Just for Fun

by Rosalind James

  Chapter 5

  Emma sat curled at one end of the couch, pulled the knitted afghan more closely around her, needing the comfort of its warmth. A single lamp on the end table provided a pool of light. She was knitting, of course. And, ostensibly, watching Top Gear, absently observing as a car made its skidding, precarious way around the track to the accompaniment of the usual caustic commentary.

  After Nic had left, she’d closed the door behind him, then stood for a minute with her forehead pressed against the worn wood. Just when she thought she had a handle on things, life kept finding a way to throw her off-balance. And this time, she was afraid it had knocked her completely over the edge. She just hoped she could keep Zack from going with her.

  The worst of it was that she couldn’t really blame her situation on Nic. It was her own impulsive nature that was really at fault, and she knew it. Why had she had to meet him when she was at her most vulnerable? The first day of her non-honeymoon. The day after her non-wedding.

  She hadn’t thought about that day in a long time. But seeing Nic again brought the whole disastrous weekend back. Most women would have thought themselves unlucky to have been spectacularly dumped on their wedding day. Only she, Emma thought glumly, could have managed to be left twice in a single week by two men, each of whom she’d considered the love of her life. At one point or another, anyway. Just showed what kind of judgment she had.

  “Emma,” her mother had said sharply that morning nearly seven years earlier, as Lucy finished fixing the wreath in place over Emma’s blonde-streaked hair. “Pay attention. You’re off someplace else again. I asked if you were ready for the dress.”

  “She’s entitled, Mom,” Lucy said, coming to her younger sister’s defense as she had so many times in their childhood. “It’s her wedding day. She’s supposed to be dreamy today.”

  Emma barely heard them. She stared into her own eyes in the mirror above her little dressing table, her face looking unfamiliar under the coating of mascara, eyeshadow, and foundation she rarely wore. “Are you sure I’m doing the right thing?” she asked slowly. “When you married Dad, Mom. Before, I mean. Did you have any . . . any doubts?”

  “Of course not,” her mother answered briskly, with the obvious impatience she so often showed her younger daughter. “Your father and I had a lot in common. Shared interests and backgrounds, academically and intellectually. You and David might not be as alike as we are, but he’s good for you. He’ll settle you down, keep you focused.”

  “Do I want to be settled down, though?” Emma asked her reflection.

  “It’s not too late to back out, if you’re having second thoughts,” Lucy said helpfully.

  “Of course it is,” her mother shot back. “It’s cold feet, that’s all. You’re just being a little flighty, like always. David’s perfect for you, Emma. He’ll give you stability. Trust me.”

  “Shouldn’t I feel more . . . excitement, though?” Emma asked. “Thrilled, or something?”

  Lucy looked down at her sister thoughtfully as their mother moved to the closet for the simple dress she’d helped Emma choose. “No sparks, huh?”

  “Well, not no,” Emma conceded. “But you know, not a burning flame or anything. He doesn’t seem to feel like that either. I thought men were supposed to be more eager than that. More excited.”

  “That’s a myth,” her mother said firmly, coming back with the ivory silk held carefully in her outstretched arms. “You’d think men were some kind of animals, the things people say. Anyway, that certainly isn’t what carries a marriage through the years. It’s the friendship that matters. That’s what lasts.”

  The door to the bedroom opened, and the man in question stepped inside, closing it again behind him. All three women turned to look at him. He hadn’t changed into his dark blue suit yet, Emma saw with surprise. Instead, he wore his usual khaki Dockers and blue button-down Oxford cloth shirt. And his usual white New Balance shoes. Emma felt a guilty flash of annoyance even through her puzzlement. She wished he’d take her hints and buy a pair of more fashionable shoes like the ones she kept pointing out to him. How was she supposed to get excited by somebody who clipped his phone to his belt, and flossed every single night, and wore those shoes? She felt a wave of actual revulsion. Was it just cold feet? Was this normal?

  “David,” Frances said in surprise. “Why are you here? I don’t believe in that nonsense about bad luck, of course. But Emma needs to get ready, and you should be getting dressed yourself.”

  David, for once, ignored the wife of his department head. “I need to talk to you, Emma,” he said instead. “Privately.”

  “Five minutes, then,” Frances decided. “Come on, Lucy.”

  Lucy’s observant glance shot from Emma to David, then back to Emma. “I can stay, if you want,” she offered.

  “No,” Emma said, swinging herself around on the little stool so she faced the room. “David wants to talk to me alone.” Icy fingers of dread were running down her back, even as her mind went blank. Something was about to happen.

  Her sister nodded, gave David one final appraising glance as she left the room with their mother.

  Emma watched the door shut behind them, then turned to look again at David. “What’s going on?”

  He sank onto the bed. Put a hand on each knee and exhaled in a long sigh. “I know how much this is going to hurt you. But I can’t pretend anymore, and it wouldn’t be fair to you to marry you, feeling the way I do.”

  “What way?” Those icy fingers were playing some kind of sonata now. “Are you dumping me? On our wedding day?”

  “I just don’t think we’re compatible enough,” he explained. “You have good values, and the right background. But there’s something missing.”

  “I have good values?” she asked, staring at him. “That’s it? That’s been the attraction?”

  “You’re a nice person,” he explained. “Not that steady, maybe. A little moody. But you have a good character. And that’s important, in a partner. But I’m sorry. It isn’t enough for me.”

  “My good character isn’t enough,” she said, fighting an absurd desire to laugh. Or cry. Or something. “It doesn’t make up for . . . what?”

  “For a real connection. I’ve realized I need somebody who understands my work, and can have a real discussion with me about it. Somebody who’s intellectually compatible.”

  “You want to discuss your work more? Who with? Who is it that’s going to have this real discussion with you?” Her breath was coming faster now, and she could feel the heat burning in her cheeks.

  “Don’t get excited,” he cautioned.

  “Don’t get excited? Don’t get EXCITED?” Her voice was rising. “Could you have maybe figured this out a week ago? A day ago? Instead of me sitting here in my slip, ready to put on my fu—my frigging wedding dress? So who is it? Who is it who understands you so well?” she demanded again.

  “Nothing’s happened,” he hastened to say. “Nothing inappropriate.”

  “Oh, no. Nothing inappropriate,” she said sarcastically. “You’ve just been having meaningful, real discussions. About your work.”

  “Yes!” he said in relief, misinterpreting her remarks as always. “She’s been helping me with some numerical analysis, these past weeks, and something’s grown up between us. It isn’t fair to you to go ahead with this, feeling the way I do. I know it’ll cause some trouble in the department, and I’m prepared to deal with that.”

  “Well, goody for you. How noble. So we’re talking about Karen Fuchs here? That’s your dream girl?”

  “Nothing’s happened, I said,” he reminded her sharply. “There’s been no inappropriate behavior.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said bitterly, getting up and going to the door. “I’m not going to sic my dad on you for having an affair with a student. I don’t care. Just leave.” Tears of humiliation burned in her eyes as she pushed the handle down, pulled the door toward her.

  “I know this is a disappointment to yo
u,” he went on, standing up awkwardly. “And I’m sorry. But we both need to be sure. And I found, when it came down to it, that I just couldn’t settle.”

  “You couldn’t settle,” she said, feeling the bubble of hysteria rising inside her. She felt like screaming, slammed her mouth shut on the impulse. She made a wide sweeping motion with her arm. “Here I thought I was settling. Wow. Get out.”

  “I was hoping you’d understand. That we could be civilized about this. Bury the hatchet, before I left,” he said pleadingly, standing reluctantly as she continued to gesture at him.

  “I’ll bury it,” she told him furiously. “Right in your head. Out.”

  “Here.” He held out an envelope she hadn’t noticed. “The bookings. For the honeymoon. Take them.”

  “You want me to go on the honeymoon?” she asked, that bubble rising again. “Doesn’t Karen want to go to Fiji? Show you her fine growth of body hair?”

  “She has exams,” he said guilelessly. “She can’t go. And the tickets are nonrefundable. As it’s the last minute. So you may as well take the trip.” He held out the envelope again, then set it on the bed as she continued to glare at him, making no move to take it. “Well, I’ll just . . . leave this for you, I guess,” he said hastily, seeing her feet shift and her face redden even more. “Sorry about this. But I think it’ll be for the best.”

  “Oh, I know it’ll be for the best. I’m counting on that. Would you just leave?”

  She watched him walk through the door at last, then gave in to temptation and slammed it after him. She hoped it made him jump. She pulled off her slip so she was standing in her wedding underwear—wedding underwear, she thought savagely. Maybe she should offer that to Karen too. Along with David. Wrapped up in a big red bow. White running shoes, khakis, dental floss, and all. Good luck with that.

  She wrenched off the lacy white bra and thong, threw them across the room. They weren’t even substantial enough to make it to the opposite wall, fluttering down before they’d got halfway. No chance, anyway. Karen would never be able to get into them.

  So there she’d been. She hadn’t been able to stand staying in her parents’ house on what had been supposed to be her wedding night, facing their concern, with its clear undercurrent of disappointment in her failure to make her life work as neatly as theirs always seemed to. Their obvious opinion that, once again, she’d proven to be a failure. A screwup. She’d given up her room in the flat she’d shared in preparation for moving into David’s sterile, modern flat in Newmarket (“so convenient to the University, and easy to keep clean”), and she hadn’t been able to face the humiliation of going to stay with a friend.

  In the end, she’d taken a taxi to the Heritage Hotel, booked into the room David had reserved for their wedding night, wanting to face the experience down and conquer it. She’d had an image of herself, strong and brave, moving on with her life. And had known that on some level, she was relieved. But all the same, to her frustrated bewilderment, she’d ended up crying most of the night, and on into the next day. Had got on the plane, still teary, sleepless, and fortified by a big glass of wine from an airport bar. Another two glasses on board, and she’d been more than ready to make a fool of herself with the irresistible package that had been Dominic Wilkinson at twenty-two.

  He’d been so easygoing, so offhand, so effortlessly, casually attractive, in his shorts, T-shirt, and jandals. His arms around her, holding her so securely as she fell into his lap, his solid thighs underneath her. All that lean, hard muscle. And those eyes. The lazy tilt of them. The gleam in them, promising something she hadn’t quite understood, but had recognized all the same.

  But none of the hard edges, the toughness she’d seen in him tonight. Just . . . fun. That’s what she’d thought, sitting next to him, looking at him while he made his cheeky proposal. He was like a big, beautiful present, being handed to her. She’d tried so hard to focus, to be serious, to do what was expected. And look how much good that had done her. Now here he was, looking like that, smiling like that, offering her this week out of her life. That nobody would ever, ever know about. Something just for her. Just for now. Just for fun.

  Chapter 6

  “My legs are rubber,” Lucy complained, wiping her face again with the towel and dropping onto a stool at the juice bar of the Les Mills gym. It was quiet this Saturday morning, all the young singles still recovering from their Friday night out. “You’re killing me.”

  “Hey. You said you wanted to do this,” Emma protested, giving her own face a swipe. “It won’t always feel so bad. I swear, I can see a difference in you already.” She inspected her sister’s taller, curvier figure. “Your arms look great. I can see the weight loss, but you’re looking toned too. And it’s only been, what? Five times?”

  “Six,” Lucy groaned. “But who’s counting. I was so sore after the first time, I almost rang up on the Monday, pulled a sickie. But in the end, I couldn’t imagine explaining to the head that I’d overdone it at Body Pump. How can you put that much weight on your bar, anyway? You’re smaller than me. Where are you hiding the muscle?”

  “It’s just practice,” Emma shrugged, taking a sip of her own water. “And muscle doesn’t have to be big and bulky, you know.”

  “Sure you don’t want a smoothie?” Lucy asked as she saw Emma’s eyes drift to her own slushy concoction.

  “No. Too many kilojoules,” Emma said firmly.

  “Like you need to worry about that,” Lucy scoffed. “You know I don’t mind treating you. It’s just a smoothie, for heaven’s sake.”

  “No,” Emma said again. “You’ve done enough for me. I don’t like juice that much anyway, and water’s the best hydration.”

  Lucy sighed. “You’re too proud.” She rubbed her thighs. “How did you do all those squats? Let’s hope Tom doesn’t think he’s having sex tonight. My range of motion is going to be limited for days here.”

  “Luce. Shhh,” Emma hissed, unable to stop a giggle from escaping her. “I swear. You’d better not talk like that in the classroom.”

  “No worries. Those kids’re all so hormonally crazed, that’d send them right over the top,” Lucy declared. “Fourteen-year-old boys. What was I thinking? I could’ve done something easy. Been a welder, or a lion tamer, or something.”

  Emma laughed again, then looked at her watch. “Twenty minutes before we have to leave, if we’re going to catch the ferry. Be quiet and listen. I have to tell you something. And I don’t want to force Tom into taking care of Zack for another half hour.”

  Lucy’s gaze sharpened at the change in tone, and Emma could see the concern in the blue eyes that were so like her own. “He won’t mind. You know they’re sitting on the couch, watching some Saturday morning sports chat show. What is it? What’s happened?”

  Emma was grateful as always for her sister’s easy understanding. They’d always been reasonably close, but after their parents had made the decision to emigrate to New Zealand when Lucy was barely into high school, necessity had forced an even tighter bond. And when she’d become pregnant . . . that’s when Lucy had really come through.

  “Nic,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve been waiting all week to tell you. He showed up.”

  “Nic?” Lucy asked in astonishment. “What d’you mean, showed up? When? Where? After all this time?”

  Emma told the story as quickly as she could. “So here he is,” she finished. “Well, in Cape Town right now. But he wants to take Zack out on Monday. And we’re meeting him for DNA testing on Wednesday.”

  “Wow,” Lucy said soberly, her sore thighs forgotten. “He’s serious, then. How could he not have known?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that all week,” Emma said in frustration. “But I don’t see why he’d refuse to be involved all this time, and suddenly decide to start. So he must be telling the truth, don’t you think?”

  “I guess,” Lucy said doubtfully. “Like you say. Hard to think why he’d go to the trouble, unless he really didn’t know, before.
What do you think about it all? How are you feeling?”

  “Completely confused,” Emma admitted. “Is it a good thing for Zack? Or not?”

  “Depends whether Nic’s going to follow through or not,” Lucy said shrewdly. “Entirely. If yes, then yes. It’s a great thing for Zack. If no . . .” She shook her head. “Then it’s what I see every day. Better not to be involved at all.”

  “That’s what I told Nic,” Emma said with a worried sigh. “I hope he got it.”

  “And that’s Zack,” Lucy said. “How is it for you?”

  “Me? How d’you mean?”

  “Em.” Lucy shot her her best exasperated, big-sister scowl. “This is me. Your labor coach. Remember whose name you yelled out? Not mine, despite the fact that I was the one going to those stupid classes with you, hauling around those big pillows like a fool. I know what a torch you’ve carried for him.”

  “That’s all over,” Emma said. “Six years gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Lucy pressed. “He hasn’t got any worse-looking in that time.”

  “No, he hasn’t. But he’s engaged,” Emma reminded her.

  “When’s the wedding?” Lucy tried to remember.

  “After the World Cup, I think. End of the All Blacks season.” Emma tried to sound casual, as if she hadn’t read every report, right from the start. She knew the date. November 25th.

  “Long engagement,” Lucy commented.

  “A long time leading up to it, too. They’ve been together for years. But whatever,” Emma caught herself. “Not my business.”

  “Who else’s business would it be? She’s going to be Zack’s stepmother, you know,” Lucy pointed out. “If he’s serious about this, which it sounds like he is. You hadn’t thought that through, had you?” she guessed. “But yeah. She’s going to be in Zack’s life. Which means she’s going to be in yours.”