A Compromising Position

by Carole Matthews

  The silver shell-like arches of the Thames Barrier stretching across the river came into view – a graceful string of hi-tech gates that provided the only protection against London succumbing to the powerful spite of the sea. It was a wonderful sight on the horizon and it spurred Adam’s pedalling onwards – that and the thought of hot, sweet tea in the warmth of the visitor centre.

  But his son wasn’t letting him off the hook that easily. ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘Who?’

  Josh scowled. ‘Oh, Dad!’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam said. ‘Yes, I did talk to her.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Adam cleared his throat. ‘Not much.’

  Actually, Josh, Adam thought, I told her she’d got pesto sauce on her nose and, because of me, she fled from the wine bar in tears. Despite his attempts to clear his head of his inadequacies, his son was only too keen to keep reminding him, it seemed. Adam could have joyfully got off his bike and battered his head into the gravel pavement.

  There was a certain irony to the fact that he’d happened to see the only woman who’d ever made his heart skip several beats on the only time he’d been on a date in living memory. How perverse was life? He’d felt this amazing connection to the woman-in-the-wine-bar, as he’d affectionately come to regard her, and he was sure she’d felt the same. It was as if he’d known her before. She was a stranger and yet familiar. So familiar. His mouth had gone dry when he looked at her. Unlike his palms, which had gone sweaty. There was too much eye-contact, too much surreptitious smiling, for it not to be mutual. And he’d blown it. Blown it, big time. He’d spent the rest of the evening staring in a subdued manner into his flat champagne – so much so that even Jemima had noticed it.

  ‘Did you get her phone number?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ Adam said.

  ‘Oh Dad!’ His son looked at him in disgust. ‘You are hopeless!’

  And for once in his life Adam really didn’t feel that he could disagree.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  I am no longer on the front of all the newspapers. Jeffrey Archer is. Again. I’m not going to go into the details. And I suspect my fickle band of attendant journalists have rushed off to Cambridge to harangue the millionaire storyteller and his lovely fragrant wife, Mary, instead.

  On the one hand I’m delighted that the Archers have lured my pursuers away from leafy Hampstead and my door in particular. On the other hand, I feel very sorry for them. I now know what it feels like to be hounded by the press. I think I’ll dash out and buy a few of his paperbacks to show solidarity.

  It makes me think seriously about my non-meeting with Jonathan Gold and whether I want to follow up his offer. Do I really want to court this sort of attention? Is being a high-profile media person really desirable? Isn’t the fact that I’m now becoming old news a good thing? It’s nice to be sitting sprawled in front of a log fire on a Sunday afternoon, simply reading the newspapers for recreational purposes rather than scouring them with bated breath for any more scandal featuring yours truly. I did wonder whether they’d start dredging up my old boyfriends to ask them if I was any good in bed, or perhaps a few primary-school chums to ask them if I’d shown any signs of overt libidinous development at the age of ten. That would have put the tin hat on everything. But, thankfully, they haven’t.

  Cara is curled up on the sofa with yesterday’s Guardian. She’s very quiet. She looks up at me. ‘You’re quiet,’ she says.

  ‘Mmm,’ I respond, watching the flames flicker their way up the chimney. It’s nice to be cosied up with Cara like this. It reminds me of being at university when it was just me and her against the world and we had no problems controlling our men and no mortgages. She has been a good friend for a long time. Outside, it’s a freezing cold day and the wind is urging the remnants of long-dead autumn leaves to skitter across the garden. The sky has turned grey and grumpy. I know how it feels. I want it to be summer again. With the return of the sun perhaps I can find the way forward and move towards a new start. For now, I feel stuck in the house and stuck in my life. Cara looks over my shoulder. I’m reading an article entitled Sexual Positions of the Stars. There is a diagram of a Brad Pitt stick-drawing doing something very athletic.

  Cara frowns. ‘How do they know he makes love like that?’

  ‘How do you know he doesn’t?’

  ‘True,’ Cara agrees.

  I can only say that if he does, Jennifer Aniston is one lucky woman. No wonder she always wears a smile.

  I fold the Mail on Sunday and lean on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Still brooding about last night?’ Cara asks.

  I nod, but say nothing. How can I tell her that in the course of one night, I met the man of my dreams and humiliated myself, deeply, in front of him?

  ‘The lovely Mr Gold will probably ring again tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say without enthusiasm.

  ‘He will,’ she assures me.

  ‘Yeah.’ My focus settles again on the blustering breeze.

  ‘Emily,’ Cara says, putting down her own newspaper. ‘Is there anything else wrong?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’ve got the attention span of a goldfish,’ she points out. ‘Perhaps less. They can at least concentrate for three seconds at a time.’ She swings her legs off the sofa and inches next to me. ‘Every time I’ve looked up you’ve been staring out of the window.’

  I bite my lip. Nothing much gets past psychic Cara. And she’s right, my mind is elsewhere today. You know when you hear a really terrible record on the way to work and you can’t get it out of your mind at all, and then you spend the whole day singing it to yourself over and over again – ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ or something equally dire? And just when you think you’ve finally got it out of your mind, you find yourself humming it again and you realise that nothing short of beating yourself over the head with a tin tray is going to stop it. That’s what I’m going through now. I have ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ Syndrome. Mr Hunk’s face keeps flashing in front of me. Different scenarios, always the same face, over and over again. One minute I’m looking out at the garden and the next I’m watching us walking together on Hampstead Heath, enjoying dinner at Le Gavroche, lying curled up together in bed. Whoa, whoa! This is bad, isn’t it?

  I decide to confess. ‘I met the man of my dreams last night,’ I say.

  Cara sits bolt upright. As well she might.

  ‘I humiliated myself deeply in front of him,’ I admit, hanging my head in shame.

  ‘Not again, Emily! You’re such an idiot!’

  I can safely say that Cara is unlikely to be receiving a Forever Friends birthday card this year. She hurls herself back on the sofa. ‘I thought you were going to have a period of voluntary celibacy? You specifically bought an “I will not chase boys” T-shirt to remind yourself.’

  ‘It doesn’t work for me, Cara.’

  ‘How can you tell after a few weeks? You have to give it time. You never stick to anything, Emily.’

  ‘I’ll have you know I was once celibate for sixteen years.’

  ‘You were not!’

  ‘I was.’ I grin at Cara. ‘It was a hell of a sixteenth birthday party!’

  Cara tuts. My sense of humour is missing its mark. ‘Have you learned nothing from this terrible, traumatic experience with Declan?’

  ‘I didn’t take my underwear off,’ I insist crisply. ‘I went for the pesto-sauce-on-the-nose type of humiliation instead.’

  A glimmer of a smile twitches Cara’s lips.

  ‘Don’t laugh,’ I warn her. ‘He laughed at me.’

  ‘That’s the real reason why you came home early?’ I nod.

  ‘Oh, Emily,’ Cara says in her most sympathetic voice. ‘If he laughed at you then he really isn’t a nice person, is he?’

  ‘No,’ I agree, perilously close to a sniff. ‘He looked like a lot of trouble,’ I say, trying to make myself feel bet
ter as much as anything. ‘A love ’em and leave ’em type.’

  ‘There you are then,’ she says. ‘Nothing lost.’

  ‘I wish I could agree,’ I say miserably. ‘When I looked at him, Cara, I felt like I’d been plugged into the National Grid.’ I stare out of the window again, as if that will help. ‘No one has ever done that to me before.’

  ‘Not even Declan?’ I see that Cara is flushed. I’m sure she keeps having visions of me in my Santa’s outfit frolicking with Declan, although she’d never admit to it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you said this man looked like trouble.’ Cara likes to delve. Deeply.

  ‘Bad boys are more fun, aren’t they?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ my friend says with a discontented little huff. ‘I’ve always dated nerds.’

  In spite of my dark mood I smile. ‘That’s what comes from having a penchant for lentil eaters.’

  Cara pulls the lacy hem of her skirt distractedly. ‘I would have thought after Declan that you’d want someone nice. Someone to settle down with.’

  I shrug. ‘Part of Declan’s fatal charm is that he’s a bad boy. You never know quite where you are with him. Don’t you think that’s what makes him attractive?’

  Cara’s faint flush rushes blood-red to the tips of her ears. It’s probably difficult for her to hear me constantly slagging off Declan. They did used to be quite fond of each other in a chalk and cheese type of way. Declan always used to take the piss out of Cara and Cara never used to tire of setting herself up for it.

  ‘Declan has a lot of good qualities,’ my friend says.

  ‘And an awful lot of bad ones.’

  ‘He still loves you,’ Cara states.

  ‘Not that it will do him much good,’ I say. ‘I’ll never take him back, Cara.’

  ‘How would you feel if you learned he’d met someone else?’

  ‘I’d wish her very good luck,’ I say with a snorty laugh. ‘She’ll need it.’

  ‘I wish you could meet Adam,’ Cara sighs. ‘Adam’s nice. It would prove to you that reliable men do exist.’

  ‘You stick with Adam then,’ I advise. ‘Nice is good. Nice is very good.’

  ‘He just doesn’t seem very keen on me.’ Cara looks a little sad.

  ‘How will he be able to resist you with the power of the entire universe at your disposal?’

  ‘There’s no need to take the piss,’ Cara says huffily and returns to the depths of the Guardian.

  I return to staring out of the window and daydreaming about the romance of the century that might have been. I feel bad that Cara was already tucked up in bed by the time I came home. It must be awful for her to be so besotted by this Adam and for him to be completely oblivious to it. He doesn’t sound nice to me. He sounds like a right dork.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Josh looked totally wrecked as they walked up the path back to Laura’s house. Half an hour in the steamy café at the Thames Barrier and a glass of warm Coke had finally seen him off and they’d cycled slowly back to where the Vectra was parked. Adam, as always, was relieved to see that it still had all its wheels intact.

  His son had fallen asleep in the car and was now stifling yawns and trying desperately to stay awake or go back to sleep. Adam wasn’t sure which one was winning. He squeezed his son’s shoulders and Josh’s eyelids flickered briefly in recognition. Even after all this time it didn’t get any easier delivering him back to the care of his mother. But this was infinitely easier than the thought that, very soon, he might not even have the chance to do that. Josh had nattered Adam’s ears off all day long, but neither of them had mentioned Australia. Although the word hung palpably between them.

  Josh rang the bell and Laura opened the door with the speed of someone who had been lurking behind the curtains watching for them to return. She nodded at Adam and leaned on the door frame, arms folded over her cardigan. His ex-wife looked so forlorn that Adam had a bizarre urge to reach out and hug her.

  ‘OK?’ he asked gently.

  Laura nodded, the tight line of her lips softening slightly.

  ‘Back in one piece,’ he said and ruffled Josh’s hair. It was a fairly rare occurrence. He usually took Josh back muddy, bruised and/or battered by some of their more boisterous exploits. Laura thought Adam was irresponsible. Adam thought Laura wrapped Josh in cottonwool.

  Josh turned and flung his arms round Adam. ‘Thanks for a great day, Dad.’

  His son was so easy to make happy, just the thought of it could make Adam’s heart want to break. There wasn’t a day went by when he didn’t worry about them letting him down by being unable to provide a stable family unit for him. Laura seemed to be less troubled by the fact. If she wanted him to have a settled upbringing, would she even be considering whisking him to the other side of the world? Adam had again looked up air fares to Australia on the Internet. It was his current obsession. And every time he did, it pained him to find out that he wouldn’t be able to get there for less than eight hundred quid. How often was he going to be able to visit Josh at that price? A photographer’s pay was pants.

  ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday,’ Adam said.

  His son pushed past Laura and struggled out of his coat, hanging it on the end of the banister where it promptly fell onto the floor.

  ‘Be good,’ Adam said after him. ‘Don’t give your mum any trouble.’

  His son was gone. Disappeared into the depths of their suburban living room, no doubt to plant himself in front of the television for the rest of the evening. Adam shrugged.

  ‘He never does,’ Laura said.

  ‘He’s a good boy.’

  ‘I can’t say he takes after his father then,’ Laura said, but her eyes were teasing him.

  ‘No,’ Adam agreed. Leaning on the door frame opposite her, he pulled a dead head off something brown and crispy poking out of a hanging basket that might once, many moons ago, have been a flower. He lowered his voice. ‘Any more thoughts about Australia?’

  Laura’s face settled into weary lines. ‘I’ve thought about nothing else.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘And I don’t know yet, Adam.’ Laura bit her lip and looked perilously close to tears.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘To help me to leave?’ Laura asked. ‘Or to make me stay?’

  ‘I’m frightened, Laura,’ Adam admitted. He could feel hot tears threatening the back of his eyes. ‘I’m worried that I’ll miss Josh too much.’

  Laura raised an eyebrow. ‘It didn’t stop you from leaving us.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’d do things differently now.’

  ‘Maybe I would too,’ Laura said.

  Adam scratched at his stubble. ‘Would it help if you and I . . . you know . . .’

  Laura didn’t dive in to help him out.

  Adam scratched some more. ‘Would it help if you and I gave it another go?’

  Laura smiled sadly. ‘Do you love me, Adam?’

  ‘Well . . .’ he said, ‘not exactly. But I don’t want to see you unhappy.’ He shredded some more of Laura’s horticultural corpses. ‘I want what’s best for Josh. If that means you and I have to . . . have to come to some arrangement then I’m happy to do that.’

  ‘You’ve always been an old romantic,’ Laura said.

  Adam sighed. ‘I’m trying to help.’

  ‘Oh, Adam.’ Laura let out a long unhappy breath. ‘How did I manage to get it all so wrong?’

  ‘It wasn’t just you,’ Adam said. ‘We were too young. Too . . . too different.’

  ‘I’m still making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘At least you’ve got your life sorted.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Appearances can be very deceptive.’

  ‘Laura!’ Barry the building society manager shouted from the kitchen. ‘Come here a sec!’

  She rolled her eyes to the bleak winter skies.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Adam said.

  Laura nodded.

  Adam le
aned more heavily on the door frame. ‘I just want us all to be happy again.’

  ‘Laura!’ Barry’s voice boomed out.

  ‘I think that might be hoping for rather too much,’ Laura said as she slipped back inside her house and closed the door.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘We can’t just sit here doing nothing,’ Cara announces. Even though that’s exactly what we’ve been doing all day.

  The rain is now sheeting down outside and we’re both hugging mugs of hot chocolate with marshmallows melted in it. It may not be very green or calorifically correct, but they are vegetarian marshmallows and it’s very comforting so I don’t give a jot. We’re both watching the four hundredth re-run of Singin’ in the Rain on the television, and I think this soppily romantic fare is maybe what has prompted Cara’s mobilisation.

  ‘I’m quite enjoying it,’ I say and snuggle deeper into my joggers and fleecy sweatshirt – perfect vegging-out clothes. Donald O’Connor has just done that thing where he runs up the wall and flips over. I love that bit. I always wanted to be able to do it, but never had the nerve to try.

  ‘This is not how we will change our lives,’ Cara insists and, grabbing the remote control, snaps off the telly.

  Now I will never know whether Gene Kelly finally ends up with Debbie Reynolds. But I suspect that he will. He’s always managed it, the last three hundred and ninety-nine times I’ve watched it. Films are like that, aren’t they? They give you false hope of finding a perfect relationship and a sense that you’re never having quite as much fun as people in the movies.

  Cara stands up and looks all businesslike. She paces across her smelly yak rug which she brought back from trekking in Nepal. If you ask me, she should have left it there. In this sort of mood my friend is unstoppable and, if I know what’s good for me, I should just give in without protest. ‘We need candles,’ she says decisively.