by Adele Parks
25
Tuesday 10 October
John
I arrive at the school gate before eight o’clock, which is a damn awful time of day to be awake but a particularly sodding terrible time when you have a day’s holiday. Normally it’s my rule on holiday not to surface before midday. But I’m not sure what time kids go to school and as the school gate is the only form of contact I can guarantee with Connie, I make an effort. It would have been easier if I could have just rung her but I never kept her number. I can’t even remember deleting it. She was that unimportant by the end. It’s funny how casual we are with our pasts. I consider the hundreds of telephone numbers that have been passed to me and the times I have given out my number and yet there are only a couple of dozen friends’names that have actually made it into my address book. At Christmas I send fewer than ten cards.
I sit in my car and watch the harassed mothers come and go. Some of them are managing to keep up appearances and beam and wave to one another. A few look grim but determined as they drag reluctant kids through the gate. Others are out and out furious and are yelling at their kids to get a move on/pick up their bag/gloves/feet/stop hitting their sibling. One or two look distinctly anxious as their kid totters out of sight. The vast majority look as though they dream of a good night’s sleep. I thank God I’m a man.
I mean one day I’ll want to go in for all that having kids business. Jesus, it’s pretty much my duty to pass on these fantastic genes. There was a time I thought I might have a kid with Andrea, but it wasn’t to be – good thing as it happened. Connie no doubt thinks it’s my destiny to be a Sunday father but that’s not what I’m after. One day, when I’m ready for the kid thing, I’ll do it and I’ll be doing it for keeps.
Finally, I see Connie. I bide my time. I allow her to take her daughter into the school and then when she re-emerges I get out of the car and block her path.
‘Hi,’I beam.
She looks confused, as though for a moment she doesn’t know who I am.
‘Hello.’Curt.
‘Where’s the little one?’
‘Flora goes to nursery on Tuesdays and Wednesdays so I can work.’
Lucky break. I’d wondered how we’d factor in the brat. ‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘No.’Connie starts to walk away.
This is becoming part of our ritual now and I’m not in the least bit fazed by it. We’ve said all we have to say to one another, right? No, we haven’t, not by half but she’s not expected to know this. I have twenty minutes left in the parking bay before I have to move the car. I know I can persuade her to have a coffee with me within ten. Maybe five.
‘How about a croissant? I bet you haven’t had breakfast, rushing mum and all that.’
‘Ha!’Connie’s exclamation escapes her mouth, surprising us both by the look of her.
‘What?’I ask.
She stops dead in her tracks. ‘Do you know how much I used to long to hear you say something like that? To invite me for a coffee. To say something, anything, that meant you were interested in a chat rather than just a shag.’
That’s the thing with Connie, she is totally incapable of keeping her cool and playing her cards close to her chest. She’s so emotional, passionate, some would probably say volatile. I’m depending on this character flaw of hers.
I hold my arms open in a gesture of conciliation and I shrug, boyishly. It’s a good look, I’ve used it countless times and it’s always worked, even when dismissing misdemeanours far more grave than being tardy with an invite to breakfast.
‘Well, they say good things come to those who wait.’
She scowls. She starts to walk away again but this time her pace is slower, less determined.
‘I’ve had breakfast, thank you. I never leave the house without having it, no matter how rushed things are. Luke always sees to it that I eat something because he knows I get ratty otherwise.’
I realize that she’s trying to make a point here. I don’t know her as well as her husband. I don’t know something I should know or I’ve forgotten something she told me about a million years ago, blah, blah, blah. Some girl-point. It’s irrelevant. I’m encouraged by the fact that she’s prepared to row with me; it shows a level of engagement that I can exploit.
‘Well, you never used to eat breakfast.’The sentence, innocent enough, is of course explosively loaded.
Connie turns scarlet. ‘I was always in too much of a hurry to leave your scuzzy flat,’she argues unconvincingly.
‘I’ve sold that now. Got myself a place in Marlow. Nice place. Doesn’t smell,’I laugh. ‘I even had one of those interior decorator women in, to do it up nicely.’
‘That’s such a waste of money,’she says tartly. ‘Couldn’t you come up with the ideas yourself?’
‘Not the ideas, no.’
She shoots me a look. Somehow, she’s sensed that I had sex with the interior decorator. Spooky. I pretend not to notice the tension.
‘There’s lots of space. It’s on the river,’I add casually. Message is – I’ve grown up, I’m solvent. I’m not asking her to marry me, I just want her to know that I’m the sort of man women do want to marry.
‘Do you suffer from floods?’
See, that is so typical of a woman. Professes to hate me, wants me out of her life, now, right now, but is interested enough to want to know if my gaff floods.
‘No, I put all the anti-flood measures in place.’Message is – I’m a responsible adult. She gets it. I see that she’s relaxed a little.
‘It’s a long commute,’she observes.
‘I get sent all over the country. It doesn’t really matter where I’m based. At the moment the company are paying for a flat just off High Street Kensington while I do this job with the BBC.’
‘Very nice.’
‘It is.’
The domestic chat has done its job. Momentarily she’s forgotten to be afraid of me and she’s inched down her guard. ‘So about that coffee?’I ask.
I’ve done my research. I didn’t want to blow this opportunity by taking her to a cookie-cut chain, where we’d drink insipid coffee. There is a convincing ‘Parisian’bar in Notting Hill that’s always been cool in its own right, but it’s recently been discovered by the trendy media luvvies who live round there and so it’s crawling with journos who work for the gossip mags. Although no one is papping this morning (too early) it has a certain cachet, a bohemian luxury, which I know Connie will pick up on.
Bonus is, the café is pretending to be one you’d find on the arty Left Bank in Paris. Total result. Connie and I first got it together in Paris. We shared a magical night and day there once. Christ, if I’ve remembered, she certainly will have. She probably knows what we ate and what I was wearing.
‘Nice place,’she says as she nods around the café. It’s decked with small glass tables, wicker chairs and adverts for hot chocolate.
‘Worth the drive?’We could have walked but I wanted her to smell the leather interior of my car. Women say they are not impressed by cars and that might be true, but I know new leather is a certifiable aphrodisiac. Who doesn’t like the smell of wealth?
We sit down and Connie fiddles with the menu. We wait an age for the waiter to come and take our order. He’s French and has his mind on higher things than serving his customers. I ask for croissant, yogurt, fresh juice and hot chocolate; I want to string this meal out. Connie orders a black coffee.
‘They have extended hours. I can order you a glass of champagne,’I offer.
‘Don’t be crazy, it’s not nine o’clock yet.’
‘It could be like an anniversary glass to celebrate, or commiserate or just to, you know, mark the occasion.’
‘What occasion?’She looks bemused.
‘It’s eight years this month since we met.’
‘No, it’s seven years.’I hear the impatience in her voice.
‘I knew that.’
‘Last month.’
‘Clocks are different in France.’<
br />
‘By an hour, not a month.’
‘Oh, don’t split hairs, Con.’
She sighs and looks momentarily weary. ‘Look, we should change the subject, the whole discussion is totally inappropriate. I can only be here with you as a friend. Not, you know –’
‘As an ex-lover.’
She scowls. ‘I’m offering friendship.’
‘And I’m accepting.’I offer my hand for her to shake to close the deal that I intend to break. She doesn’t shake anyway, just nods because then she doesn’t have to touch me. She looks around the café. She might be looking for inspiration or an exit.
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘Playing hooky.’
‘How mature.’
‘It’s legal, signed holiday form and everything,’I assure her. She scowls. I’m not sure what disappoints her the most; her belief that I haven’t changed or the evidence that I have. The sulky waiter slams down my hot chocolate and Connie’s coffee; some of it slops on to the table.
‘He’s authentic,’she grins, relenting a little.
‘I fucking love Paris, it’s still my favourite city,’I comment.
‘Bullshit,’she says with a laugh. ‘You’re just saying that. If we’d…you know…in Bognor Regis you’d be sat there now telling me it’s your favourite city.’
‘Paris is,’I plead, but I’m laughing too. I’m glad she sees through me. I’d have been disappointed if she’d gone blunt.
‘Well, my favourite city is Las Vegas,’she states.
‘Really, I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d hate all the tack and glitz. Isn’t it sort of shallow?’
‘It’s anything you want it to be. I like the freedom it represents. Luke and I renewed our vows there. It was extremely romantic.’
She looks at me from under her lashes, it’s a good look. But what does she want? My congratulations? Her first set of vows were pledged in front of a couple of hundred of her nearest and dearest but they meant sweet FA when push came to shove. She can’t imagine I’m going to be intimidated by a quick memory jog in Nevada, can she? I stay silent for a minute then I up the ante.
‘So, did you mention to Luke that you bumped into me?’
In an instant she turns the most vivid shade of red. The shame flushes across her neck and chest. Yes, result. The thing about talking to an ex-lover, especially one who was prepared to be unfaithful for you, is that there’s no way you can lie to one another about something like this. You both know the depths the other is prepared to sink to. You’ve taken each other there. We’ve torn at each other’s clothes then bathed in each other’s immorality. She’s broken standards and promises; I’ve broken hearts and heads. We’ve scratched, clawed, spat at one another’s sex. There’s something quite comforting about sinking so low that you hit the bottom with someone; at least you both know you can’t fall any further. You know the worst there is to know about one another. Possibly that’s all you know.
She shakes her head, ever so slightly.
‘You should be careful, Connie. The sin of omission is very dangerous.’
‘I didn’t want to upset him unnecessarily,’she says primly and unconvincingly.
‘You never did.’
She shoots me an angry look. ‘We don’t need to put him through this.’
No, but we will. We’re not very nice people, you see. I don’t add this bit. She’d bolt for the door. She’s not quite as daring as she used to be. That’s motherhood for you. The moment is brought to a civilized close by the arrival of my breakfast. I tuck in and she stirs lots of sugar into her black coffee.
I don’t believe in love. Well, at least not for me. I believe in chemistry. People do stupid things for chemistry, not love, but it doesn’t sound as good, so they kid themselves. The chemistry between us is blatant. You can almost touch it, smell it, taste it. She plays with her hair and lips, perhaps self-consciously, perhaps subconsciously. Who knows? Who cares? The effect, whether studied or not, is that I have a raging hard-on – as in times of old. My banter is sparkling. She’s in peals. My eyes are laughing. She meets them every time. When I wink at her she almost gasps out loud. The thing is – we are funny together. We get on. We’re both gregarious, motivated, exciting and scurrilous. Besides, we have a shared cloak-and-dagger past and there’s nothing more seductive than a dirty secret, particularly your own.
We chat throughout breakfast. There are no awkward pauses. We are both careful not to delve too deeply. We don’t talk about anything more personal than horoscopes, but we become reacquainted in a very modern way by asking one another who is our favourite competitor on the latest reality TV show, and why. We laugh about the latest celeb wife-swapping scandal. We exchange views on which high-profile film stars are still hanging out in the closet. There is a definite warmness that I didn’t feel in the bar the other night or at the school gate. I like our familiarity. It’s relaxing and exciting at the same time.
When I finish my breakfast, I open a fresh packet of fags and offer her one.
‘No thanks, I don’t smoke.’
‘You used to.’
‘Not really, only in front of you, so that I looked cool.’
She throws her head back and laughs out loud at this confession, attracting the curiosity of everyone in the café. You can’t overestimate the size and appeal of her laugh.
‘How stupid was that?’she asks. I’m not thrilled that she thinks trying to impress me is up there with square tyres as far as stupid ideas go. I’m grateful when she asks, ‘So what are you doing with the rest of your day’s holiday?’
‘Spending it with you,’I reply calmly. I take a drag on my cigarette and wait for her response.
‘No way. You are out of your mind.’I’d have been disappointed if she’d acquiesced immediately. ‘I can’t spend a day with you.’She looks at me and her eyes plead for understanding. I bet she’s hoping I’ll walk away from this, from her. She needs me to take away the temptation but she can’t really be expecting any compassion. She must know it’s not my thing.
‘Can’t or won’t?’I ask. I bet her vag is jumping.
‘Does it matter? Is there a difference?’
‘Obviously there is.’
‘Why would I want to spend a day with you?’
‘I’m irresistible.’To you. Especially to you.
She pauses. She picks up her handbag and starts to play with the strap. She’s weighing it up. I signal to the waiter to bring me the bill. I leave cash on the table, heavily over-tipping, and I lead her to my car.
26
Thursday 12 October
Lucy
I hate it that a night out with Connie has now deteriorated to the point where it means hauling my cookies over to her house so that we can share an average bottle of wine, while she keeps one ear on our conversation and the other on the baby monitor. Then, after we’ve eaten a middling takeaway meal, I get a cab home. It’s hardly fast-track glamour, is it? Still, I guess I’m lucky that Little Miss Blow Out is available at all. What’s my alternative? I certainly can’t stand the idea of a night in with Peter. I am screamingly angry with him at the moment – more of that anon. Mick is away in Brussels on business or I think I might have finally taken him up on his regular offer of a drink after hours.
Connie used to live in a fairly spacious Victorian terrace in Clapham but they sold up when Fran was tiny and moved to Notting Hill. It was a combination of factors. Certainly Luke and Connie, as successful architect and budding photographer, felt that Notting Hill was a bit more ‘where it’s at’than Clapham; both of them are admirably image aware. Besides which, Connie wanted to be nearer Rose, not that she’d ever admit as much to me. I’m not sure if Connie saw living near Rose as some sort of penance (it was just after her tawdry but rather exciting affair had been exposed and she made a few random decisions) or whether she thought Rose would be a reliable on-tap babysitter. I can’t think that she genuinely likes Rose’s company enough to have upped sticks. So no
w they live in a beautiful but fairly bijou terrace on the Notting Hill/Holland Park border.
‘I’ve mixed strong Martinis,’she says as she opens the door to me. ‘What’s up?’At times like this I know why we’ve been friends for half our lives.
I’d called her this morning; choked with fury, I just managed to spit out enough sense for her to realize that I was furious with Peter. She knows I can’t talk about private issues in a voice louder than a hissed whisper while I’m in the office so she insisted I come straight round to her place after work.
I throw my coat aside, barely paying any attention to how it lands.
‘Must be serious, isn’t that your Roland Mouret mac?’comments Connie. I follow her through to the sitting room and note with relief that both the ankle-biters are in bed.
‘Peter has booked a holiday.’
‘Fantastic! You wanted to get away.’
‘With Auriol and the boys, for all of half-term.’
Connie is holding her expression in neutral, waiting for the bombshell. Doesn’t she get it? I’ve just delivered the bombshell. ‘Can’t you get leave from work?’she asks politely.
‘I don’t want bloody leave from work to go away with Auriol and the boys,’I snap. I’m doing my best not to raise my voice.
‘But I thought you wanted a holiday.’
‘I did, for Peter and me alone. I thought I’d made that clear to him. He argues that he distinctly asked if he should book a holiday for all of us and that I agreed.’
‘Did he?’
‘Possibly. We’d just had sex. I was in the throes of post-orgasmic glow. Believe me, Connie, I’m not as familiar with that state as I used to be. Maybe I slipped up. Maybe I wasn’t concentrating on what he was saying.’
Connie cackles. I glare at her.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Isn’t that traditionally a woman’s trick? Great sex, immediately followed up by a previously unreasonable request, so that you are guaranteed a positive response.’
‘Yes, Connie, it is,’I say with impatience. ‘I think that’s what’s annoying me the most. I thought that’s what I was doing.’