A Compromising Position

by Carole Matthews

  ‘Yeah,’ the barman reiterated. ‘Very pretty, mate.’ He gave Adam an approving glance.

  ‘Yeah,’ Adam agreed.

  ‘Great figure.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam agreed.

  ‘Nice teeth.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Adam was bordering on ecstatic.

  ‘Blonde hair.’

  ‘Blonde?’ Adam’s world came crashing down. ‘Blonde?’

  ‘Yeah,’ the barman said. ‘Blonde.’

  ‘No, mate,’ Adam shook his head sadly. ‘This one was dark.’

  ‘Oh,’ the barman said. He looked as downhearted as Adam felt. ‘Never mind. Plenty more fish in the sea.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Do you want her name anyway? She left it – and her phone number.’ The barman concentrated hard. ‘It was Imogen. Or Jenny.’ He scratched his ear. ‘Or it might have been Emma.’

  ‘But she was blonde,’ Adam said.

  ‘Yeah,’ the barman confirmed. ‘Blonde.’

  ‘She’s not the right one.’

  ‘You never know,’ the barman said encouragingly. ‘Fate works in mysterious ways. She’s worth giving a ring.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Adam said, ‘but I’ll give it a miss.’ He drained the orange juice and pushed a handful of change across the bar. ‘Cheers,’ he said and jumped down off his stool.

  ‘You could leave your number.’

  ‘Nah,’ Adam said. ‘It was a long shot.’

  ‘Better luck next time,’ the barman said.

  ‘Yeah.’ And Adam walked out into the sunshine.

  The other barman came behind his colleague rushing to make a Cosmopolitan cocktail for one of the giggling women whose birthday it was. ‘What did he want?’ he asked.

  ‘I sometimes think we should set up a dating agency in here,’ the barman said. ‘We’d make a fortune.’ He shook his head. ‘What happened to that woman’s phone number I took earlier?’

  ‘You put it in your apron pocket.’

  ‘Did I?’ The barman rummaged in his apron, pushing past the spent cheques and receipts and spare change. ‘Oh, here it is.’ He tutted to himself. ‘I had it all the time.’ He pulled the crumpled page of his notepad out and straightened it on the bar. ‘Emily,’ he said. ‘She was called Emily.’

  But of course, Adam was already striding back up the High Street and didn’t hear that.

  Chapter Eighty

  I’m going to have a cup of coffee and contemplate my next strategy – seeing as my last one was so desperately pathetic. This time, my strategy needs to be slightly more focused on job- rather than man-hunting.

  Café Blanco looks as dead as a doornail today, so I carry on up the High Street and grace Starbucks with my custom instead. It’s not that busy here either, and for once there is a surfeit of brown velvet armchairs. I can have my pick. Unless I’m beaten to it, I’m going to sit in the window and watch the world go by. Who knows, The Hunk could just stroll past.

  As I settle down with my coffee, my mobile rings, but I don’t recognise the number from the display.

  ‘Hi,’ the voice says and I know that confident tone immediately. ‘It’s Jonathan Gold.’

  I wince as I think that I’ve ignored every bit of advice he’s ever given me. ‘Hi,’ I say and feel slightly shame-faced. He’s a busy man and there are plenty of babes out there bonking famous footballers who probably need him more than me.

  ‘I’m at Sebastian Atherton’s,’ he says over the crackly line. ‘He tells me that you didn’t turn up for your photo session.’

  There’s no point beating about the bush. ‘I bottled out,’ I admit weedily. ‘I loitered outside his studio for about half an hour and then did a runner.’

  ‘Emily!’ Jonathan Gold chastises me.

  ‘I know,’ I grovel. ‘I’m such a wimp.’

  ‘Sebastian was very disappointed. He was looking forward to meeting you.’

  ‘Please apologise to him,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. Really I am. I didn’t mean to waste his time. I just don’t think I’m cut out for getting my kit off.’

  ‘Where are you now?’ Jonathan asks.

  ‘In the High Street.’ I look at my cappuccino getting cold. ‘Having a coffee at Starbucks.’

  ‘Come and meet him. Now.’

  ‘Er . . .’ I say.

  ‘I’ll come and get you.’

  ‘I could walk there in ten minutes,’ I point out. ‘Probably less.’

  ‘I know.’ I hear the smile in Jonathan’s voice. ‘But you might not get here.’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Stay there,’ he instructs. And he hangs up.

  I slip my phone furtively back into my handbag and check that I’m not being watched. But, this being London, no one is taking a blind bit of notice.

  Ooo. Now what have I done?

  As I finish the last mouthful of my coffee and just before the first shake of my knees, Jonathan Gold pulls up outside Starbucks. I can tell it’s him straight away and not just because he turns up in a sleek black Porsche Boxster. Hampstead is a place where Porsches are ten a penny. To really stand out from the crowd you need to be driving a beaten-up old 2CV covered in ‘right-on’ slogans like Cara does – now you don’t see a lot of them round here. No, it’s not the car. It’s the way Jonathan Gold drives. Direct, controlled, calm.

  I do an uncontrolled, frenzied scrabble round for my coat and handbag and rush out of the door like a thing possessed. He smiles serenely as I fling myself into the passenger seat.

  ‘I thought you might have legged it again,’ he says.

  ‘I did think about it,’ I admit. And I wonder why I didn’t.

  ‘You’ll like Sebastian,’ he says as he glances behind him and glides out into the constant stream of traffic that is another integral part of Hampstead life. ‘He’ll put you at ease.’

  ‘Good,’ I say, my heart accelerating in time with Jonathan’s engine. Because right now I could do with it.

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Prime Ministers’ visits were, Adam decided, thoroughly boring affairs. He lurked behind the metal barriers of the specially segregated press pen with a couple of photographers from the Sun, the Daily Mail and a reporter from the Telegraph who would no doubt try to whip it up into the major event it wasn’t.

  The general public in Britain are, by and large, fairly ambivalent about their politicians. There has never been the same amount of enthusiasm and flag-waving that seems to accompany American politicians wherever they go. In Hampstead, there was a meagre crowd of children present who had been herded along, primarily since they were the ones who were going to benefit from the opening of the new film club. Adam wondered idly if any of them had ever been taught by Emily. There was also a straggle of bewildered-looking pensioners in tweed jackets who looked as if they might not have anything better to do and a few, fragile white-haired women who seemed to have sort of blown there on the wind like dandelion seeds.

  The Premier himself looked older, wearier and more careworn since Adam had photographed him on his last visit here and that wasn’t all that long ago. He wore a grey suit and a grey tie and had grey skin. And there was a more distinct smattering of grey in his hair too. Perhaps being the leader of a country meant that you started to age in bigger blocks, rather more like dog years than human ones. Adam knew how he felt. He was sure he’d acquired a Dicky Davis tuft of white near his right temple due to his rising stress levels over the last few weeks. Imagine the toll it must take if you had a cabinet and a country to control rather than a few recalcitrant work colleagues, a tricky ex-wife and a twelve-year-old son. Adam shuddered at the thought.

  A few minor film stars from the local environs had popped along for the jaunt and managed to elicit a bit of spontaneous appreciation out of the crowd, as they beamed cheesily and made sure their best side was angled towards the phalanx of photographers, before being swept into the foyer by waiting flunkies.

  Adam snapped away as the Prime Minister, flanked by shifty-looking bodyguards, p
assed by; he tried to capture on film the excitement of Tony’s practised, automatic wave and fixed-on grin as he rapidly disappeared into the depths of the renovated cinema.

  Adam packed his camera away and, with a twinge of regret, realised that it would probably be the last time he would be hanging around in a press posse on an occasion like this. From now on it would be a warm, centrally heated studio, bigger salary cheques and champagne all the way. Adam stopped in his tracks. And he was having a twinge of regret? Like hell! With renewed energy he headed back to the office to file the pictures.

  Chris had also returned to his desk after the press briefing and was sitting, bashing away at his keyboard, sulky lip trailing the floor.

  ‘Cheer up, mate,’ Adam said as he strode past him towards his desk. ‘It might never happen.’

  ‘It has,’ Chris said and flung a mock-up page that had been printed out towards him.

  Adam smiled. The headline stated: ‘Seymour Sets Off Security Scare.’ To accompany it, there was a grainy CCTV photograph of Chris’s car surrounded by armed riot police, and a close-up of his rather startled face.

  ‘It’s not bloody funny,’ Chris snarled, ‘so don’t even think about laughing.’

  ‘It’ll all blow over in a day or two,’ Adam assured him. ‘No one will even remember.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Chris said.

  Sitting down at his computer, Adam clicked his mouse. Someone had put Chris’s face up as a screensaver. Adam grinned to himself. It would blow over in a day or two, sure – but until then, everyone in the office would milk it for all it was worth.

  Adam looked up, aware that Cara was watching him.

  ‘Just deserts?’ she enquired.

  ‘Perhaps we could fix him up with Emily,’ Adam suggested. ‘They’d have a lot more in common now.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cara giggled. ‘They could swap stories.’

  ‘How’s Emily doing?’ Adam asked.

  Cara nodded. ‘She seems fine.’

  ‘Back with the boyfriend yet?’

  ‘No,’ Cara said. ‘I don’t think it’s meant to be. She’s fallen hook, line and sinker for someone else.’

  ‘Lucky Emily,’ Adam said with feeling.

  ‘Yes,’ Cara said with a sigh.

  She was looking very cheesed off, Adam realised. ‘Look,’ he said, doing the customary check that Chris wasn’t listening, ‘why don’t we go out for a bite to eat tonight. There’s a lot I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Cara said.

  ‘I’ll pick you up about eight,’ Adam said and glanced at his watch, noticing for the first time the advancing hour. ‘We’d better go through these photographs.’ He waved the memory card at her. ‘Tony Blair looking very scraggy.’

  ‘I’ll pull up a chair,’ Cara said and rushed round her desk, pulling a chair tight into Adam’s side. As she huddled in front of his computer screen, her arm brushed against his and Cara smiled warmly and secretly at him. She looked so happy that she seemed about to burst and ooze joy all over the Hampstead Observer’s vinyl flooring.

  Oh shit, Adam said to himself. He’d assumed that she thought their liaison was as disastrous as he did. From the look on her face, now he wasn’t so sure. How was he going to tell her that he, like Emily, had fallen hook, line and sinker for someone else?

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Sebastian Atherton is a doll. A living doll. He is sweet, gentle and kind in a lovely camp and cutesy fashion. And if I wasn’t in love with The Hunk from the wine bar, then I might just give Sebastian Atherton the glad eye. Jonathan Gold was right, he is making me feel at ease. Three glasses of champagne have also helped considerably.

  Sebastian is folded into an armchair in one corner of his office, long legs swinging loosely over the side. He has ‘relaxed’ stamped all over him. Jonathan Gold is sitting upright and as businesslike as ever at Sebastian’s desk. I’m dithering somewhere in between, the epitome of tension.

  ‘Two hundred thousand pounds, Emily,’ Jonathan Gold says – not for the first time.

  It is a lottery-winning amount, isn’t it? How can my head not be turned by this.

  ‘That’s what the News of the World have offered,’ he reiterates. ‘Two hundred thousand pounds. That would solve an awful lot of your problems.’

  It may even solve some I haven’t yet thought of, I muse. GodGodGod! Why is this so hard? I check my fingernails. ‘But they want me to take all of my clothes off for that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jonathan states flatly.

  ‘There are ways that I can do it without you having to feel exposed,’ Sebastian says over his glass.

  That could be interesting. ‘How?’ I say, sounding suspicious.

  ‘You need to trust me, darling,’ Sebastian urges. ‘I can make you look utterly, utterly fabulous. Really I can.’

  Is this his way of saying that I currently look a mess? I catch my reflection in the window of his studio and think that it probably is.

  ‘My make-up artist, Nikki, will be here any minute. She’ll make you look gorgeous. Jonathan will stay in here. And it will be just you and me.’

  ‘And the camera?’

  ‘You’ll love it. I promise.’

  I glance at them both, giving them the benefit of my most distrusting stare. ‘These pictures won’t turn up in some seedy magazine somewhere?’

  ‘You can have full editorial control,’ Jonathan says sincerely. ‘There’s no point in me having unhappy clients, Emily. My reputation exists only because people like what I can do for them. I want you to be in full agreement at every stage. If, for any reason, you don’t like them, we’ll destroy them while you’re still here.’

  ‘Promise me?’ I say.

  ‘Promise,’ Jonathan echoes.

  I knock back my champagne and stand up, wiping my damp palms down my jeans. Sebastian Atherton gives me a warm, encouraging smile. ‘Let’s do it then,’ I say, and notice that my voice and my knees have gone all peculiar.

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Adam stared round at the contents of his flat. It didn’t amount to much. None of the furniture was his, nor were the curtains or even the cushions. He didn’t think he was a natural cushion buyer. Even in this enlightened age, that tended to be the woman’s department generally. There were some things men could live without that women couldn’t – cushions being a case in point.

  When he’d rented this flat, the previous occupant had left a supply of mismatched bedlinen, a cupboard full of mismatched crockery and a bank of towels that looked as if they’d all been stolen from hotels. He had replaced none of them and they had all served him admirably. Did tea and toast taste any better when it was served on matching tableware? Adam thought not.

  The only things he had taken with him when he left Laura had been his record collection – which was sort of a bloke thing – and his stereo and, though it had been through several incarnations since then and now sported a CD player, practically the only thing he would leave here with was his stereo, too. It gave him comfort to think that he wasn’t an acquisitive person. As soon as Josh arrived, however, Adam was sure his son would try to make him see the error of his ways.

  His lack of material possessions meant that packing up was a doddle. Adam had, with an amazing flash of forethought, bought a roll of bin liners and now he opened them and tipped the contents of his wardrobe inside. He would stay on here until the end of the week and then move permanently into Toff’s flat. It would give him time to get Toff’s place straightened out, buy some new stuff and fumigate this place before he left in the hope that the landlord wouldn’t hang onto all of his deposit. It was around five hundred quid and he planned to give anything that was left to Laura to help her out in the only way he knew how.

  He stacked the bin bags by the door and went to jump into the shower. There were a couple of hours before he had to pick Cara up and it would give him time to think about what he was going to say to her.

  Half an hour and two full-length renditions of
‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ later when Adam had showered, shaved, found his least crumpled shirt and had tried to organise his hair into a less scary arrangement, he was still none the wiser. He would have to rely on his male instincts. If he sat there and said nothing, perhaps Cara would sort it out for him.

  Like some yuppy tramp, he grabbed the bin bags containing his life’s possessions, headed down the stairs, dumped them in the back of the Vectra and set off to start his new life at Toff’s.

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  I am as naked as a jay-bird. And Nikki, the magical make-up artist, has made me look like some glamorous, vampy temptress even though my cheeks were bearing a nice pink, champagne after-glow. I resemble a walking advert for a make-up counter with half a pound of Estée Lauder plastered on my face. After my transformation I look, as Sebastian promised, utterly wonderful and not like me at all. My mother could walk past me and not recognise me – although, if she did, she might wonder what I was doing in Sainsbury’s without my clothes on. When I was allowed near the mirror, I could only gaze in wonder at this fabulous woman who stared back at me in a faintly agog fashion. Liz Hurley, I am snapping at your heels! Ha!

  ‘This way, Emily,’ Sebastian coaxes in his soft, steady voice.

  And I pout and pose like an old hand. I am loving this. I feel foxy, flirty and free. I can see Sebastian smile behind his camera. As well he might. He was right.

  ‘Cross your arms,’ he says. And I cross and re-cross, tilting my head this way and that. What an old tart I am!

  Sebastian is re-creating some classic poses. I have sat astride a chair, lounged on a chaise-lounge, cavorted on a fur rug on Sebastian’s warm oak floor and tipped myself backwards like Sophie Dahl in the Obsession adverts. I have been wild, wicked and wanton. I have bared all. And, best of all, I have shown nothing.

  Thanks to Sebastian’s skill, there has not even been one nipple shot. Not even a tiny one. For two hundred thousand pounds, the News of the World will get everything and see nothing. Ha, ha! There will be the suggestion of the rounded swell of my breast, the outline of my curving buttock, a shadow of well-formed cleavage, but bugger all else! Cara would have a blue fit.