‘Pregnancy is a woman’s responsibility – contraception is a man’s,’ he’d said when I’d pressed him on the subject.
I’d been rather impressed with his responsible attitude at the time, until I’d realized that it was because he wanted absolutely no risk of me ever getting pregnant accidentally – or, ‘accidentally’.
I had understood it when we were first married, but I always assumed that once we were a little older and his business was really established, children would be the inevitable next stage. I raised the subject whenever it seemed appropriate – usually when yet another set of friends had their first baby – but he remained intransigent. I had reached the point where I could hardly bear to think about it. What if he never changed his mind?
Lying in bed that first morning after leaving the gallery, with that great unthinkable floating around in my mind, combined with my increasing anxiety about what I was going to do with the rest of my life – and how I was going to tell Ed about it – I was starting to feel as if my head was going to pop. Finally, I threw off the covers and headed out to the park for a run.
It was heavenly out there. The spring air smelled sweet, and the sun was warm on my arms, burning through the morning chill. I could see it was going to be a lovely day, and my anxiety lessened with every step I ran.
I was hoping Ed would be up when I got back to the flat, so I could get the big announcement over, but when I peeked into his room at five to nine he was still fast asleep. I looked at his dear face, so peaceful on the pillow, and felt a pang of sadness that I no longer woke up looking at it every morning. I sighed and remembered yet again what Kiki had said about that.
She was right: we were way too young to be sleeping in separate bedrooms, and then that just reminded me all over again about the other unresolved question – the real elephant in the bedroom. Not the grey velvet one, but the baby issue. I would have to bring it up with him again, I thought, some time soon, but not today. First I had to get through telling him the news about quitting my job.
I kissed his cheek then, closing his bedroom door carefully, started to get on with my day. By ten, when I was showered and dressed and starting to feel twitchy again, I reckoned it was late enough to start phoning people.
My first call was to Kiki.
‘Darling!’ she cried. ‘I hear you’ve left that stupid gallery at last – that’s fantastic news. And Janelle is thrilled with you. I think you’re going to get a lot more work out of her too, all those music-business bunnies are total basket cases…’
I was practically speechless. ‘How on earth do you know I’ve left the gallery?’ I asked when I’d recovered.
‘Charlie Dowdent just called me,’ she said, carelessly. ‘You didn’t ring him back last night, so he tried you at the gallery again this morning and that hideous Chris gave him very short shrift apparently, so I gave Charlie your mobile numero. I expect he’ll ring soon. He’s very keen to talk business with you…’
‘Why did you give everybody the gallery number in the first place?’ I asked, wanting to get one thing straight among the many questions roiling around in my head.
‘Did I?’ she replied, in a voice of such faux innocence, it had clearly had exactly the intended result. ‘So,’ she continued, before I could pursue it. ‘How is London’s hottest celebrity clutter-clearer today?’
Thoughts whirled around in my head. I could have been furious with Kiki: she had manipulated the whole situation for reasons I couldn’t entirely understand, although I guessed it was partly just for the sport of it and perhaps because she really couldn’t bear to see CJ exploiting me the way he did.
There was no doubt she had been unbelievably Machiavellian, but now I’d got over my early morning panic, I was really excited again about the idea of launching my new career. Thanks to Kiki, I had £600 – well, £320 after my shopping spree – in crisp notes in my handbag, and the prospect of more to come. And never again would I have to address three hundred envelopes by hand, or clear up after Leo Mecklin’s visits to the loo.
‘Actually, Kiki,’ I said, ‘I’m great, thank you, really great – and all thanks to you. So thank you very much, and I’m just about to ring all my other potential clients, so I’d better get off the phone.’
‘That’s fantastic,’ said Kiki. ‘You are very welcome – but before you go, sweetheart, Ol rang you, didn’t he? He’s going to do your hair, and I’m taking you shopping – did he mention that? For one of the more attractive women I know, you really are the worst dressed and, while it was fine for that hideous art gallery and Ed obviously doesn’t give a toss, it won’t work for your new career. So Kiki is going to give you a new look as a thank-you for everything you’ve done for me.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, not sure how to react to such a grossly backhanded compliment. ‘I had no idea I was the worst-dressed woman in London, so thanks, that’s lovely, but a shopping trip won’t be necessary. I bought some new things yesterday, with the money I got from Janelle. It was great fun.’
‘Oh God…’ Kiki groaned, ‘I hope they aren’t too floaty …’
They were, of course. I couldn’t see what her problem was. I loved wearing floaty skirts, they made me feel more feminine and less – what had Kiki called me? – less Amazonian. I decided I had to give her a serve of her own bluntness back.
‘So, Kiki,’ I said in a mock-innocent voice, ‘enough about me. Let’s talk about you. Who exactly was in bed with you when we last spoke? Hmmmm?’
But I was no match for her. She answered with nothing more than a filthy giggle and then, refusing to take no for an answer, she forced me to arrange a day to go shopping for what she called my new ‘work wardrobe’.
After we rang off, I sat for a moment, working up the courage to make my first call to one of my potential new ‘clients’ – a word I was still getting used to with regard to myself – but before I could make the first call, my mobile rang. I was rather relieved to find it was Dick – someone reassuringly familiar in my strange new life.
‘Morning, little sis,’ he said, with his usual cheer. ‘Where the hell are you? I just rang the gallery and, when I asked for you, the bloke who answered said, “No one of that name works here.” Pompous arse. What’s going on?’
I couldn’t help laughing. ‘I’ve left,’ I said. ‘ Those two creeps were rude to me one time too often.’
Dick chuckled. ‘Good going, sis, you gave them the finger. Bloody brilliant. Wish I could do that with my job half the time, but never mind, I’m always grateful they don’t give me the sack. Anyway, I’m just ringing to say thanks for a top party the other night. I would have rung you yesterday, but I felt too ill.’
‘Oh dear, was it like that? Did you kick on somewhere with Joseph?’
‘Yes, but no. I ended up joining some friends for dinner, but not with JR, I lost him somewhere along the way – but he’s the reason I called actually.’
‘JR?’ I said, confused, before remembering it was Dick’s nickname for Joseph, dating back to the mid-1980s. Dallas-era.
‘Yes, he wants us all to get together,’ Dick was saying. ‘You know he’s just moved back here from the US and everything, and he’s pretty lonely, I think, and he rang last night to say he’d really love us all to have dinner to catch up on old times and all that. So when are you two free?’
For a moment I was thrown. I loved my brother and I could see he was trying to do the best for his pal, but how could I tell him how little I – let alone Ed – wanted to see his dear friend? As far as I was concerned, Joseph Renwick was someone slightly embarrassing from a previous life and I had no intention of making him part of my current incarnation.
And, as well as that, I had too much going on with leaving the gallery and starting my own business, and I just couldn’t face explaining it all to Dick. So I was weak and cowardly and made vague excuses about the next couple of weeks being a very busy time for us and promising that I would get back to him about it. Which I had absolutel
y no intention of doing.
It wasn’t how I would normally behave, but I didn’t feel too guilty, because I knew Dick would forget all about it in a couple of days anyway and, at that moment, I had more important things on my mind – like the rest of my working life. So I fortified myself with a strong cup of coffee, took a deep breath and made my first client calls.
The first conversation was similar to Janelle’s initial approach. It was with Rosalyn, the actress, and she turned out to be another successful single woman living alone in a flat she couldn’t let anyone see. I made a mental note to pack tissues for that appointment.
The next was more interesting: this one was the wife of a banker who couldn’t cope with the mess he made in their Notting Hill house. She wanted me to come and clutter-clear him by stealth. That sounded like an interesting challenge.
I had two call-waiting bleeps while I was speaking to her and then the moment I hung up, it rang again. It was Charles Dowdent. He really did want to talk to me, I thought.
‘I’m so sorry I didn’t call you back last night,’ I started to say, but he hardly let me get a word in.
‘I want to have lunch with you,’ he said, bluntly. ‘You and I can do business and I want to get on with it. How about today?’
I was a bit taken aback. I was used to the social niceties in a commercial context with Ed, who did his biggest deals over dinner, and even at the ghastly gallery we had gone through the motions. I couldn’t imagine what was making Charles Dowdent so keen but, starting out as I was, I knew that I needed to follow every lead that came my way.
‘That would be lovely,’ I said, and we arranged to meet that lunchtime at the Bamford café in Sloane Square.
When I put the phone down my head was spinning. I hadn’t even been in my new career for twenty-four hours, and already I had three confirmed clients at £500 a day – I’d decided the £600 Janelle had paid me was a one-off, I hadn’t entirely abandoned my conscience – with the prospect of ‘doing business’, whatever that meant, with another.
After that, I couldn’t wait another moment, I had to tell Ed what was going on. Plus, I didn’t want to give him a heart attack when he finally emerged from the bedroom in his bleary morning state and found me still at home.
I made two macchiatos with the elaborate kit we had in the kitchen – Ed said it was the Bentley Continental of coffee machines – and took them through to the bedroom. Moving Mr Bun, so I could put them on the bedside table, I bent down and kissed Ed tenderly on the mouth.
‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ I said, stroking his hair, as he blinked slowly back to consciousness.
‘Melia?’ he said, smiling at me sweetly. He took hold of my hand and kissed it, and I felt a surge of love for him.
Ed could be detached to an extreme but when he did engage with you, I couldn’t imagine anyone being more affectionate.
‘I brought you some coffee,’ I said. ‘I know you normally like to be up and dressed before you have it, but this morning you’re having it in bed.’
‘Am I ill?’ he asked, still smiling sleepily. ‘Am I in the San?’
‘No,’ I laughed. ‘But I think I am.’
He sat up and rubbed his head. I handed him his first coffee, and he sipped it gingerly, blinking at me and the room in general. I had no idea how late he had worked after we came in from dinner, and I knew I had to give him time to come to.
Eventually I could see his eyes were starting to focus. He shifted over, patting the bed next to him, and I sat down on it.
‘Why are you at home, Melia?’ he asked, turning to look at me. ‘It’s Thursday, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s Thursday, and I’m not at work because I have left Mecklin’s. I couldn’t stand it any more and, yesterday, I’m afraid I just walked out, Ed.’
I took the empty coffee cup out of his hands and passed him the second one. He sipped a few times before he said anything. I held my breath.
‘Good,’ he said, eventually. I was so surprised I just gaped at him. ‘I’ve been wondering how to tell you I thought you ought to leave that place,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know why on earth you stayed there so long. Creeping Jesus has really pissed me off, the way he treated you, not to mention trying to scam discount wine all the time, he’s such a cheapskate – and when I saw that hideous Leo Mecklin at Kiki’s party, I thought, my beautiful wife is just too good for these people. I’m delighted you’ve left.’
I was so relieved I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his neck. Then something else really amazing happened. Ed made love to me. I felt a flash of irritation as proceedings were interrupted, as they always were, to put the bloody condom on, but then I just surrendered to the comfort of my husband’s familiar body.
After that, I found it quite hard to stop giggling. It was all so extraordinary – I was at home on a Thursday morning, Ed was wandering around the flat in his pyjamas and we’d had sex, on a weekday, in England. We were both on a bit of a high. Ed brought Mr Bun into the drawing room to join us, always a sign he was in a playful mood.
‘What shall we play, Bun, my good friend?’ he was saying to the toy, as he flicked through our CD collection. He pulled one out and showed it to him. ‘How about this? You agree? I’m so glad.’
The strains of ‘Diamonds Are Forever’ launched out of the speakers at high volume, and Ed took me in his arms and waltzed me around the room, throwing in a few dramatic lunges as the music dictated. He was a surprisingly good dancer.
‘I still can’t believe it, Ed,’ I said to him as he tangoed me up and down the room. ‘I was terrified to tell you what I’d done. I thought you’d be upset that I’d been so impulsive.’
‘Why? It was totally the right thing to do. I know I can be a bit fussy, but I’m not always a complete stick-in-themud, you know, Melia. Who was the man who broke into that cellar in Alsace? Me. Who pretended to be a buyer for Waitrose to get into that closed tasting in St Emilion? Me. Who endured the advances of a mad old count to get into his family cellars in Montélimar? Me. Oh yes, inside this staid wine-broker’s body beats the heart of a slightly less handsome and a lot less fit James Bond.’
I giggled. I loved Ed when he was silly.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said, coming to an abrupt stop and looking at his watch – a vintage Rolex (watches were another obsession);. ‘Let’s go to Paris to celebrate. Now. We’re too late to get there for lunch, but if we go in the next couple of hours we’ll be there in time for dinner. I’ll ring L’Ambroisie, I’m sure they’ll fit us in. We can stay at the Crillon.’
He was beaming at the prospect. My face must have fallen visibly.
‘What?’ he said, looking puzzled.
‘Can we go tomorrow?’ I asked.
‘But we’re celebrating today,’ he said, looking surprised. ‘It’s not the same if we don’t go now, this minute. What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve got a lunch date,’ I said, feeling pathetic.
‘Well, cancel it,’ said Ed.
I sighed. I could cancel Charles Dowdent, I thought, but I didn’t want to. He was so superkeen to see me, and I didn’t want to put him off while my business – if that’s what it was – was still in its infancy.
‘Who’s your lunch with?’ he asked.
‘Charles Dowdent,’ I said, wishing I hadn’t as the name came out of my mouth.
‘What? That hideous social-climbing knocker boy who shags rich divorcees and lonely widows so he can sell them overpriced French furniture? He tried to crack on to my mother once before he found out she has limited funds. What on earth are you having lunch with him for?’
‘He wants to work with me,’ I said, cautiously.
‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ said Ed, still smiling, but not quite so brightly. ‘You’ve just got away from two of the most unpleasant reptiles in Cork Street – why ever would you even countenance going to work for the Pimlico version of the same species? Actually, he’s even worse than they are. At least they sell good pain
tings. And he dyes his hair.’
‘I wouldn’t be working for him, but he seems to think I might be able to work with him…’ I said slowly.
‘Whatever do you mean, Amelia?’ he said, in a bewildered voice. ‘I really don’t understand.’
I wished I’d never mentioned stupid Charles Dowdent, or working with anyone. I should have just shut up and cancelled him while Ed was getting dressed and gone off to Paris for a lovely jolly. But it was too late now: I’d said it, and I was going to have to tell Ed what I was planning to do sooner or later, so I plunged in.
‘I’m going to do clutter-clearing,’ I said, ‘professionally. People were so impressed by what I’d done at Kiki’s place they want me to work for them. I’ve already got three clients, and Charles Dowdent seems to think we can work together in some way. So I’m having lunch with him to find out what he’s got in mind.’
Ed’s face fell as I spoke, all the good humour draining from it. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said, shrugging. ‘You’re telling me you are going to demean yourself cleaning up the mess made by spoilt brats who don’t know how to live like civilized people? Are you going to polish their shoes? Bring their ironing home?’
He shook his head, and something about the expression on his face – a trace of snobby contemptuousness, behind the genuine disappointment – triggered the same feeling in me that had made me walk out of Mecklin’s the day before. I spoke before he could.
‘I’m getting £500 a day for it, Ed. It’s a fantastic opportunity. I’m not giving it up.’
‘Well, you might want to think a little further about that,’ said Ed, ‘because it’s not what I ever envisioned a wife of mine doing. And I don’t think a glorified cleaner is quite the image I want her to project to my clients either. So you go and have your lunch with ghastly Charles Dowdent – who, incidentally, I turned down when he applied to join Bradlow’s – and I will go to Paris for dinner anyway. On my own.’
How to Break Your Own Heart Page 11