by Jenny Harper
Was that a blush? Tom settled down into the chair luxuriously. He was beginning to enjoy himself.
Marta, presiding cheerfully over her guests, looked round the table. Jake’s warnings had been quite unnecessary – Jane was smiling quietly, a fraction quieter than usual perhaps, but relaxed. She’d forgotten to factor in that Jane might never have told Neal about Tom. Perhaps it had been unfair to spring this on everyone.
‘More lamb?’
‘N-no thanks.’ Jane raised a thin hand protectively over her plate to ward off Jake’s hovering ladle.
Was that a stammer? Marta couldn’t remember Jane stammering for twenty years or more. Those special lessons from Ann Playfair, their English teacher at school, had dealt with the problem most effectively. That, and Jane’s gradual realisation that her talent as a cellist was prodigious.
Maybe she’d imagined the stammer.
Tom laid down his fork and knife with a flourish. ‘You used to love lamb.’
‘I did. I d-do. I’m just full.’
There it was again. Curious.
‘Remember when you tried that tagine thing with the apricots but you forgot to put any stock in?’ Tom laughed loudly. ‘Took me a week to scour out the bloody pot. Talk about charcoal.’
Jane coloured and looked at the table.
Marta laughed. ‘Jane’s cooking disasters are legendary,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Ian now, that’s her youngest son, he’s an amazing cook, isn’t he, Jane?’
‘Neal? Can I persuade you to have some more?’
Jake’s interruption moved attention back to the circulating casserole.
‘Please. It’s really tasty.’
‘I’d love some, if there’s any left.’ Tom pushed his plate towards Jake. ‘Cheers mate. Thank heaven there was a Turkish takeaway at the bottom of the street, hey Janie?’ Tom glanced around the table, smiling broadly, ‘or we’d have starved many a time.’
‘Are you married, Tom?’ Neal asked, scraping his plate.
Tom shook his head. There was a thread of grey at his temples, Marta could see it gleaming in the soft light from the candles. It made him look rather distinguished.
‘As the great Mae West once said,’ Tom turned on a stage voice and declaimed in a drawling falsetto, ‘“Marriage is an institution – and I’m not ready for an institution yet”.’
Neal guffawed, Marta laughed, Jake looked amused. Jane’s mouth pulled into a crooked half smile and she started to twist a strand of her hair between her fingers.
Carrie said drily, ‘On that we agree.’
‘But what about Serena Swift?’ Jake asked.
‘Just makes my point, mate. Yeah, it’s true. I was married briefly, a long time ago. But I was on the rebound—’ he looked pointedly at Jane, who flushed and hastily resumed her minute scrutiny of some small mark on the table, scratching at it with her nail, ‘—and my view of marriage was coloured by the experience.’
‘No children then?’
Jane abandoned her scraping and started to cough, with a disconcerting dry hiccup.
‘Sorry,’ she gasped, ‘something must have down the wrong way.’
It was Tom who thought to pour her a glass of water. ‘No children. Not that I know of anyway, mate,’ he said, staring into Jane’s eyes as he spoke. She sipped at the water and looked away. ‘See me as a father? Still a child myself, I confess it. I’m hopeless at responsibility.’
‘What are you doing in Edinburgh, Tom?’ Neal asked in the pause that followed this pronouncement.
‘I’m in a play on the Fringe, The Glass Ornament. You should come and see it; it’s been getting good reviews.’
‘Not a great time for me,’ Jake said. ‘I’m usually working. What’s it about?’
Tom settled back in his chair and checked he had the attention of his audience.
‘You know the old saying, “Friendship is like a glass ornament – once it’s broken it can rarely be put back together again exactly the same way”? Well, that’s the premise. It’s a sticky situation, relationships are strained to the utmost.’
‘I think if your friendship’s strong enough, nothing will break it,’ Marta said, looking at Carrie and Jane. ‘Don’t you agree, girls?’
‘Sure,’ Carrie said.
‘I mean, look at the three of us – we’re all very different, but we still value our friendship above everything.’
‘Yeah, and your phone bills prove it,’ groaned Jake, amid laughter.
Neal, his voice thoughtful, said, ‘I’m sure I saw you in that docu-drama on television, what was it called, Mary’s Child?’
‘I played one of the lawyers. Small part.’
Neal leant forward. ‘Was it true, that story? I thought it was rather extreme. Did they doctor it up to make it more dramatic?’
Tom shook his head. ‘On the contrary, they had to underplay the true facts. The actual rape of the woman was quite horrific. I’ll spare you the details, but her ordeal actually went on for days, not hours and—’
‘Yes, thank you Tom, please do spare us,’ said Marta hastily. ‘I’ve eaten far too much cheesecake, it’s sitting on my stomach. I really don’t need to be made to feel even more queasy.’
‘Even so,’ Neal said forcefully, ‘she should not have had the abortion. Abortion’s murder.’
‘Surely in the circumstances—’
‘There are no circumstances that justify abortion.’
‘Come on, mate,’ Tom said. ‘It’s only cells if you do it early enough, isn’t it?’
Marta placed her hand on her stomach. Only cells, she thought, coming together to form a life. The most precious miracle on earth – and one that just wasn’t happening for her.
Across the room, she noticed that Jane had placed her hand on her stomach too. The gesture was sweetly protective – Jane really loved her kids. Neal too. Perhaps his vehemence wasn’t surprising.
‘Well, that went well, don’t you think?’ Marta said as she climbed into bed next to Jake.
‘You think?’
‘Everyone seemed to enjoy themselves.’
He rolled over to look at her.
‘Marta, my sweet, naive wife, there was blood everywhere – literally and metaphorically, spilled wine, hurt feelings, old wounds opened and an argument fit to start World War Three and you think it was a good evening? Only Pollyanna—’
‘Oh really, Jake?’ Marta instantly became anxious. ‘I thought people—’
‘The food was great.’ He rolled away from her, then turned back to give her a kiss. ‘Goodnight, sweetheart.’
‘Night.’
Marta lay awake, thinking and worrying until, lulled by the steady tick of the clock and the effects of the wine she had drunk, she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter Six
Sight, sound, touch, smell. There were five senses, weren’t there? What was the other one?
Sight, sound, touch, smell ... ah yes, taste.
Carrie stood in her marble-tiled bathroom gazing at her funny lopsided face, with its oversized mouth and large eyes. Her skin looked almost grey and there were dark rings under her eyes – shock, she supposed. But was it the shock of cutting herself, or the shock of seeing Tom again?
Her palm was throbbing and felt swollen and painful. She stared at the bandage round her hand and tried to decide whether to take it off and wash the cut, or leave well alone.
Leave it. Take a painkiller instead.
She reached up to open the bathroom cabinet where she kept the ibuprofen and was met again by the ghost of herself. Not a pretty sight. What must Tom have thought?
Why did she care what Tom thought?
Sight, sound, touch, smell, taste. Five senses, each one aflame.
She cared. Oh God damn it, she cared! Not with her head, perhaps, but with her body, if you can care with your body. Seventeen years and the man turned her on just as wickedly as he ever had.
Tom Vallely.
He hadn’t changed a bit. Still handsome
, a dish of pure temptation laced with poison but oh ... so ... seductive. His hair had a touch of grey, but it suited him – gave him an air of distinction, as if he’d seen things, experienced things, learned from them and come back primed with judgement and wisdom and ... skill. And his voice! Still the same Tom voice, spice and sugar and honey, a voice to lose yourself in. She could hear his words in her head, whirling round and round, irresistible.
‘Hello Carrie.’ ... ‘Marriage is an institution – and I’m not ready for an institution yet.’ ... ‘Come and see the show.’
Several times across the hours at Marta’s she’d found herself drifting into a fantasy sparked by that voice. ‘Come and see the show.’ Maybe she would. Maybe she just would.
He’d touched her arm as she passed him at the door. The merest brush, no more, yet she felt the trace of his fingers like a thousand volts, crackling and sparking the length of her limb. He’d seen the response, too, she knew it. A touch was all it had taken, the slightest graze and he’d rolled back the years and claimed her for his own once more. She inhaled sharply and caught the smell of him, the faintest whisper of wood smoke and nicotine laced with Roger et Gallet’s cedar soap – and now she was his again.
Carrie unscrewed the top of the medicine bottle, shook out two pills and swallowed them with some water. The throbbing would subside soon and she could forget about her hand and go to sleep. Except that she knew sleep was not likely to come easily to her tonight and she was furious because tomorrow was an exceptionally demanding working day, and she needed to be on top of her brief.
Carrie had always known what she wanted – success. Money was a given, but it was a by-product. Or was it the other way round? She mulled the point over, her brain so tired it almost refused to function – not a good sign.
Did she want money more than anything? She liked it, of course. She liked being able to buy what she wanted, the Mercedes roadster, her brand new penthouse in the Quartermile, the designer clothes and luxury holidays. She liked not having to think about what she spent – not like Jane, perpetually having to budget, with Neal’s modest income and three children to provide for, nor like Marta, who was having to take on all the expenses right now, with Jake being out of work. Thinking of her friends and their marriages created in Carrie a sense of satisfied complacency that displaced pain for a few welcome moments. She didn’t envy them their families.
Could you ever judge yourself to be successful? If you achieved one goal, wouldn’t you simply accept success and aim for the next goal, the next objective, the bigger purpose, the higher aim?
Carrie had her own hierarchy of goals. The most achievable – and surely it would happen soon – was a partnership. She’d been working for more than ten years for Ascher Frew, a sizeable law firm in Edinburgh, with partner firms in London and New York, but the accolade of partner status, which she craved more than anything, had been elusive. Henry Frew, the managing partner, was an affable man but from another age. If challenged, he would vehemently deny any accusation of gender prejudice, but time and again Carrie had seen younger men promoted before her. She’d chosen to bide her time. There was nothing to be gained by whining but she did need to be more aggressive about her abilities, not sell herself short.
Another round of reviews was due shortly and this time all her performance appraisals indicated she’d get what she so longed for. Carrie had chosen to renounce the restraints and responsibilities of relationships because sex without tears was much simpler – and it allowed her to pursue her career untroubled.
Career? Untroubled sex? Simple?
That’s the way it had seemed – until tonight.
Tom effing Vallely.
Her instincts proved to be right. With thoughts of Tom filling her head, sleep wouldn’t come. She tossed and stared into the darkness, rewinding her life and watching as scenes from her past played out in front of her.
The only thing she could remember of that fateful night was that the Proclaimers had been pounding out their beat on the CD player in the corner of the room.
No, wait ... she’d been clutching a glass of indifferent wine – red of course, even back then, she’d always preferred red – and staring down at her black leather mini skirt, wishing she hadn’t bothered coming, despite her promise to Jane. She didn’t see a great deal of Jane back then, even though they were both living in London. She was working all hours at Ascher Frew, excited by her first real job after graduating and exhilarated by the buzz of the Big Smoke, and Jane was away a lot on tour with the orchestra.
‘Please go. Look after Tom for me.’
‘It’s Friday night, Jane. I’ll be wrecked after a week at work.’
‘Listen to yourself, Caroline Edwards. Are you nineteen or ninety?’
‘Neither. I’m twenty-two, broke, single, and by Friday, shattered.’
‘That’s rubbish and you know it. Go. You never know, you might meet the man of your dreams.’
‘Hardly likely.’
‘I’ll still be in Cardiff. We’re giving a concert on Friday, another one on Saturday, I can’t get home till Sunday and Tom’s not working at the moment. He’s bored, Carrie. Do me a favour, chum him?’
She’d sighed, decided it might be quite fun – after all, she’d never been to Richmond – and agreed. Tom Vallely was such a chancer, she’d never understood how Jane couldn’t see it. Devastatingly good-looking, of course, but most certainly not to be trusted. If she were Jane ... Well, she’d go and keep an eye on the guy, if it kept her friend happy.
She had arranged to meet him at this small terraced house where she knew she’d know no-one, and already she’d been at the party long enough to decide that she really didn’t want to get to know any of them. Posers and ponces. God knows what these people did for a living. A lot of them were clearly luvvies, which must be how Tom knew them.
She watched a slim blonde with a Rachel haircut leaning against the sink in the pokey kitchen. She was holding her wine glass ostentatiously by the stem and drawing on her cigarette in an affected way, batting her eyelashes at a giant of a man with a grunge shirt and designer stubble. Probably someone famous, Carrie hadn’t a clue.
Where was Tom? Carrie glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock already. Why had she agreed to meet him here? A gentleman would have collected her. Even a guy with a half-decent sense of etiquette would have met her at the Tube station and walked her to the party, which just went to prove what a ratfink Tom was.
The Proclaimers were still pounding away – ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)’ – and the room was ringing with an unfettered, shouted accompaniment to the chorus, feet stamping, people clapping and chanting to the beat. Then there was a voice, in her ear. She whirled round.
Tom Vallely was standing there, inches from her, grinning all over his face.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello Carrie. Sorry I’m late.’
He didn’t look sorry, but somehow the perfect symmetry of his smile was some kind of compensation. His gunmetal eyes were on her, their clarity rimmed with a hardness that was impossible to define but that had an edge to it that promised thrills. In that instant, Carrie understood how compelling this man was, and why Jane was so bound to him.
‘You’re forgiven. Have you got a drink?’ she shouted back.
He lifted a can of beer in a toast. It was cold, she could see the condensation running down the sides. Knowing Tom, he had simply ignored the tepid offerings piled on the worktop and reached right into the fridge to help himself.
The next moment, he placed the can on the small of her back. She felt the icy coldness of it sear into her hot skin and arched away from it, exclaiming – and found herself in his arms.
‘What the...?’
And then her outrage was overtaken by sheer lust as his mouth came down on hers, hard and commanding, his tongue working its way round her teeth, his lips by turns gentle, teasing and then passionate. The Proclaimers’ insistent lyrics went round and round in her head: with their certainty that th
ese two lives were inextricably linked, their conviction that the next morning the lovers would wake up together.
Damn it. That night, that first time, she’d been flooded by certainty too. There was never a moment from the second he’d started to kiss her that she had doubted they would spend the night together. She hadn’t stopped to think of Jane, her best friend, her friend for life, who had asked her to keep an eye on her man. She’d succumbed to the irresistible tide of sexual desire that had swept over her, and she’d betrayed every rule of friendship since the beginnings of time.
Such overwhelming lust.
Her first illicit affair.
She’d stared in disbelief at the provocative MX-5 convertible he had purloined from somewhere, but when he opened the door for her, she slipped right inside. It’ll be all right. Jane will never know. Just this once. It can’t hurt. She used all the clichés in the book to justify her actions.
Later, she realised he must have borrowed the car and the posh flat for the evening with the deliberate aim of seducing her. Tom knew how to set a scene, it was his skill, he was a consummate actor – and, boy, could he play a great lover. But eight weeks later – eight weeks of avoiding Jane as much as humanly possible, of pretending to be too busy to meet her for drinks, of being wracked with guilt – and Carrie’s conscience caught up with her. One day, lying next to him in her barely private room in her shared flat, she said, ‘I can’t do this, Tom.’
‘Can’t do what?’
He squinted down at her, his grey eyes hooded.
‘You know. Betray Jane. And I don’t know how you can.’
‘Carrie. Sweetheart. Look at me.’
He tilted her chin up so that she was forced to look into his eyes.
‘What?’
‘I don’t love Jane any more. It’s hard to say it, I hate saying it, she’s such a dear, but there, it’s out. That’s the truth of it. I just need to find the right time to tell her and then I’ll be out of there.’
‘Isn’t it a bit unkind, staying with her if that’s how you feel?’
‘Unkind? How can you think that of me, sweetie? It’s because I think so highly of Janie that I don’t want to hurt her. I need to find the right moment to tell her, that’s all.’