driveway courtesy lights. Which meant someone was arriving.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Marcus said, panic in his voice as he put the finishing touches to the prawn cocktail starters, not daring to hurry and make a mistake. He was a stickler for detail at all their dinner parties, and they would almost come to blows sometimes over his perfectionism. Claire often wondered, since they stressed him so much, why he was so keen to have them.
But she knew the answer as she watched him sprinkle exactly the right amount of Sevruga caviar – six eggs each – alongside the precisely measured lemon slice that lay on top. He enjoyed the feeling of status that grand dinner parties gave him, and she actually found his meticulousness endearing – most of the time.
Marcus had gone through the archway into the dining room, where he was now adjusting each of the place mats and name tags into perfect alignment. He selected his carefully curated classical music playlist on the Sonos. So vulgar, he thought, when people had pop music at a dinner party.
‘Why can’t they be late, like any normal people?’ she called out.
‘Or perhaps on time, like any normal people?’ he muttered under his breath, holding up a wine glass to the light and wiping away a tiny smear with a napkin, which, after replacing the glass, he then carefully refolded – and then refolded again. He was dressed in his flamboyant smoking jacket, quilted with embroidered gold fleur-de-lis scattered across it. ‘Is on time really too much to ask?’ he murmured, again to himself. Then he checked each of the champagne flutes, which had a drop of Armagnac and a sugar cube in the bottom, for his cocktails.
Claire glared at him. ‘Oi, I heard that, misery-guts.’ She held up a prawn cocktail. ‘Want one of these tipped over your head?’
‘Calm down, relax, I’ll go and open the door, take the coats, hold the fort.’ As always, he thought.
Their first guests, prosecution attorney Richard Pedley and his actress wife, Alex, gratefully accepted the champagne cocktails Marcus offered. The moment he had poured their drinks the doorbell rang again.
Marcus rushed back through the hall. As he passed the row of labelled coat hooks, he noticed Amelia’s hoody was on Claire’s. He moved it to the correct one before opening the door. Matt Stephenson, a consultant breast surgeon, and his husband, Aron, stood there. Just as he had escorted them through into the drawing room and introduced them to Richard and Alex, the doorbell rang again.
Claire had still not appeared.
Excusing himself, he ducked his head into the kitchen.
‘The bloody Aga’s playing up, nothing’s cooking! Can you get it?’ she pleaded.
Marcus strode through the hall, holding a magnum of champagne, and opened the front door.
And froze.
The bottle nearly fell from his hand.
Standing on the doorstep, wrapped up in overcoats against the cold, was his pilot friend, Roger Richardson, with a bottle in a sparkly gift bag. His lady clutched a large bouquet of cut flowers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other.
She was the spitting image of the woman he had nearly run over.
The one who had thrashed his running time on his RunMaster app.
Was it her?
Roger said, ‘It might be a bit early, Marcus, but Happy Christmas!’
‘And you too!’
‘This is my fiancée, Georgie!’
He stared at her for some moments, absorbing this, before responding.
Georgie.
It was her. It was definitely her.
So that was her name. She bore such an incredible resemblance to Lynette.
‘Great to meet you – ah – Georgie,’ he said, kissing her lightly on each cheek and inhaling her scent. She smelled just – incredibly – sexy.
‘And you, too, Marcus, I’ve heard so much about you from Rog!’ she said.
He liked her voice. And her perfume. And most of all her smile. He was shaken but tingling all over. Had she recognized him? He didn’t think so, and she wouldn’t have seen the Porsche, it was in the garage.
Claire appeared, minus apron now, and more kisses and introductions followed.
‘What beautiful flowers!’ she said, the charming hostess as ever. ‘So lovely to meet you, Georgie! I’ll go and put these into water right away. And my absolutely favourite chocolates! Thank you so much.’
Marcus hung up their coats, then, taking Georgie’s hand, led them through to meet the Pedleys and the Stephensons.
‘Beautiful house you have,’ she said, looking around, admiringly.
And you, Georgie, are incredibly beautiful!
As soon as he had made the introductions and given them each a glass – champagne cocktail for Roger an
d a sparkling water for Georgie – he went into the dining room, checked himself in the mirror and hastily made a couple of changes to the seating plan. He placed Georgie next to himself.
11
Saturday 8 December
Claire and Marcus had originally planned that they would sit down to eat at 8.30 p.m. but it was gone 9 p.m. before she was finally confident that the lamb casserole was cooked enough. By which time Marcus had lost count of the number of champagne cocktails he’d replenished – and drunk himself to calm down. There was a hefty stack of empty bottles of Pol Roger lying on the floor by the kitchen bin, along with a spent bottle of Armagnac. All their guests seemed to be getting along famously. Georgie was deep in conversation with a lady called Kath Clow.
He was a little unsteady on his feet, he realized, as he ushered everyone through into the dining room, telling them to find their name tags and to help themselves to water. He picked up a magnum of Meursault.
‘Darling, can you give me a hand putting out the starters?’ Claire asked, coming out of the kitchen with a tray of prawn cocktails in crystal goblets.
‘On my way, darling, I’m just trying to make sure our guests don’t dehydrate!’ he said, rather more loudly and acerbically than he had intended. It created a momentary awkward silence among their guests.
Kath Clow, whose husband was away, went through into the kitchen. ‘I’ll help you, Claire,’ she said. Kath was a work colleague of Marcus at the hospital and the two couples had been good friends since he’d arrived on the island. They’d hit it off from the start, so much so that they were godparents to each other’s children.
The guests congregated in the dining room, found their name tags and sat down, Marcus guiding Georgie to her place himself.
After completing his task of filling all the glasses with wine, except for Georgie, who was only on water, Marcus picked up his phone and asked everyone to raise their glasses for a group photo. He had Alex Pedley to his left, but his whole focus was on his guest to his right.
‘Have we met before?’ Marcus asked Georgie.
‘No, I don’t think so.’
Good, he thought, relieved. She doesn’t remember the incident at the traffic lights!
‘So, have you and Roger set a date yet? Soon as you do let us know so we can book a babysitter!’ he said, cheekily. ‘And my wife will need to buy a hat!’
‘That’s if you make our list!’ she replied with a smile.
Alex engaged in conversation with Matt Stephenson, seated beside her. On the other side of Georgie was a lively but pompous dermatologist sporting a pink waistcoat, busy pontificating to the unfortunate Aron, who was looking a little bored by him.
‘Not drinking, Georgie?’ Marcus said.
‘I’m afraid I’m the designated driver.’
‘A pity, we’ve some really fabulous wines tonight. You could always leave the car here and cab it home – or take that service where they come and drive you back in your car. I have their card.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but I’m fine with water.’ Then, lowering her voice, she said, ‘I’m also on antibiotics.’
‘That’s too bad.’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers!’ she responded. ‘It’s great to get to finally meet you, Roger has been talking about you for months.’ Their eyes met and Marcus felt a strange, deep connection to her. There was something about this woman.
‘He’s not been giving away my secrets, I hope,’ he said.
‘And what might they be?’ she quizzed, smiling.
He stared at her intently. ‘Now that would be telling.’
She gave him a look that made him feel like he was the only man in the room.
God, she was beautiful.
A raucous male voice from the far end of the table said, ‘Don’t you think, Marcus?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t hear what you said.’
‘Childbirth – it’s magic, isn’t it?’
‘Really? Come and watch a C-section sometime and then tell me where the magic is,’ Marcus retorted. ‘The magic would be if a stork brought them. There’s nothing magical about a bunch of people in green gowns and blood-soaked gloves pulling away at a woman’s insides like mechanics with monkey wrenches.’
‘Marcus, we’re eating!’ Claire chided, rolling her eyes at the guests next to her.
Ignoring her, he went on, ‘Robbie Williams, or whoever it was, had it right, he said that watching your wife giving birth was like watching your favourite pub burn down.’
There was a burst of laughter from a few of the guests around the table.
Marcus turned to Georgie and said, quietly, ‘You remind me of someone I once knew. A girl I was crazy about when I was at school. I was just a fat little spotty teenager and she was going out with a biker.’
‘What was her name?’ Georgie asked.
‘Lynette. You really remind me of her so much.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes, you really do. Guess it was my first experience of unrequited love – isn’t that what the old romantic poets called it?’
The way she was looking at him – was she aware of it, that allure? She must be. As she must be aware of his response to how gorgeous she was. She was looking at him the same way Lynette had that very first time. That same, incredibly sexy mouth. The curve of her lips. Was he imagining it or was she coming on to him?
‘You’re an obstetrician, Roger tells me. What made you choose to go into that?’
She definitely had a sparkle in her eyes. What exactly is she thinking about? he wondered. There was no way he could tell her what was on his mind. He was seriously lusting after her.
‘Well, I practise obstetrics, yes. But my main work is with gynae-oncology.’
‘Which is?’
‘I specialize in gynaecological-related cancer.’ He leaned closer. ‘Ovarian and cervical cancers mostly.’
‘Is that tough?’ she said. ‘I mean, when you have to deliver bad news to people?’
‘Yes, that’s the hard part. But when I bring new life into the world, that’s the joy. Life and death in my hands. A bit like God, really.’
She grinned and put a hand on his arm for an instant, leaning in. ‘Really, you think so?’
Down the far end of the table, Roger, as usual, was holding court, while several of the guests, mostly women, listened with rapt attention to one of his stories.
Marcus smiled, enjoying this moment of closeness. ‘Tell me, Georgie, you look like someone who does a lot of sport.’
‘I’m a personal trainer,’ she replied, sitting back.
‘Ah. Right. I’m just getting back into running myself.’
‘Really?’
‘I was pretty useful when I was at uni and I’d lost my puppy fat and shaped up – cross-country was my thing. But work sort of got in the way. How often do you run?’
‘Every day, if I can,’ she said. ‘I did the Jersey Marathon back in October.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive. So, where do you run?’
‘I have a circuit from where we live in Beaumont, along Victoria Avenue.’
‘Beautiful route,’ he said, thinking to himself, And I know your exact route from home and back!
‘It is – apart from the traffic along Victoria Avenue. It gets very busy.’ She smiled at him.
Including idiots in Porsches not looking at the road? he nearly said through his increasing drunkenness.
She had looked fit in her running kit, but now, in her revealing, slinky black dress, she looked even more so. Fit enough to—
‘If you ever feel the need of a personal trainer,’ she posited, ‘I’d be very happy to give you some sessions.’
He stared back at her, aroused. ‘Really?’
‘Sure.’
‘I’d like that very much. I was diagnosed a couple of years ago with type 2 diabetes. Exercise is the best thing for coping with it, apparently.’
‘So I’ve heard. Do you manage it well?
’
He smiled, happy she seemed so concerned. ‘When I first got the diagnosis, I thought that was it, my life was over. But now it’s like I don’t have it at all. I’m actually in the process of writing an article for The Lancet, on why having type 2 diabetes can be good for you.’
‘Really? Good for you?’
‘Yes, because if you take care of yourself it’s just like not having it. So, it forces you, unless you are totally stupid, to take more care of yourself than ever before. I do need to lose a bit of this weight though.’
His mind was racing. Booze-addled, he knew. Saying too much. Needed to rein it in.
Suddenly he heard Claire from down the far end of the table. Her voice was raised. ‘Marcus,’ she said, very pointedly. ‘Lana completely agrees with me. You are exactly the wrong age and weight to suddenly start madly running again. You need to build up gradually.’
Lana Nela, seated diagonally across from Claire, was a cardiologist.
Marcus raised a glass. ‘Thank you, my darling. Cheers for that. I’ll try not to drop dead before the end of this dinner!’
There was an awkward moment, guests unsure whether or not to smile, before the buzz of conversation resumed again.
He turned to Georgie and said, quietly, ‘Perhaps my dear wife is right. You’re a trainer – do I seem unfit to you?’
‘Do you want me to answer as a polite guest or as a professional?’
‘The latter.’
‘Well, I’d say that you could lose a little weight as you mention yourself. If you wanted, I could help you. I do private sessions in my gym.’
‘You have a gym?’
‘At the Bel Royal Hotel.’
‘Is that open in the winter?’
‘The hotel is closed, but they let me use the gym, in exchange for helping the caretaker keep an eye on the place. I just have to check the rooms and I’m the principal key-holder in case of an alarm, which there never has been.’
‘Sounds perfect.’ He smiled at her. Oh yes!
‘I’ll give you my phone number,’ she said, smiling, and suddenly leaned forward, startling him. For an instant he thought she was going to kiss him, but instead she flicked a crumb off his jacket lapel. ‘On weekday evenings I usually have an open session from 6.30 to 7.30 p.m. at the gym – you can just turn up and join in, unless I’ve got a client. On Thursdays I do a specialized running drills training session – if you think that could be helpful?’