One Glass Is Never Enough

by Jane Wenham-Jones

  “Come in – I’ll bring it out.”

  He opened the gate for her, not looking at her as she walked through. He indicated the chairs and table on the small patio outside the open door to the cottage. The locals called them the Fishermen’s Cottages but this one was long and low with large picture windows – a sort of chalet bungalow. Inside she could see a leather armchair. A table piled with books.

  “Um, no milk, please.”

  He stopped. “Darjeeling?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He went inside. Brutus had disappeared too. She wished she could have him on her lap to stroke – to give her something to do. Instead she fiddled with her bracelets. She felt like a child left outside the head’s office, waiting to be reprimanded.

  He came back carrying two mugs. Put one on the table in front of her, sat down opposite. She felt them both waiting. She looked into her tea, wishing she’d gone home when she had the chance.

  “I’m sorry, too.” He sounded gruff, angry almost. “I behaved badly. I’m not proud of it.”

  She felt embarrassed. “No, I’m the one… Throwing myself at someone I’d barely met. I was a bit upset and I hadn’t eaten and…”

  “You needed a hug.” His mug had a spoon in it. He began to stir slowly. She sat motionless, stiff with surprise.

  “And God knows, I’ve been there. I should have been gentler.” He looked up and met her eyes properly for the first time. “The thing is that it’s so long since I was in that situation, I’ve forgotten what to do.”

  She needed to get on safer ground. She laughed, in best coquettish fashion. “I can’t believe that. I’m sure hundreds of women have thrown themselves at you in your time.”

  He laughed too, without humour. “Not for a very long time.”

  “Well, that just shows it’s never too late.”

  “I think it may be.”

  “How old are you?” she said without thinking.

  “Fifty.”

  Bloody hell. He was only two years older than Victor. When she’d first seen him she’d thought him much more. Looking at him now, she saw that while his eyes were bright and young, his face had a lived-in, been-there look, whereas Victor’s always looked smooth and pampered. She faltered. “And your wife?”

  “Dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to be. Some time ago now.”

  “Have you got children?” She didn’t know what else to say – she was locked into it now, asking inane questions, making conversation.

  “Yes, two. It was hard on them when their mother died. Hard to see someone suffer like that.”

  “Was it cancer?”

  “Yes.”

  She wanted to go. His blue eyes made her uncomfortable. But her mug was still full, she’d only been there a few minutes – she didn’t know how to get up and leave.

  “So have you always been a sign-writer?” She took another mouthful of tea and smiled.

  “No.”

  “Chatty, aren’t you?”

  He looked at her hard and she felt herself squirm. “The long answers aren’t very entertaining. What about you? Are you married? Do you have children?”

  She made her voice chirpy. “Yes and no. To both parts of the question. I am married but it doesn’t feel like it. I can’t have children but I have a step-daughter. She’s pregnant.” She didn’t know why she’d told him.

  “Is that why you needed a hug?”

  He showed no inclination to talk about himself but by the third cup of Darjeeling he knew a lot about her. For all his monosyllabic grunting, he had a way of listening, of looking at her as if what she said mattered. A way of asking the one incisive question that would cut to the heart of the matter. She wouldn’t have believed she could tell a stranger so much. Somehow, barely realising it, she told him there were problems between her and Victor, her feelings about Chloe and Oliver and how, although she’d had loads of casual jobs she’d never really found what you’d call a career, and her new and extraordinary pleasure in buying a share in Greens and being part of something. He nodded.

  It was as if, she thought, looking at this strange, remote man in his soft faded clothes and two days of stubble, some curious mixture of sympathy and pain etched on his face, it was as if he cared…

  She kissed him when she left. It was what she did. She went into automatic – thanked him for the tea, leant up and kissed his cheek. She would have kissed both of them but she was stalled by his rigid face. He didn’t bend towards her to return the gesture. Just held himself very stiff and straight.

  Even his skin felt cool. She stepped back, rebuffed, feeling as foolish as when she’d arrived. Then he touched her arm. “It’s me,” he said. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  She looked at him, confused. Strange words, she thought. As she wandered home along the cliff top, oddly unsettled, she realised they were the very opposite of what Victor would say.

  7. Piesporter Michelsberg

  Delightful bouquet, with a sour finish.

  But what Victor actually said was ‘sorry’. Which seemed to surprise them both. He went away for a week to Thailand to shoot a hair gel commercial on a white sandy beach and came back more smiley and relaxed than she’d seen him for months. He arrived bearing perfume and a red silk dress. “I haven’t bought you anything for ages,” he said. “We should go shopping.”

  Gaynor was overjoyed to hear this – not just for the thrill of getting new clothes, though that was pretty good – but because shopping had always been Victor’s way of showing love.

  He might get grumpy in the supermarket when the queues were too long and the sales staff too slow but he had always been wonderful about buying clothes. She had been amazed by him in the early days. Whereas other boyfriends had sighed and complained and gone outside for a fag whenever she wanted to spend more than thirty seconds deciding on a garment, Victor had entranced her by not only waiting patiently while she tried on a dress but by suggesting further combinations of separates she hadn’t even thought about. He would move about the shop, grasping handbags and boots to match, picking up earrings, holding tops against her to see how they might complement trousers, charming assistants to seek out further colours and styles from their secret stock in the back.

  They both adored the scene in Pretty Woman where Richard Gere took Julia Roberts shopping, both getting pleasure from small exclusive boutiques where there was a lot of fuss, and if you were lucky, a bit of creative input too. When Gaynor had worked in La Belle Femme at the bottom of Broadstairs before the owner had sold up, and before she’d fallen in love with the idea of Greens instead, Victor had toyed with buying it.

  “Attention – that’s what women want,” he’d say. “Give them a glass of champagne, offer them a Belgian chocolate, make them feel special on a squishy sofa, bring out clothes just for them…”

  The advertising man in him came out in full force over the selling of things female. In her darker moments, Gaynor suspected that it was because he thought of them as simple creatures, easily swayed and seduced by a bit of shiny packaging and ribbon.

  But today it suited her just fine. Victor had driven her up to London early with the promise of a long and glorious retail tour. They’d stopped off first at the Soho Square offices of Ezekiel, Bradbury, Thomas and Davenport advertising agency where Victor was Creative Director. “I just need to pop in briefly,” he’d said apologetically. “Then I’m all yours.”

  Ziggy, Victor’s assistant, made her a coffee. She was wearing a very short skirt, fishnet tights and thigh-length boots, beneath a shiny top made mostly of safety pins. “Some fab gear out there at the moment,” she said, hearing Gaynor was going shopping. “Check out ‘Simply Dead’ – really wicked boots.”

  Gaynor smiled, not having a clue where or what the place was. “I like your hair,” she told the girl. Last time she’d seen Ziggy, she was blonde and spiky. Now her hair was pink and orange, long down one side and cropped on the other. Gaynor noticed she h
ad a ring through her lip these days, too. She smiled to herself. However funky her own look appeared to be in seaside Broadstairs, Ziggy always made her feel ancient.

  Laurence, the Art Director, sauntered in, all designer jeans and sunglasses. “Oooh, the very gorgeous Mrs Warrington.” He kissed her on both cheeks. “How are you, darling? We haven’t seen you for such a long time…” They all seemed perfectly friendly and normal. Victor looked relaxed as he wandered off to see someone upstairs, obviously not worried about leaving her to chat. As though he had absolutely nothing to hide…

  And perhaps he didn’t, she thought, looking around his office with its bright red square-edged sofas and framed stills from his TV campaigns all around the white walls. From what Laurence had been saying, they really were all working flat out. Ziggy still seemed to treat Victor like an elderly uncle, she couldn’t detect any frisson there.

  Perhaps, after all, she’d been leaping to conclusions.

  “Ready?” Victor stood beaming in the doorway. “Shall we hit that plastic?”

  By the time they stopped for lunch she was the proud owner of a short Miu Miu skirt, a pair of Prada boots and a long Donna Karan dress in some amazing black fabric that looked like fluid rubber and took ten pounds off her. “Not that you need it to,” said Victor gallantly, quite taking Gaynor’s breath away. He was usually the first to make a quip when she’d put on a pound and she certainly felt herself to be less than her toned best at the moment.

  Recently, with the wine bar, she’d been to the gym less and with Victor away so much, it was easier to eat kettle crisps dipped in houmous than make a salad for dinner. But, “you’re looking good,” he said, and Gaynor looked at him with grateful love.

  “After this,” he said, “we’ll check out Selfridges and see if there’s any bits and pieces there you’d like.”

  “What about you?” asked Gaynor. “You haven’t even bought a shirt!”

  It was a joke between them. Victor had hundreds of shirts – in every shade of linen and silk and cotton. For a moment, it stabbed at her – the still-unexplained stain on one of them. She’d momentarily forgotten and she wondered if he’d thought of it too, but he laughed easily. “Perhaps I’ll get one later. What are you going to have?”

  They were in The Ivy. Victor came here a lot and was blasé about the place but for Gaynor it was still a peculiar thrill to look around and celebrity-spot. She’d never got over the excitement of spotting Michael Parkinson – for whom she’d harboured a passion since she was sixteen – holed up in a corner, and bumping into Barbara Windsor coming out of the Ladies.

  She looked at the menu. She knew the deeply trendy thing to do was to order mineral water and Caesar salad with no dressing or croutons but she hadn’t had breakfast and was starving. “The hamburger?” she said.

  “Whatever you want, sugar.”

  She looked up. He hadn’t called her that for a very long time.

  “Bottle of Macon?” Victor was still surveying the wine list.

  “Yes, lovely.”

  She sipped at her water as Gary Rhodes sat down at the table next to them. “Is that Nicholas Parsons over there?” she asked Victor in a whisper. He grinned. “Thank you for bringing me,” she said happily. “Thank you for this.”

  “You deserve it,” he said. “You’ve been working hard in that wine bar of yours.” She glanced at him in surprise. “You’ve done well,” he went on casually. “I didn’t think it would work out – thought it was a bit ambitious – but…well it has.” He paused while the waiter poured wine, then picked up his glass and chinked it lightly against hers. “Good for the three of you!”

  She felt pleasantly tipsy as they went up the escalator in Selfridges. Victor had left her to drink most of the wine. He was still being lovely. He had his hand under her arm now, guiding her to the designer department.

  “Are you OK now?” she asked, emboldened by alcohol and the away-day feel of it all. “Are you better with us?”

  He gave her elbow a squeeze. “I’ve been stressed at work,” he said. “The Stay-free Hair-gel campaign, you know, it was tricky. Lot of balls to juggle.”

  He brought her to a halt by a steel rack and an emaciated shop assistant with purple hair.

  “What about this?” He held up a skinny black top by Joseph. “Would you like it?”

  He bought her jeans and perfumed candles and Yves St Laurent body lotion with a scent to die for. She held his hand as they wandered along with their carrier bags. She felt warm inside. He’d come back.

  “Want anything in here?” His voice was casual as they came upon the lingerie department. Her heart rose. Once too, this had been a ritual. He buying or she secretly selecting something to surprise him with. He held up a confection of cream lace. “Why don’t you try it?”

  In the changing room, looking at herself in the pale silk slip, she felt tremulous. It wasn’t the raunchy gear he’d once have tempted her towards – this was more sensual and romantic – but it was good enough for her. If he wanted her to buy this then surely he wanted to make love to her again. She ran hands down her slippery hips, turned sideways to see the outline of her breasts, checked the flattering cut over her stomach. It would be as it once was. They would go home and she would parade for him in her new clothes. Leaving this till last…

  She emerged to see him already at the till, paying for something. She saw him look anxiously round and she shot backwards. A surprise! She mustn’t spoil it. By the time she came out for the second time he was standing nonchalantly near the changing rooms, holding her many carrier bags.

  “Fit OK?” He smiled at her.

  She nodded.

  There were opportunities, of course, on the way home, to say all sorts of things. She looked at his dark profile as they sped along the M2 and she ran through them mentally. There was Chloe’s baby and Gaynor’s lack of one, Victor’s previous strange and disparaging attitude to her buying a share of Greens and the nagging truth that organising an advertising campaign for hair-gel – however ground-breaking and innovative its staying power and wet-look properties might be – could not, in all normal circumstances, really account for twelve weeks without sex.

  But they’d had a nice day, he’d held her hand and bought her presents, listened to her as if she had something to say for the first time in a long time. So Gaynor kicked off her mules, put her bare feet up in front of her, leant back, lowered the window and enjoyed the feel of the wind through her hair. Victor looked sideways at her. In a bad mood he might have frowned, fretted that some residue of coconut foot balm was going to besmirch the walnut perfection of the Jag’s dashboard, but now he just smiled.

  So she decided to leave her entire agenda of unanswered questions until later. Until they’d made love and she was snuggled in his arms. Until the last lost fragment was in place and they were together again.

  She’d hung up her new clothes and had a bath. She wondered – with all the nervous excitement of a first date – what quite to do now. Should she put on the new cream thing? Or keep her robe on and wait for him to produce whatever he’d bought for her earlier? So far he was putting on a very good show of watching the news and yawning loudly. He’d suggest an early night very soon.

  She wondered where he’d put it. She knew she should wait but she was filled with thrilled curiosity. He’d insisted on looking after all the bags and carrying the shopping upstairs for her and had obviously secreted it away then. She opened a few drawers and then his wardrobe.

  There at the bottom, tucked round the corner where you’d never see it unless you opened both doors and pulled out his ever-ready overnight bag and several pairs of shoes, was the stiff paper bag with the familiar logo. She paused for a moment to listen but there was no sound on the stairs – he was still obviously comfortably ensconced in the TV room with his bottle of claret.

  Grinning to herself, she knelt down and pulled the bag on to her lap, easing out the beautifully-wrapped package, unfolding the fragile paper carefully, so s
he could return it to its pristine state and Victor would be none the wiser.

  Her fingers felt for the satin or silk that would be nestling beneath the tissue and she half-wondered if she should put it on anyway, hide it away under her dressing gown, go downstairs and say: “Hey Victor, let’s take that wine to bed…” before whipping open her robe. Perhaps she could wear a pair of high heels too, suspenders even…

  She lifted the contents gently from their luxurious wrapping, still smiling. Then she froze, as she got a proper look.

  Oh God, Victor. Her heart felt huge. Rage and misery and fear shot through her, making her nerve ends jangle. After their lovely day together, after her thinking it might all be all right again. Gasping, she began to wrap the package back up, fold upon fold, sticking back the shiny gold embossed seal, pushing it back into the bag, back into the dark reaches of the closet from which she wished she’d never drawn it. She felt sick, hot, cold, stupid, angry.

  She sat on the edge of their bed where she had imagined their passionate reconciliation and listened dully to the TV downstairs where her husband sat, oblivious to what she had just seen. And she had just seen it. There was nowhere for him to go this time.

  Even Victor couldn’t talk his way out of this one.

  8. South African Pinotage

  Rich and complex with confusing endnote.

  “Well, did you confront him?” said Sarah, sorting through a big plastic tray of vegetables in the wine bar kitchen. “Fuck it, there’s not enough avocados here – we’re bound to have a run on them now.”

  Gaynor shifted her position on the biggest chest freezer. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t bear to. All that grief he’s given me

  – all those years of prodding me and saying – ‘putting on a little bit round our middle are we?’ After all that, he’s buying lingerie in a size sixteen! He’s screwing a fat cow!”

  “Marilyn Monroe was a size sixteen,” Sarah reminded her. “And don’t you think you could just be adding two and two together and making four hundred and ninety six? Perhaps he brought the wrong size by mistake. You know how hopeless men are – Paul wouldn’t have had a clue what size I was – he could just as easily have come home with an eight or a twenty-four. And you know Gavin, that dopy friend of his? He went to Germany on a business trip, spent eight hundred pounds on a red leather suit for his wife – said to the girl in the shop ‘she’s about your stamp’ – and it was three sizes too small. Carla was furious – said it was gross in any case but at least it might have fitted…”