‘Compromise makes the world go round.’ Kate had compromise tattooed on her soul.
‘I made my own bed,’ said Charlie, setting down Flo. ‘Now I’m lying on it.’ He frowned. ‘Thanks for babysitting. Again. Have I made you late? I know it’s a big night tonight.’
Kate looked at her watch. ‘Keep me company while I get ready.’ She signalled to Flo, and the child, with great ceremony, carried out her special job of turning over the sign on the door to read ‘Closed’.
Brewing coffee, Charlie talked through the changing room curtain as Kate slipped out of her work wear. ‘The shop looks brilliant. I love the sweets in bowls on the counter.’
‘They’re the ones I stock for party bags. If people try them they’re more likely to buy.’
‘Sound business sense allied to a feel-good vibe. The Pastel Tycoon strikes again.’
Kate liked it when he called her that.
‘Can you take Flo same time next week? These guys want me back.’
‘I’d love to, but I’m in Manchester for a trade fair. You know I’d cancel if I could but—’
‘Don’t be daft. We rely on you too much as it is. I’ll see if Becca can change her plans.’ Charlie lowered his voice so Flo, absorbed in an ant she’d met, couldn’t hear. ‘It’ll only be a date with some jerk she’s met on the internet.’
Shucking off her jeans, Kate asked, ‘Is that the green-eyed monster I hear, Mr Garland?’
‘You know it’s not.’ Much to Becca’s chagrin, Charlie was resolutely unjealous. She’d prophesied he’d fall apart without her: he’d lost half a stone and visited Cuba. ‘I just wish she’d ease up a bit.’
‘Plus you worry about her.’ Kate knew that Becca was under strict instructions to call Charlie when she reached home after each assignation.
‘You hear stories. Just because we’re not married any more doesn’t mean I want her dumped in a ditch by some psycho.’
Kate jumped at the movement of the curtain as Charlie handed in a mug.
‘Don’t panic, Kate. I’m averting my eyes.’
The way Charlie treated her as a ‘mate’ sometimes irked Kate. The new bra – a purchase overseen by Becca – did its job expertly: her breasts were twin lacy lifeboats. Charlie had been the first male to see her in her undies; now it was forbidden, or a joke. Maybe both.
‘Is this the second or third date with Walter?’
‘Warren. Fifth.’ Kate pulled up the zip on the black column dress and neatened the sheer sleeves. Tucking a diamante pin in her hasty up-do, she agreed with Becca: that last little touch made all the difference. She allowed the woman in the mirror a brief burst of virtual applause. At the ripe old age of thirty-three she’d forgotten she could still pull it out of the bag when called upon.
‘Fifth?’ Charlie whistled. ‘Getting serious. When do I get to meet him? Give him the if you ever hurt her I’ll break every bone in your body speech?’
‘You’re as bad as Becca. Five dates equals three restaurant meals, one blockbuster movie and a picnic. How can that be serious?’ Kate and Warren worked well on email and in flirty texts but less well face to face. She knew the reserve was all on her side.
‘What does he do for a living?’
Kate let out a small cry when she couldn’t find her fancy shoes in her overnight bag. Locating a heel with her fingers, she relaxed and said, ‘He’s a talent agent. Represents actors.’
‘Anybody famous?’
‘That’s what everybody asks.’ Kate stepped out in her finery.
‘Wow!’ said Charlie.
‘You look like a thuperthar!’ yelled Flo.
‘This William’s a lucky guy.’
‘Warren.’ Whatever his name, the guy was about to get very lucky indeed.
Becca had torn through Kate’s tissue-thin reason for not committing to anything, be it man or flat. ‘You can’t keep blaming overwork for being in this faceless flat a year on, or for being so single your downstairs has healed over. You’ve lost your mojo.’ She’d waved a finger at Kate. ‘It’s only sex!’
Tonight, Kate had invited her mojo along.
Sitting on the counter, looking younger than his years, Charlie asked, ‘Where’s he taking you dressed like that?’
‘To a country house weekend party.’
‘Like Gosford Park?’
‘I hope not. It’s a gang of close friends. Every so often they get together and hire a mansion for the weekend. There’s a chef. Organised games. Long walks.’
‘Sounds . . .’ Charlie wrinkled his nose. ‘. . . awful.’
‘Warren’s a nice guy. I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I know that face. It’s your I’d rather be curled up with a good book face. Sharing a room?’
‘None of your biz.’
‘That means you are.’
Kate waited for him to say something that hinted at envy. She waited in vain.
‘It’ll give me a chance,’ she said, ‘to get to know him better.’ Much better. With no clothes on.
Well built and rugged, Warren towered over Kate. The kisses they’d shared were delicious; the memory of them played a tune down her backbone. It was time to ‘go exclusive’ as Becca put it: after tonight Kate would cancel her one outstanding internet date with another prospective suitor. She would open up to the possibility of something real happening by allowing the laid back but self-assured Warren to fling her about a bed.
The shrill innocence of an urgent question from Flo shut down this nascent sensual daydream.
‘How many sicks have you done in your whole life?’ Without waiting for an answer, Flo scuttled to her favourite spot, a niche under the counter where she played a rolling, complex game nobody else understood.
‘So,’ said Charlie. ‘How many sicks have you done?’ He tailed Kate as she tucked in the shop for the night, locking away the cash float, righting the shelves.
‘Are you attempting a beard?’ she asked.
‘I prefer the word grow.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Get with it, Grandma. All the dudes are into facial hair.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Are you inferring I’m not a dude? I have to do my best. As you and Becca constantly point out, I have a much, much, much younger girlfriend to impress.’
‘I don’t think we use three muches.’
The ten year difference in age, not a particularly startling gap, moved Becca to refer to Charlie’s lover as ‘your school friend’. Editorial assistant for a fashion magazine, Lucy was actually garlanded with degrees and qualifications.
‘Are you and Lucy on an even keel again?’
‘Yeah. It was just a blip, like you said.’
The autopsy of Charlie’s big row with Lucy had kept a yawning Kate up half the night. A throwaway comment he’d made about one of her friends had started it all. ‘But, Kate,’ Charlie had said in his own defence, ‘the guy wears a sarong!’ She’d heard fear in his voice; he’d thought he was losing Lucy.
‘Thanks for lending me your shoulder to cry on. Can’t believe it’ll be two years in November. Lucy and me, I mean.’
‘I can believe it.’
‘I thought she was just a catalyst, giving me the courage to stand up to Becca.’ Charlie glanced at his daughter but she was lost in her make believe. ‘And yes, I know how selfish that sounds, but I didn’t think I was capable of jumping feet first into another full-on romantic situation. I thought I needed time to regroup, and heal.’
At one point Kate would have stored away that nugget, translating it as the reason Charlie hadn’t turned to her when his marriage crumbled, but she’d stopped combing his conversation for clues. ‘I knew it was something special. When it all came out, when you talked about your dark lady, I could see it in your eyes.’
‘Really?’ Charlie smiled inwardly at that. ‘Becca still thinks it’s a pervy thing. Cos of Lucy’s age.’
‘A man like you would never leave his wife and child for a pair of perky
boobs.’
‘Ouch. Don’t put it like that. I didn’t leave Flo. She’s a few feet away, playing houses. I can imagine what your dad would have to say.’ He looked at his feet, shifty suddenly.
‘So can I.’ Kate heaved a box of Keep Calm and Party On napkins onto a high ledge, before wiping dust from her evening dress. ‘He’d say you should follow your heart.’ Charlie’s face told Kate he couldn’t let her get away with such hokum. ‘He’d also say you’re a damn silly bugger.’
Still a constant in Kate’s life, her image of her dad had grown vague. Sometimes she woke up in a panic, unable to picture his face. When she composed herself and shut her eyes, he always returned, bringing relief and a yearning so deep it felt like a physical pain. ‘Look at this photo I unearthed at Mum’s.’
‘He was a handsome sod when he was young.’ Charlie grinned at the faded snap, one corner of it torn. ‘Look at you!’
Younger than Flo, a chubby kneed Kate and her father were caught in the midst of a fit of giggles. Every over-saturated detail was dated, from the frenetic wallpaper to the long collar on her mustachioed dad’s paisley shirt. She saw everything she missed in his face. His depth and his soul and his lightness of touch. ‘This is my favourite photo of him.’
‘Even then he had a thing about China.’ Charlie pointed to the coffee table in the picture. ‘Look. A Chinese teapot.’
‘I hadn’t noticed that.’ Kate peered at the distinctive squat pottery shape. ‘I must scan it and send it to Jia Tang.’
Now in monthly email touch, Kate and Jia Tang lived different lifestyles but had much in common. Or so Kate hoped: she aspired to Jia Tang’s strength of character.
‘He’d be chuffed about what you do for Yulan House,’ said Charlie, still studying the picture. He, too, could get nostalgic about the past and the people who’d been airbrushed from their present.
‘I suppose he would.’ That wasn’t why Kate did it. She was no Chinese themed Miss Havisham, walled up with dead dreams. ‘But it’s not a memorial to him. That’d be creepy. I love the orphanage.’ Yulan House gave Kate far more than she put in. ‘When I look back,’ said Kate, ‘I was possibly the only ten year old in our neighbourhood who was an expert in China’s one child policy.’ The plight of ordinary people being fined for having more than one baby had touched her father deeply. He’d told Kate about the punishments meted out, about homes being seized, about ‘unregistered’ children being ineligible for school. Ten-year-old Kate had thought that sounded like a bonus but Dad had put her straight. ‘He wanted me to have empathy. To care,’ she said.
The shop door opened.
‘Sorry!’ shouted Kate. ‘We’re closed!’
It was Lucy. Definitely not a dark lady, more a sunny lady. No stereotype younger hottie, she had a pixie cut and men’s shoes, but was still demonstrably young and lovely enough to validate the teasing of Charlie.
‘Hi! Hi hi hi!’ Lucy’s arrival was noisy. Kate had noticed this in younger people, the tendency to arrive with maximum cheek kissing and hugging and extravagant welcomes. As she bent to accept Lucy’s embrace she made a mental note to stop lumping herself with the older generation. Around Lucy, so effortlessly trendy, it was easy to think of herself as a dinosaur.
‘You look amazing!’ Lucy’s lavish praise – it came with clasped hands and gasps – was also typical of her age group.
‘Lu-cee!’ Flo threw herself at the girl. ‘Come to the weewees with me!’
‘Yay!’ Lucy let herself be led by the hand to the bathroom at the back of the shop.
No kiss for Charlie: the couple were careful to rope off demonstrations of affection until Flo was out of the way.
‘She’s so good with Flo,’ said Kate. Taking Flo to the toilet was something even her besotted godmother dreaded. It was a long affair, entailing rambling stories about Flo’s imaginary friend, wet pants, and toilet roll all over the floor, culminating in a standoff when Flo refused to wash her hands.
It would be obvious to hate Lucy but Kate wasn’t up to the job. Lucy was not to blame for the end of a marriage that had been riddled with dry rot from the beginning. Just as she was not to blame for her chic hair, her bottom that managed to be both small but insistent, and the ten year head start that made Kate look like The Thing from the Crypt when they were photographed together. It was impossible to dislike a woman (Kate knew Lucy was more than a ‘girl’) so outgoing, so kind.
Lucy had admitted her terror at meeting Kate, and not only because Kate was the devastated wife’s cousin and best friend. ‘I could tell how important you are to Charlie. If you hadn’t approved, it would have been curtains.’
Kate had approved. So much so that she and Lucy had a friendship of their own. She saw what Charlie saw in Lucy. Sweetness and strength. And somebody to look after. ‘Two years?’ she said as Charlie washed up their mugs. ‘If Lucy was more pushy she’d wonder why you’re not living together.’
Very quickly, treading on the heels of her sentence, Charlie said, ‘She knows I’m never getting married again. Things are good the way they are.’
Charlie wasn’t the sort to dabble in love. Kate waited for him to speak and he did. ‘Flo’s had more than enough upheaval in her little life.’
‘Flo’s fine. And she loves Lucy.’ Or My Lucy as Flo referred to her.
‘Lucy loves her,’ said Charlie tenderly.
Shrewdly, Lucy had accepted Charlie and Flo as a unit. Loving a divorcee who shared access with a capricious ex-wife meant their affair was compromised by his obligations from the beginning. He was often unavailable to her, but she’d never questioned Flo’s status in the pecking order, or gone head to head with Becca. To go through all that, thought Kate, Lucy must love Charlie a lot.
Charlie dried the mug, badly, and put it back in the wrong place. ‘What if she’s a symptom of my . . . what did you call it?’
‘Your early onset midlife crisis? I was only teasing. You make it too easy for me, with your soft top car and your new six pack and—’
‘A gorgeous bird on my arm?’
That was very un-Charlie language. ‘We all know Lucy’s much more than that. Just relax and let it fall into place. Face it, mate, you love being in love.’
‘I do.’ Charlie held up his hands as if under arrest.
‘Love suits you. I can’t imagine you playing the field.’
‘I’m not sure I know where the field is.’
Kate found the field chilly.
Flo burst out of the bathroom, leading Lucy by the hand.
‘I should get going,’ said Kate, casting about for her evening bag.
‘Hang on.’ Lucy dug in her own tote. ‘I borrowed these from the shoot today.’ She slapped Charlie when he frowned. ‘OK, I stole them.’ She handed over a pair of enamelled earrings, chrome chimes hanging from them.
‘Perfect.’ Kate clipped them to her lobes, noting how Lucy pecked Charlie on the cheek as Flo danced about their legs. How long could this puritanical reserve last? Could it, should it, last forever? Kate wondered if Lucy wanted babies of her own.
Turning away, Kate loathed her unwanted insider knowledge. Neither Charlie nor Lucy were aware that Charlie was incapable of giving her a baby. They could waste years trying before turning to alternative methods. Was it right or wrong not to tell them? Kate had consulted her oracle, Dad, and decided to cross that bridge when they all came to it.
‘Do you approve of my bag?’ Kate held it against her, glad to have a fashion maven on tap. Disloyally, Kate welcomed Lucy’s input more than Becca’s; the latter tended towards the low-cut and the high-hemmed, her only criteria whether or not it rendered the wearer ‘hot’.
‘I love it. Very nineties. I have sooo much retro in my evening bag collection.’
Retro? The bag, which constituted Kate’s entire evening bag collection, had been a present from Charlie back in 1995. She’d dug it out from the back of a drawer and dusted it off, glad to see it again after a long absence in fashion Siberia. It rarely wen
t out; its last excursion had been to Dad’s funeral. Tonight it would enter a whole different world; the bag was on its way to its very first country house weekend party.
The table, like the room, referenced the glamour and formality of a bygone age. Kate, who’d worried she might be overdressed, now felt a little dressed down.
Under cover of the tablecloth, Warren’s hand was on her thigh. He seemed to have intuited her intentions: maybe they were better suited than she realised. Amid the clamour of conversation, Warren whispered just behind her ear so that his breath tickled.
Touching the nape of her neck, bared by her pinned-up hair, he said, ‘Sexy. I like it.’
Kate looked into his eyes, emboldened. He’d never been so frank before.
Their hostess, Helen, orchestrated the table with an archness that seemed very studied to Kate. She interrupted them now, with a tap on her glass. ‘Now now, you two. At least finish dinner before you get to grips with one another.’
She’s got history with Warren, thought Kate, looking up to find Helen’s sparkling, calculating eyes on her. She took another forkful of delicious food: it was ambrosial, but there wasn’t enough of it. Everything else on the table was super-abundant: heavy blossoms spilled from oversized vases; the wine sat like blood in crystal decanters; fat candles dripped wax from many-armed candelabra. The green and gold edges of the opulent room were dark, but Kate and the other guests were well, if favourably, lit by the candles.
Different tonight, Warren was revved up, intent. The other guests, all smart and professional types with perfect manners and ready conversation, seemed to share this electric feeling. Kate giggled at the jokes, even if they were a little heavy on the double entendres for her taste.
‘You’ve got, like, incredible eyes.’ The woman opposite, a frail thing in couture, spoke suddenly to Kate. ‘Hasn’t she?’ With jerky movements, she gestured at the others to appraise Kate.
She’s high, thought Kate.
‘Kate’s a peach,’ said Warren. His smile was wolfish. Kate, who hadn’t been devoured for quite some time, thought of bedtime and smiled back at him.
These Days of Ours Page 16