A Compromising Position

by Carole Matthews

  ‘No,’ Adam said. He was sure there must be a point, but didn’t know how to voice it.

  Laura pushed her tea to one side and stood up. ‘I’ll bring Josh round on Saturday,’ she said. ‘With his stuff.’

  Adam put his head in his hands. Shit. This was heartbreaking. It felt worse than the day when he’d walked out on them both. Even though Laura had decided not to take Josh with her, there was an emptiness at the thought of her child, their child, being left behind while Laura breezed off to ‘find herself’. Knowing Josh, he would adapt admirably to it and his heart went out to his stoic little son.

  ‘Laura,’ Adam said, ‘is there any other way we can do this?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she answered uncertainly. It seemed a very big decision to take if you weren’t absolutely sure. ‘I’d better go now.’ She chanced a smile. ‘And you’d better iron a shirt before you go to work.’

  Adam gaped stupidly at his bare chest. ‘How did you know . . . ?’

  Laura regarded the ironing board standing on permanent duty in the corner of the kitchen. ‘You used to iron a shirt every morning before you went to work. And you only ever did the front.’

  Adam chuckled.

  ‘There are some things I’ll never forget about you, Adam Jackson,’ she said, and she came to him and ran a finger tenderly down his cheek.

  They looked at each other and their faces crumpled with pain and sadness, love that had been lost, and regret, and the tears flowed. Adam wrapped his arms round the person whom he had once loved so much and held her sobbing body tightly to him. Laura was right. He still only ever ironed the front of his shirts.

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  She was going to have to get Emily to move out, Cara thought as she moved her limbs in the same leaden fashion that wading through treacle might involve. Her friend was definitely a bad influence on her liver. This weekend she was going to drink only wheatgrass juice in an effort to detoxify herself. She sat down at her desk and sipped her coffee gratefully. Her caffeine level was at an all-time high too. Yes, she’d detoxify at the weekend, but today her fragile constitution was in need of chemical jump-starting.

  Chris was sitting quietly at his desk, tapping away at his keyboard. Hangover territory too, Cara guessed. She nodded in his direction and the reporter smiled back weakly.

  ‘All set for today?’ Cara checked. Tony Blair was due at two o’clock, just in time for a bit of party-political mumbo jumbo to the waiting press and then a matinée showing of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

  Chris gave a slight nod. Cara looked puzzled. He wasn’t gloating. He was definitely ill.

  She returned to her in-tray, stacked with incoming stories. As she sorted through the first few, out of the corner of her eye she noticed that Adam had arrived. He was hideously late, but looking very bouncy. His usually pasty cheeks were positively blooming. Wherever he’d been, it wasn’t out drinking with Chris last night.

  ‘All right, mate?’ Adam said to his colleague as he passed his desk.

  Chris managed a feeble, ‘Fine.’

  ‘Feeling a bit delicate?’ Adam enquired.

  ‘Yeah.’ Chris’s voice was hoarse.

  ‘Lassie and Fido a bit too much to handle?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chris said miserably. ‘Ha, ha.’

  When Adam came over to his own desk, Cara busied herself with the day’s stories, shuffling them furiously in an important manner.

  Adam leaned over and gave her a heart-stopping, toe-tingling smile. Her heart, obliging, stopped momentarily and all of her toes tingled in the confines of her combat boots. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, lowering his voice. He looked over his shoulder. Chris had his head sunk towards his desk. ‘And I’m sorry too that we’ve not had a chance to talk since . . .’ he checked on Chris again, ‘since – you know.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ Cara said, her heart taking up a steady thump.

  Adam’s eyes went all sort of dreamy. ‘I’ve loads to tell you. But not here. Let’s catch up later.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Now you need to tell me what photographs you want,’ he said, switching to work mode.

  ‘Fine,’ Cara said and reeled off a list of shots that she thought they ought to get.

  Adam shrugged out of his jacket and Cara noticed that only the front of his shirt was ironed. He was definitely in need of a good woman, she mused, casting her eyes over the creases in the fabric.

  ‘Anything else in?’ Adam asked, nodding at the pile of news stories.

  Cara flicked at them. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘Ooo, wait!’ She cast her eyes over the piece of paper in her hand. ‘This is an interesting little story. How come this is down at the bottom of the pile?’

  She glanced over at Chris who slunk lower in his chair.

  ‘What?’ Adam took the paper, read it and smiled.

  ‘I think we should cover this,’ Cara said.

  ‘Me too,’ Adam looked over at Chris, grinning broadly.

  Chris narrowed his eyes at him.

  ‘Hey, Chris!’ Cara shouted over. ‘What do you think?’

  The reporter cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s just come in,’ she said. Cara took the paper back from Adam and read from it: ‘“Last night a major security alert was sparked by intruders in the car park of St Winifred’s Primary School, close to where the Prime Minister is due to visit today.”’ Cara looked up. ‘That’s the little school just behind the cinema, isn’t it?’

  Adam nodded.

  Cara returned to the news copy: ‘“The area was being monitored by CCTV equipment in advance of the PM’s visit. Sources say that police helicopters swarmed the area and armed officers surrounded a suspicious-looking car only to find a man and two women involved in activities of a sexual nature.”’ Cara hooted with laughter. ‘Two women!’

  Adam looked over at Chris, who fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘Greedy.’

  ‘Lucky!’ Chris mouthed back defiantly.

  ‘And careless,’ Cara snorted. ‘What sort of idiot would do that?’

  Adam eye-balled Chris. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’

  Chris flushed a nice shade of beetroot.

  ‘We’ve got to cover this,’ Cara exclaimed, ‘seeing as we’re now known as the newspaper for exposing sleaze in the community. Do you want to get onto it, Chris?’

  He coughed delicately. ‘Not really, thanks, Cara.’

  Her face fell. ‘I would have thought this was right up your street.’

  ‘No,’ he said vehemently. ‘It’s a non-story.’

  ‘A non-story? But it’s great.’ Cara was stunned. She turned to Adam, who was standing smiling inanely. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What does it matter what Adam thinks?’ Chris interjected crossly.

  Adam pressed his lips together as he gazed thoughtfully across the office at his colleague. ‘I think we should do an in-depth exposé,’ he said sincerely. ‘Find out who they are, fill the front page with it and pillory them as unfit members of society.’

  Chris snarled silently at him.

  ‘Well, I wasn’t thinking of going quite so strong,’ Cara said, ‘but you’re right, maybe we ought to really go for it.’

  Cara looked expectantly at Chris, who said nothing.

  ‘I don’t understand your stance on this,’ she said when he didn’t respond. ‘You were so keen on sleaze before.’

  Adam smirked at Chris and said innocently, ‘What else does the copy say, Cara?’

  ‘Er . . . blah, blah, blah . . .’ Cara said, picking up the story again. ‘“Police have named Christopher Jeremy Seymour, aged thirty . . .”’ She stopped and looked up, openmouthed.

  Chris’s hair roots turned red.

  ‘“Christopher Jeremy Seymour, aged thirty. Mr Seymour is believed to be a journalist on the Hampstead Observer.”’ Cara looked up again. ‘Jeremy?’

  ‘Yes. Fucking Jeremy,’ Chris snapped. ‘It was my father’s name.’

 
; Cara started to giggle. ‘“Mr Seymour’s companions . . . companions! . . . are named as Ms Karen Smith, forty-two, and Ms Rita Brown, forty-five.”’ Cara was incredulous. ‘Bit old for you, Chris!’

  ‘They looked a lot younger!’ Chris was getting more puce by the minute. ‘Didn’t they, Adam?’

  Cara’s head snapped round. ‘You knew about this?’

  Adam held his hands up. ‘I know nothing!’

  Cara put down the paper. ‘We have to run with this, Chris. You know we do.’

  ‘It was one little mistake,’ the reporter pleaded. ‘This could scar me for life.’

  Adam and Cara stifled chuckles.

  Chris’s face took on a pained expression. ‘One minute I was having a nice time . . .’

  ‘With Karen and Rita?’ Adam said. His friend glowered at him.

  ‘And the next,’ Chris continued, ‘I was facing two dozen masked men with Heckler & Koch MP5 machine guns pointed at my grollies.’

  Adam and Cara burst out laughing.

  ‘It was a very traumatic experience,’ Chris protested. ‘This is enough to make me impotent!’

  ‘I think that might be a blessing for womankind,’ Cara retorted.

  ‘You cannot do this to me,’ Chris whined. ‘I’m your mate. I work here. Please, please don’t do this.’

  Cara was suddenly serious. ‘You didn’t think of the effect on Emily’s life of running her story, did you?’ she said. ‘That was a silly mistake too and look at the consequences she’s had to suffer.’

  ‘Awwh,’ Chris moaned. ‘Have some pity.’ He looked at Adam for support, but none was forthcoming. ‘How will I ever hold my head up in the office again? I’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘At least you won’t lose your job. Or your home,’ Cara pointed out. ‘It’s only your dignity you’ll lose.’

  ‘And you didn’t have much of that in the first place,’ Adam observed.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ Chris said with a resigned pout.

  Cara flipped open her notebook. ‘I’ll cover this story,’ she said decisively. ‘Would Mr Seymour like to grace us with a comment?’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Chris replied unhelpfully.

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  I need some fresh air. My head is stuffed full of cottonwool and I’m sporting eye bags that would carry enough clothes for a fortnight’s skiing holiday. I’ve got to move out of Cara’s house and beyond the reaches of my friend’s idea of tender loving care. I’m being organiced to death. All this health food and the vitamins she’s insisting I throw down my throat are doing me no good at all. I feel decidedly rough. I’m sure I’m allergic to ginseng.

  On the other hand, when I do eventually go, I’m going to miss her loads, because despite our sparring, Cara is like a sister to me. Life is certainly never dull when she’s around. I guess she could well say the same about me.

  I skirt round Adam’s potion – which is sitting looking faintly malevolent in the fridge door – and opt for plain old orange juice instead. In the aftermath of last night’s spell session, I have decided not to leave my fate in the hands of the universe. In my opinion, the universe is far too fickle a force to leave in charge of my love life. Instead, I am going to try to track down The Hunk myself. I have decided, in the tried and tested method of television detectives, to go back to Temptation and quiz the bar staff in an in-depth fashion about the identity of this mystery man who has made fast and free with my emotions. Is that not a positive step forwards? Is that not more resourceful, say, than relying on some scabby arachnids and a few dodgy old pop songs to do your dirty work?

  I savour my breakfast, despite feeling rather delicate in the digestive regions. It’s a wonderful day and even the air is tinged with the expectancy that anything could happen. This day feels like a turning point – don’t ask me why, since nothing has changed. But perhaps something has shifted inside me. For the first time in ages I feel in control of my destiny.

  Breakfast done, I set off and stride out down Hampstead High Street feeling a bit fab. Even the tramps in the High Street are sipping frothy cappuccino out of tall Starbucks cups, so life can’t be all that bad. If I do become a down-and-out here, at least I’d get decent beverages.

  Temptation looks very different in the daytime. Not very tempting at all, in fact. Temptation is clearly a night owl, not a lark – much like myself. The jewel colours and gilt mirrors look garish in the low, piercing winter sunlight. I creep in, aware that the bar staff are just setting up for the lunchtime trade which caters for the ciabatta crowd, and also aware that my boots are clonking on the fashionable wooden floor, which echoes loudly without a crush of bodies to deaden the sound.

  There are no customers in the bar yet, just two gaunt-looking guys polishing glasses with damp tea towels listening to the melodic strains of Frank Sinatra over the sound system.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, feeling extraordinarily stupid. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’ They both look up and indicate that they might be persuaded to. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ the comedian of the duo states.

  I laugh as if it’s the best joke I’ve ever heard, in a pathetic attempt to win them over. ‘I was at the launch party,’ I say before I decide against committing my future to this listless clown. ‘I wanted to find a guy that I saw here.’

  The barmen raise their collective eyebrows. ‘Name?’

  ‘Emily,’ I say.

  ‘His name,’ they say in unison.

  ‘Oh.’ What a twonk I am. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What does he look like?’ The taller barman pulls a notepad and a pencil out of his apron pocket.

  ‘Er . . .’ I say helpfully.

  They are both poised expectantly, all thoughts of polishing glasses banished.

  ‘He’s tall. Very tall. Over six foot. Six one? Six two?’

  ‘Six three?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Not six three.’ Definitely not six three. ‘He’s dark.’

  ‘And handsome?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, brightening. And then realise that I’m still a twonk and that with a slight stretching of the imagination, both barmen – and ninety per cent of the male population – could quite easily fit that description.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Er . . . No.’ How do you describe a smile that makes your heart do a salsa routine?

  The barman puts his pencil away. Pointedly.

  ‘Thanks, anyway,’ I say. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  ‘Why don’t you come in on a Friday and Saturday night?’ the barman suggests. ‘There are loads of guys here then. Some of them tall, dark and handsome. You might even find one better than the one you’re looking for.’

  I somehow doubt it. ‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘I might well do that.’ I somehow doubt that too.

  ‘Do you want to leave me your name?’ the barman says. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Emily,’ I say. ‘I’m Emily.’ And at the risk of appearing a loose harlot I give him my mobile number. ‘Thanks,’ I say again and walk out into the sunshine.

  The barman pushes the note into his apron pocket with an appreciative curl of his lip. ‘I might just ring her myself,’ he says to his mate. But, of course, I’m already striding back up the High Street and don’t hear that.

  Adam had half an hour before he had to whizz off to the film club to snap the Prime Minister looking happy and smiling. Chris was still sulking and wouldn’t come to lunch with him at the Jig, which left Adam pretty much to his own devices. He could, he supposed, have taken Cara to lunch, but he didn’t quite know what to say to her yet as the right sentences were taking time to formulate in his brain.

  He couldn’t help smiling to himself when he thought of Chris’s misfortune. His friend might be mortified, but it was very, very funny. And it could have been worse – he could have been caught enjoying carnal knowledge of two blokes rather than two women. But then it was easy for Adam to feel smug when things were going right in his life. For once. H
e’d got a great new job. A great new flat. And, the greatest great of all, Laura was letting Josh move in with him on a permanent basis.

  While he was on a roll, he’d decided to throw caution to the wind and go in search of the elusive dream-woman-in-the-wine-bar, despite the fact that in reality she could be married, a psycho, a lesbian or a vegetarian. Or all four.

  Toff had obviously forgotten his promise to help him in pursuit of his mystery woman, but after all his friend had done for him in the last few weeks, Adam had decided to let this temporary lapse go unchallenged. Toff was, after all, a bloke. And if there was dirty work to do, then Adam should be man enough to do it himself.

  With a spring in his step, he swung through the doors of Temptation. It was quiet at lunchtime. So quiet that it hardly seemed like the same place. A few trendy guys propped up the bar. A group of giggling women sipped champagne and swung their shoes hopefully in the direction of the trendy guys propping up the bar.

  Adam waited for the barman to finish serving and ordered a glass of fresh orange. The barman filled a tall glass with ice and poured in the freshly squeezed juice. He put the glass down in front of Adam with a cursory smile.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me, mate,’ Adam said before the barman started to move away.

  ‘Shoot.’ The tall, gaunt barman shrugged.

  ‘I’m looking for a girl.’

  ‘Me too,’ the barman quipped.

  ‘No. Someone special,’ Adam said. ‘I wondered if you’d know her.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Another shrug.

  ‘I was here on the night of the launch party,’ Adam pressed on. ‘So was she.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Adam,’ Adam said.

  The barman sighed. ‘Her name?’

  ‘No idea, mate,’ Adam admitted, a slight puff of his buoyant nature escaping with the noise of a deflating balloon. This might prove more difficult than he imagined.

  The barman leaned on the bar. ‘We might have had her in earlier.’

  Adam sat up straight. ‘What?’

  ‘There was a woman in earlier,’ the barman said, ‘looking for a bloke of your description.’

  ‘No?’ Adam said incredulously. This was beyond good luck.