by Jules Wake
The memories flooded back as the train pulled out of Leicester Square, plunging into the tunnel and picking up speed. I could still remember my first encounter with him, another thing I could blame on Kate. Her and her bloody Agent Provocateur knickers.
‘Don’t forget these,’ she’d said, grinning as she shoved the tiniest pair of leopard-print silk knickers through the driver’s window of Daniel’s car when he came to pick me up to go back to Norwich.
Daniel roared with laughter. ‘I’m seeing a whole different side to you.’
‘As if I’d wear them,’ I’d retorted, blushing bright pink. ‘Bloody Christmas present. I was hoping to accidentally leave them behind. Can you see me down the launderette with them?’
He wasn’t laughing when his girlfriend discovered them under the passenger seat a week later, igniting all her jealousy of our cosy chats on the M11. Determined on ritualistic humiliation, she decided to hand them back in the crowded campus coffee bar.
Luckily for me, Daniel whispered a few words in the ear of one of his rugby teammates. It was one hell of a surprise when two steps over the threshold of the coffee bar, I was scooped up by a man of demigod status. Hauling me along, he drew us away from the curious stares in the coffee bar, across the courtyard and down a walkway to a doorway hidden from view. At which point he pressed a scrap of something into my hand. Looking down I spotted the infamous pants. It was my very own Cinderella moment!
Looking around the carriage I caught the eye of a teenage girl opposite, who gave me a funny look. Had I been talking to myself while remembering all this? Even now the memories gave me goosebumps.
‘Dan asked me to give you these,’ Mike had muttered apologetically as I nodded up at him, my heart bumping. Even now I couldn’t be sure whether my breathlessness had been the result of the surprise of the ambush or the proximity of a very manly chest in a crisp, white T-shirt, centimetres from my nose? I remember gazing up into his dark brown eyes, and the magic of that first kiss, when his head dipped and I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t put up an iota of resistance. Well, you don’t when the campus heart-throb is suddenly giving your lips his exclusive attention. It wasn’t the sort of thing I normally did and certainly not stone cold sober, in public and before 11.00 a.m.
I caught the eye of the girl in the carriage again as I winced. She must have thought I was a nutter. If only the rest of the memories were as nice. At first I got the fairy tale ending when Mike and I became a couple. And it was so easy, no niggles, no jealousies and no hidden agendas. I should have known it was too good to be true.
Ironically at the same time, Daniel split up with his girlfriend, thus starting a pattern where he and I were never single at the same time until the evening he and Emily had got together. I’d been so hopeful that our relationship might finally change that night.
In flagrante delicto always sounds vaguely amusing; a situation comedy moment, with people hopping about with one leg in their trousers. In reality it’s anything but funny. It’s about as bloody unfunny as things get.
Even now gazing at my reflection in the tube window, I could still feel the dismay at the sight of those lovely muscled buttocks rhythmically heaving, all graphic and porn film … with someone else.
I pulled a face at myself. Stupid cow. Any feisty film heroine worth her expensive lingerie would have charged in, slapped his arse smartly, yelling, ‘You bastard’. Not me, I crept away unnoticed. Numb. In shock.
Embarrassed I looked around the carriage. The girl was openly sniggering. Bloody typical. Even now, eight years later, I was making myself look stupid over Mike. I’d had other boyfriends but I’d always made sure I kept things light and superficial. No chance of getting hurt that way. Unfortunately light and superficial had worn thin of late. I wanted more. Through the window I could see the words Embankment. I needed to keep my wits about me. I hadn’t realised we were nearly at Waterloo.
I remembered Mike’s face when he realised I knew.
‘Busy weekend?’ I’d asked coolly, when he’d finally turned up at my door.
‘No, not really,’ he’d said smiling, charming as ever. ‘I had to get an essay done. Sorry babes, meant to call you but spent the whole weekend holed up in my room, burning the midnight oil to get it finished.’
‘Really, and here I was thinking you’d spent the whole weekend shagging some strange redhead,’ I snapped viciously
Shock registered in his face as his eyes widened. The big, fat, lying, slimy git.
‘Mike, you didn’t lock your door,’ I’d told him with quiet despair.
It turned out that the girl with red hair, Tracey, had planned her visit as a surprise. She’d certainly accomplished that goal. She was the girl from his home town, the one he’d been seeing since they were both sixteen. Fed up with Mike’s constant excuses of a huge workload, she’d arrived unannounced. Mm, that would be the workload that involved three hours of lectures a week, fifty-three down the pub and the rest shagging me.
Scowling, I pulled myself out of my seat as we drew into Waterloo. It wasn’t that I harboured any feelings for the bastard. It was the deceit. Would I have ever known if I hadn’t caught him? Never once had it occurred to me that there might be a Tracey waiting for him at home at the end of every term. I was, inadvertently, the other woman. Me! That was the ultimate irony. Fidelity ranked number one on my list of relationship prerequisites and another reason that made anything with Daniel impossible. He was Emily’s now.
I weaved my way along the platform heading up to the mainline station feeling depressed and cross with myself. Time to change things. I would go out for that drink with Ned. I ought to give him a chance, after all, three minutes was hardly any time at all and look at Piers and Lucy now.
When I left the flat at six the next morning, I felt decidedly groggy. I hadn’t slept well. I’d had one of those bizarre dreams that feels as if it’s lasted all night. My subconscious had run riot and conjured up one unlikely scenario after another, taking place in an airport, a junior school and a garden shed respectively. Throughout I’d been married to Mike, phoning Daniel with whom I was having an affair that Mike knew all about and had Anthony – crossword man from the speed-date – camped out in the garden shed waiting for me to run off with him to go and live on a canal boat moored beside a flour mill. I blamed Kate for stirring things up.
When she texted me at Junction 29 on the M1, I’d just refuelled the car and myself. The Starbucks coffee had worked its magic and I almost felt human. The text finished the job nicely.
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Lots o love K x’
Kate and I didn’t do touchy feely very often, but I shouldn’t have snapped at her. Now that she was living in Australia, I missed her desperately. In only another two weeks she’d be flying back again. I could never stay miffed with her for long and at the moment it was even harder. Besides she could always bully me into forgiving her.
Coming off the motorway just outside Derby, I got horribly lost which made me late for my meeting, but I texted Kate back anyway before I went in.
‘Forgiven, forgiven, forgiven. Love O x’
With the message sent, I switched off my phone. It had been beaten into me by one boss that it was totally unprofessional to have a mobile ring during a client meeting.
The meeting with three burly site managers who smelt of mud and sweat went on and on. I wasn’t offered anything to eat apart from some manky Nice biscuits. Tasty when you’re eight but disappointing when you need lunch.
On the journey home I was also regretting not stopping to go to the loo, but there had only been a men’s Portaloo on the building site and at that point I wasn’t that desperate. By four o’clock my misery was compounded by the traffic lady on Radio 5. I was ready to kill her. Did she really have to be so perky about a major hold up on the M1? I didn’t need to be told there was a ten-mile tailback. Any fool cou
ld see the red brake lights stretching out as far as the eye could see.
Should I send her a rude text message? Less chirpiness, please. Some of us are stuck in said traffic with a bladder the size of a basketball. Then I remembered my phone was still switched off.
Rummaging in my bag, with half an eye on the stationary traffic, I pulled it out and switched it on. It lay silent and still for a second before vibrating into life with great indignation. Three texts and six messages later, the phone shuddered to a halt.
Message one was mild. ‘Olivia, it’s me. I’ve had an email,’ wailed Emily. ‘Can you call me, please?’
Message two a little more agitated. ‘Olivia, call as soon as you get this.’
Message three was a curt. ‘Call me now.’
By the sixth message she’d reached full frontal expletives. ‘For God’s sake, where are you? What’s the point of having a fucking phone if you don’t fucking switch it on?’
What the hell was going on? I was about to phone her back when I caught sight of the driver behind. He shook his head so slightly that I might have imagined it, except he was driving a dirty great police car. I dropped the phone back on the passenger seat, my fingers twitching longingly but there was nothing I could do.
My battery died an hour later. Two minutes after that, on went the blue light and Mr Policeman shot off. Typical.
By the time I’d crawled off the M1 and through the London rush hour traffic, I was exhausted. A showdown with Emily was the last thing I needed. Grabbing my briefcase and rubbing the knots in my shoulder, I hurried towards the flat, nearly tripping over Charlie.
As usual he was lurking outside the front of the junk shop below the flat. It was a funny little place, crammed full of second-hand furniture and the sort of things that might have been antiques had they not been just a bit too tatty, chipped or broken. Although my flat was directly above the shop, the space below far exceeded the square footage of my lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms. It spread out along the street from room to room, none of which could be differentiated by any particular theme or style of products. On my occasional forays in there, I’d never seen a single other customer.
Charlie was probably waiting to follow his owner to the home they shared further down the road. He was a friendly little thing, pure black apart from two white paws, always purring a welcome whenever I came home.
I stopped to stroke him, as he wound his way round and round my legs, his tail tickling the back of my knee. I could have done with cheering up, and if it weren’t for Emily I would have smuggled him in for a cuddle, but she said she was allergic to cats.
Although we were on the first floor above the shop, our front door was at street level, which meant you stepped into a long hallway that then led to a flight of stairs. Unfortunately the stairs rose straight into the lounge. There was no way of sneaking in without being seen.
Brazening it out was the only way. ‘Hi, Em, are you home?’ I yelled. With any luck she might not be in.
‘Didn’t you get my message?’ she said, appearing at the top of the steps, hands on hips in warrior stance.
‘Which one?’ I asked sarcastically, taking the stairs slowly. ‘I couldn’t phone you. The motorway was hell and I had a policeman up my bum nearly all the way back. Then my battery ran out.’ I might as well have been talking to myself.
‘God, what am I going to do?’ she wailed.
Reaching the top, I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Whoa, slow down, Emily. What’s happened?’
Her mouth crumpled and she looked as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘Disaster. Damn speed-date business. I only bloody ticked the wrong frigging box. That saddo … you know, the one with the glasses, has emailed me.’
I sighed, slipping off my jacket, the tension easing out of my shoulders. No one had died then.
‘Which one?’ I cast my mind back.
‘The one with the knackered glasses.’
A few had worn glasses. I still couldn’t think which one. The guy with the red hair? The insurance one? And then I remembered.
‘You mean the glasses with the tape?’ I said, his image suddenly clicking into view as I perched on the edge of the armchair looking up at Emily. The metal frames had been held together with silver insulating tape.
‘Yes, him,’ she said vehemently, striding over to the magazine-laden coffee table. ‘He emailed me this morning. I can’t believe I ticked the wrong box. He’s weird!’
‘He seemed harmless enough. Have you replied to him?’
‘Duh, no!’ She slapped her forehead to make her point. ‘Look at this.’ Tipping a magazine off the table she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and thrust it at me.
-----Original Message-----
From: Peter Cooper [mailto:[email protected]]
To: ‘Emily’
Subject: Dinner
Dear Emily
I knew when your email address was passed on to me that you must have felt that special connection between us. I was surprised at first. I have to admit your hair is not quite what I envisioned in my perfect mate. I normally prefer girls with shorter styles, but as you appear to have character enough to recognise my worth, I can overlook something that can, after all, be changed.
Let’s meet for dinner. Email me back with your preferred dates this week and a suggested venue. If it’s appropriate I will book a table for two. I look forward to hearing from you.
Peter
‘Blimey, he’s sure of himself.’ I handed the sheet of paper back to her. ‘Are you positive it was the little Tom Cruise lookalike? He was a bit wimpy. This guy sounds full on.’ Although the male chauvinism rang true.
‘Olivia, you’re not listening to me. I didn’t tick his box. He’s labouring under a delusion. Cheek, he doesn’t like my hair.’ She tossed her head. ‘I didn’t like anything about him. I was only humouring him.’
‘Really?’ I asked, wandering past her down to the kitchen. I needed a drink. Remembering Peter now, I was surprised. Knowing Emily and how rude she could be, how could he have possibly thought she might be interested? Had the kitten voice misled him?
‘What on earth did you talk to him about that night?’ I called from the kitchen back to the lounge. ‘Something must have struck a chord.’
Emily’s feet padded down the hall. ‘Knitting,’ she said, spitting the word out with disgust as she came into the room.
‘Right,’ I said, before asking with a puzzled frown, ‘Why?’
She rolled her eyes as if it was obvious. ‘His home knitted tank top was so vile, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say … then I had a brainwave. Last month’s Marie Claire had an article about knitting being back in vogue.’
‘Do you want a glass?’ I interrupted, waving a bottle of wine at her.
‘Do you need to ask?’ She carried on, ‘I just regurgitated everything the article said about Fair Isle patterns. He lapped it up. I was taking the piss. Surely he didn’t believe me. I told him he was dead trendy and retro.’
‘You didn’t?’ I exclaimed, turning to face her.
‘For God’s sake, Olivia, he was awful. He was never hand-picked by your cousin. As if any of us would look twice at him.’
‘Emily,’ I remonstrated, pulling the cork out with a satisfying plop.
She was right but at least I’d tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Those three minutes were hard work. When my penguin buzzed, all I knew was that he worked with computers.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ She wouldn’t have felt a grain of remorse.
‘So what shall I do?’
I was dying to say, ‘Tell him he’s got you all wrong’ but I decided against it. ‘He sounds intense but harmless. You should be flattered you made such an impression.’
‘Hardly, hi
s comments about my hair weren’t great. Talk about weeeirrd.’
‘Emily, it’s just an email.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not as if we signed a contract. Just ignore it, although it seems a bit rude. Why not send him a nice chatty reply? Nice to meet him but you don’t feel ready for a relationship at the moment.’
Emily looked blank. Gentle let-downs weren’t her style.
‘It’s very irritating,’ she said grumpily. ‘I wanted to meet the film guy again. I hope there hasn’t been a mix-up.’
I glanced at her sharply. She knew my feelings on fidelity.
‘Not as a date,’ she blustered. ‘He has great contacts. You know for work. By the way, your mum phoned. You need to phone her back before eight o’clock.’
‘I’d better call her now then,’ I said looking at my watch, grabbing my wine glass and scurrying up the hall.
‘Have you spoken to your sister recently?’ Mum was a great one for caller ID. It did away with any of that boring old ‘being polite’ preamble.
I tucked my glass of wine conveniently between my knees.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Sorry, dear. I was waiting for you to call. When did you last speak to Kate?’
‘I saw her last night. Why?’
There was a pause before Mum spoke. ‘Did she seem all right to you?’
‘Fine. Possibly even more bossy than usual.’
‘I’m not sure she’s quite herself at the moment.’ Mum sounded distracted, as if she was thinking of something else. ‘I did try to talk to her, but she bit my head off. Can you give her a call? Make sure she’s OK.’
‘Sure, Mum. It could be that she’s just missing Greg.’
‘I don’t think so, darling. I don’t think it’s all that serious. She never mentions him and I’ve never heard her call him.’
Mum had no idea about Facebook, MSN or Twitter and was no doubt oblivious to Kate using any or all of them to contact Greg. No point trying to even explain, she had enough trouble with texting.