Some Like it Hot

by Amanda Brobyn

  Clive relaxed a little. He felt silly.

  “No, nothing at all. I wanted to take you out for lunch, that’s all. Where do you fancy?”

  Jude cast her eyes at her watch and winced. She couldn’t tell him what she was up to, not yet anyway. His partnership was still in its infancy and she didn’t want it affected by her own indulgence. He would understand her motives at some point, just not right now.

  “I was going to go to one of Kath’s classes at the gym to be honest, Clive.” Jude’s insides turned over as she lied to the man who placed the platinum ring on her wedding finger. It was hardly one of the Seven Deadly Sins, but still she felt like a knife had been thrust deep into her and turned around with a full 360-degree twist.

  “Oh.” Clive hadn’t ever been turned down before. He didn’t know how to react. “Oh right, well erm, that’s okay, Jude. You go to your class.” He was hurt but he tried desperately not to show it. “Tell Kath and Jim I’m looking forward to catching up with them on Sunday.”

  “Thanks, Clive. I’ll make us a special dinner later this evening to make up for it,” Jude offered. “Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Clive set down the receiver and spun on his black-leather executive chair until it faced the window, turning his back on the pile of work which boasted fee incomes of tens of thousands of pounds. And more.

  Jude did go to the gym but not religiously. She didn’t need to. She was blessed with long slender limbs and a thin torso with 36-inch hips. A perfect catwalk model indeed but for the fact that she hated people looking at her and went out of her way to deflect attention. She and Sophie were the perfect antidote to each other.

  Clive shrugged his shoulders as he stretched his feet out onto the newly painted white window-ledge. The room had been re-decorated before the firm allowed him to move in.

  He could feel the draught against his ankles as the single-paned window rattled from the ever-increasing wind which had brought with it the terrible weather. He loved living in the north of the country, Clive considered, as the chill stretched up towards his knees, but there had to be something about living down south. The weather for starters. Still, he was in one of the most affluent areas of mainland England so it couldn’t all be bad.

  And with it came the most affluent and lucrative cases which needed his attention.

  Clive mused about his intense workload and reluctantly spun around to be greeted by it. Damn! It was still there. Once more he felt a flash of envy towards Jude and her autonomous life. He would never have that freedom until mid to late fifties he reckoned, or sooner if his investment portfolio picked up from the massive falls it had suffered as a backlash from the worldwide recession.

  As skilful an investor as he was, Clive knew he had to balance the financial loss he had suffered on his stock portfolio with the potential for inflated returns if he invested while the chips were down. Cleverly, he waited until the market hit rock bottom when he swiftly purchased an obscene volume of financial stocks knowing that the only way was up however long it took. He was in no real hurry. His timing had been perfect. It was not a ‘false bottom’ like many other analysts and experienced investors had predicted as they held out for the market to drop even further – which of course it didn’t – it had hit rock bottom and when Clive’s intuition had told him it would fall no further, he scooped up tens of thousands of banking shares, some for as low at 17p per share. The financial market rose and it rose quickly. Those who had waited for it to fall further desperately scrambled to buy before the offer prices shot through the roof. They had missed the boat while he was already on it, sunbathing.

  Clive was lucky in life and lucky in love and he was already earning significant monthly dividend payments which Jude didn’t know about. Nor did she need to. But he was still chained to Staines & Greer for the forseeable future. Jude was the lucky one of the two. Jetting off to the gym, getting her hair done – although not weekly, he admitted – having long leisurely lunches with her girlfriends. She was the girl who had it all. Not that he was backbiting – she deserved it all as far as he was concerned, and despite the telephone numbers of the many Cheshire Wags she had in her iPhone contacts, she was as far removed from being one of them as was the Pope from denying that abuse had taken place within the Catholic Church.

  Jude was virtuous and kind to a fault and she peformed a multitude of charitable endeavours which continued to amaze him. Most of what she did was for others unlike his own calculated agenda. She chose to spend her free time well and by God, he adored her and he needed her more than she realised. She was the backbone of their marriage, the glue which held their perfect family together and she was the head-turner who had never failed to let him down. Jude Westbury was his trophy wife, in more ways than he could articulate.

  Clive bounced up from his chair. He was hungry! That was what had been bugging him and giving him that empty feeling all day. If his wife couldn’t join him for lunch he would take a well-earned break and dine alone. Any excuse to avoid the seven-hundred-page tax-evasion case he was working on with Noel Foreman QC. It wasn’t easy on the stomach, never mind trying to digest it on an empty one.

  Sophie excused herself to evacuate her bladder. It was close to her time of the month and as usual she did nothing but pee. She felt bloated, spotty and unattractive, yet her short trip to the bathroom turned every head in the room in her direction – fat as she felt, they didn’t see it.

  Sophie never stopped noticing the attention she received. Some days she could take it or leave it, other days she needed it to survive and to feel that she was in her rightful place just where she belonged at the core of where it was all happening. She wasn’t insecure, far from it, but Sophie held such regard for how she looked that her body was a temple to be worshipped, often by anyone who took her fancy, not their fancy.

  Jude returned with two skinny lattes. The crockery wobbled dangerously as the missized saucers tried desperately to suction onto the base of the long glass-handled mugs, but without success.

  John grabbed a glass mug, clutching it as it slid off its ill-equipped saucer, and a splash of hot froth scalded his hand.

  “Shit!” He slammed it down to the side of him where Sophie had been sitting before she had left, then wiped his scalded hand on a napkin before cleaning the underneath of Sophie’s mug. He didn’t want it dripping on her expensive clothing. He was no expert but it was clear to see that she wasn’t kitted out in Primark.

  John had politely declined another beverage. He was coffee’d out and his body couldn’t face another dose of caffeine.

  “I’m so sorry, John.” Jude looked concerned. “It looks a little red – are you hurt?”

  “I’ll survive.” He grinned up at her. His hand was mildly pink compared with the other. “I didn’t mean to slam it down. The glass was so hot I had to get rid of it, fast.” He laughed at the silliness of his earlier reaction. “It was blisteringly hot!”

  John abruptly leaned forward, grabbing Jude’s wrist, checking the time. His posture was a half-sitting, half-standing squat and she looked up at him, startled.

  John smirked down at her, noting how naturally beautiful she was as she looked directly into his eyes with a surprised expression. Jude was oblivious of the fact that John’s gaze lingered a little longer than it should have.

  “Sorry, Jude, the battery is dead on my phone and I just needed the time.” John sat down, shoving his hands into his navy woollen overcoat in search of his car keys. “I’d better go – I’ve another meeting to go to.”

  The rain had stopped and the sun was in desperate battle to conquer the remains of the day as it shone furious rays onto the streets below. It beamed through the glass window – the canvas canopy offered no sunscreen against its unusual blazing power and it illuminated Jude’s face with an incandescent glow. Her olive-green eyes flickered as the light shadows tiptoed across them and when she blinked, her eyelids closed under a blanket weight of beauty before reopening with a Hollywoo
d dazzle.

  John knew that although he had to leave, he could have sat there all day just watching her. He had never before been in the company of such a woman who oozed such classic charm. One which he wanted to bottle up and sell.

  Clive knew exactly what he wanted to eat. He had skipped breakast, something he didn’t usually do and his body had felt robbed of energy as a result. He wanted a full-on fry with everything on it. The works. He was fighting fit with normal blood pressure and a perfect cholesterol level so just this once wouldn’t hurt him.

  He pulled out of the Staines & Greer car park, edging out carefully so as not to scrape the bumper as he reversed on to the street of the quiet cul-de-sac. It was a tight squeeze and the sheer width of the Jaguar didn’t help him at all as he manoeuvered through the narrow gates, but he was a careful driver and, with only a centimetre to spare either side, the car pulled out unscathed.

  It cruised past the busy shops of Appleby Square and Clive watched as suited office folks busied themselves with lunchtime errands, holding onto sopping wet umbrellas as they dodged the congested foot traffic. He continued on towards Alderley Avenue where all the best shops were, in his opinion anyway, and his eyes scoured both sides of the road for a free parking space. Anywhere would do fine.

  He braked hard, holding up his hand to the car behind him offering an apology for the abruptness of his stop, and quickly flicked up the arm of the right indicator. He sat back with smug content as he waited for the red BMW to leave him with a free and ample-sized parking space. Perfect! He could have his fry without worrying about careless dents from other drivers whose own cars had seen better days.

  Clive turned into the large space joining the other dozen cars who too had been blessed with impeccable timing. He pulled up the handbrake and removed his phone from its cradle, tempted to ring Jude once more given he was now in the area. He glanced behind him at the khaki-coloured mac which lay carefully over the cream-leather back seat before turning back to look up at the sky through the front tinted windscreen. The sun was out and the rain was off. He would leave his coat and risk it.

  Clive sat at an empty table in the window of The Cove Kitchen. He adored the place, grotty as it was in its old-style nautical decor.

  He and Will, and sometimes the rest of the crew, would meet there before a weekend race to fill up on ‘the’ fry which had made a name for itself as being the best around town. He stared out of the window, people-watching. There were more people today than cars on the road, which explained why he was lucky enough to have bagged a parking space – although that would change once the lunchtime rush had passed and the cars were used once again to drive people home or back to their dreaded place of work.

  Across the street there were many more coffee shops dotted amongst cards shops, a large double-fronted charity shop – which Clive knew sold mainly designer goods because Jude dontated much of her personal attire there – an upmarket award-winning butcher’s shop and an estate agent’s that had properties bought and sold on the same day. Such was the reputation of the area.

  Clive slurped his strong hot tea, setting the mug down on the square pine table, avoiding the red-and-white gingham tablecloth which he didn’t want to stain. His eyes gleamed as he saw Nancy, the elderly proprietor, walk towards him holding a huge white plate with a linen tea towel.

  “It’s hot, Mr Westbury,” she warned him, setting the enormous platter before him. “Enjoy.”

  “Thanks, Nancy.”

  Clive wasted no time tucking in. His knive ploughed into a Lancashire herb-filled sausage which he dipped into a puddle of thick brown sauce and shoved into his mouth. He attacked a bacon rasher, pulling at it roughly and dunking it into the runny egg yolk before stabbing a fried mushroom on the end of his fork for good luck and somehow managing to fit the lot into his mouth though he had little room left to breathe. He couldn’t feast on it fast enough, he was that deprived of vital energy. Energy which had been consumed by his own ridiculous thoughts of how his wife had seemed, well, different.

  Clive sat back content and feeling more like his old self. He was proud of his empty plate, bacon rinds and all. It was something he wouldn’t have dared to eat if Jude had been with him. Not that she had ever stopped him, but she was reasonably health-conscious which made Clive feel that he had to be the same though she put no pressure on him whatsoever.

  Nancy would be pleased with him.

  Clive stood up, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his Hugo Boss suit. He withdrew ten pounds which would more than cover his bill. Nancy never failed to make him feel special and for that he tipped generously.

  Her deceased father had been a client of Staines & Greer many moons ago when The Cove Kitchen took in an impressive amount of cash. It wasn’t quite up to affording the legal services of his firm now – a firm which he was now a partner of.

  Clive turned in the direction of the window to check he had all his belongings. He glanced out to see a tall, slender figure with long blonde hair on the opposite side of the road standing outside the door of The Coffee Bean. Jude!

  His heart fluttered as he recognised his beautiful wife, and he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair with a hurried glow. But Clive stopped dead when he saw a dark-haired man appear at her side, holding a hand towards her which she was closely inspecting. He watched her throw her head back with careless laughter – she looked so carefree and even from a safe distance away he could tell by the leaning body-language of the man, that he was interested. Interested in his wife.

  Clive realised that he wasn’t breathing. His head spun in a light whirl and he stepped back from the window after witnessing Jude kiss the unrecognisable man on the cheek. It was more than his eyes could bear to take in and he could watch no more.

  The gym? Was that a euphemism for a workout of a different kind? An adulterous kind?

  Clive knew now that his discerning intuition had been right all along. To think he had cursed himself for his feelings when all along he should have known that he was usually accurate when it came to sensing when things weren’t quite right. He should have trusted himself and congratulated himself on his powers of perception because that’s exactly how he felt when he met Jude – he just knew she was the one for him – a sixth sense he often called it.

  Clive stood back behind the matching checked gingham curtains until he felt it was safe to leave. He didn’t want to be spotted by either of them. What would he say? The man who usually had an answer for everything, a lawyer through and through, sharp-tongued and quick-witted.

  Right now, he was speechless.

  Back at his desk, Clive realised that he had no recollection of how he had got there.

  He certainly had no recollection of just when it was that his marriage had gone so very wrong.

  The scurry of activity at The Tudors was in full throttle and Roni was almost bouncing off the walls with delirious excitment. It was her turn to host the Curry Club.

  So often she dreaded it, making the minimum of effort by purchasing ready-made Marks and Spencer’s meals or Waitrose produce but today her efforts had surpassed themselves and she quite simply couldn’t wait to show off her new look – show her friends just how much thought she had put into tonight’s event. If they were happy, she was happy, and that was rare.

  Of course, Veronica Smyth was not a cook in any sense of the word, never needed to be, but she had arranged for the best caterers around to prepare, to cook and to serve up dinner with some of the best vintage wines available.

  Peter had picked them especially for her, plucked from the vast selection of his wine cellar which was a no-go area for her and the girls. He carried the key to his treasure chest with him at all times and his collection of wine was insured along with the rest of his material belongings.

  Roni wasn’t going to tell the women what was in store for them until closer to the time. It was to be her surprise and she was absolutely bursting with the anticipation of it all. She would text them and drip-feed
their excitement, a little at a time.

  She sent a text on her old Nokia 6210 mobile phone – she hadn’t learned how to use her iPhone yet: 7pm at mine, pls dont b l8. Bring ur swimsuits!!! Roni

  Helena heard the mobile phone in her handbag bleep just as she had turned the key to her locker, securing her bag and its remunerative contents safely inside. Security was a big thing for the bank and everything had to be under lock and key at all times, both the customers’ money and the staff’s belongings.

  She stabbed the minature key into its lock once again, yanking open the door and dipping into her bag where she rummaged around, grabbing her phone to read the new message – whoever it was from.

  She only had two minutes left before her coffee break ended.

  Her eyes grew wide as she read the last sentence. Swimsuit? She’d never been near the pool in Roni’s house. In fact, over the years she had never even set eyes on it let alone swum in it.

  Helena thought that Roni must have received a bump on the head for she too had been that little bit different lately. Again, it was hard to pinpoint the changes, but Roni was being kind of nice and that wouldn’t do. They girls simply weren’t used to it. They could cope with her harsh ways and outspoken opinions – which usually served herself before others – and her predictability was somewhat reassuring, but the sporadic snippets of niceness they had seen were nothing short of disturbing.

  Helena’s feet dragged behind her, unwilling to return to the banking hall. Her body was half a foot ahead of the rest of her, with her lead-filled feet reluctant to follow suit without an absolute fight.

  “Oh, Maggie!” Helena shouted as she saw her step out from the staff toilet. “Maggie!” she called again as she hurried to catch up with her. “Sorry to grab you so abruptly . . . but I wanted to ask you about the possiblity of promotion.” Helena panted slightly, partly with exertion and partly with nerves. “I haven’t really made the most of my qualifications – which is my own fault in truth – and I wondered what the chances were of getting on the Graduate Management Programme. Or am I too old now?”