A Minor Indiscretion

by Carole Matthews

  “What?”

  “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I went in all the designer shops until I found someone who didn’t look at me as if I was mad.”

  “I should be cross with you.”

  “But you’re not.” His mouth curls in a smile. Such is the naiveté and the confidence of youth.

  “I am.”

  “I wanted to see you. You haven’t been in the piazza at all.”

  “I’ve been trying to avoid you.”

  “Why?” I can’t believe how hurt he looks. “Don’t you like me?”

  I check that Kath Brown isn’t right behind me, eyes popping with apoplexy. “It isn’t that simple.”

  “So you do like me?”

  “Of course I like you.”

  “Then why are you avoiding me?”

  “I think it’s for the best.”

  “For whom?”

  We are still speaking in stage whispers, and I’m looking round me, checking over my shoulders, like some sort of third-rate spy. “For both of us. I have commitments, Christian.”

  He looks affronted. “So do I.”

  “You don’t.”

  Christian does that charming smile that makes my insides go watery. “I don’t, do I?”

  “You don’t even know the meaning of the word.” I am teasing and we both laugh. Quietly.

  “I miss you,” he says candidly. “I haven’t seen you for days. I just want to talk to you.”

  “We can’t talk here,” I warn him. “This puts me in a difficult position.”

  “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Christian…” I try to sound rational and stern and instead sound faintly desperate. “I have to think of my family.”

  “Don’t they let you have friends?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Then say you’ll see me.” He grins because he thinks he’s winning.

  “No. I can’t.”

  “You can,” he insists. “Just once.”

  “Christian. No.”

  “Spend the day with me.”

  “How can I?”

  “Just one day. Not even the whole day. Just a bit of the day. Say you will.”

  “No. No. Definitely no.”

  The doorbell chimes and two customers saunter in. They look very well-heeled, dripping with designer labels, and probably want some understated brocade fabrics for a little pied-à-terre in town. They definitely look like a £180 per meter pair. He is much older than her. I notice these things now. Christian starts to back away toward the door, incongruous in his black jeans and trainers, clutching his sketchpad. Any minute now Kath will breeze out to greet her clients. Christian lowers his voice, so I have to lean closer to him. “Say you’ll meet me or I’ll embarrass you.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Say you’ll meet me.”

  “Christian!” I hiss in the most threatening tone I can manage without anyone else hearing.

  He grins. “Friday. Meet me on Friday.”

  “I’m working.”

  “Be reckless, take a day off.”

  Doesn’t he know that all my days off are accounted for during school holidays? If you don’t book up from one year to the next, you haven’t a hope in hell of going anywhere decent. I have to grovel for weeks if I want to attend Thomas’s sports day. Thankfully, Tanya’s school sold off the playing fields for a housing estate during the Tories’ reign and are content to let their charges become couch potatoes.

  “I’ll be waiting outside Kew Gardens. The main entrance at ten o’clock.”

  I haven’t been to Kew in years, even though we live just down the road. It’s so beautiful there. You’d think you were a million miles from London. We took Tanya when she was much younger, but now she’d die of boredom, it would be so uncool. Although the fresh air might kill her first though. “No.”

  “Don’t be late,” he warns. He checks that the well-heeled couple are turned away and blows me a kiss. Before I can hiss anything else, Christian backs out of the shop looking triumphant.

  I smile cheesily at the couple just as Kath Brown appears. She gives me a suspicious look and then turns her attention to her paying customers, holding out her hand to greet them effusively. I slope off into the office, grateful for the chance to get back behind my desk, and I wonder what I’m going to tell Kath Brown when she asks who my visitor was. And to think, two weeks ago my major problem was coming up with a nutritious alternative to chicken nuggets. I breathe the gusty sigh of the terminally confused and open a file of invoices on my desk despite the fact I have one open already.

  The afternoon is a complete waste of time. My smoking fingers are extinguished beyond re-ignition, and I shuffle paper about aimlessly until Kath Brown finally cracks under the strain.

  “Is everything all right?” she asks in a way that tells me she wants to know but only if it’s not too mucky.

  “I think so.”

  “Tanya’s not in trouble, is she?” My God, she thinks Christian has got my daughter pregnant! If only she knew it’s me who’s in trouble.

  “If you need time off for anything, anything at all, you only have to say.”

  “Thanks.” This is possibly the last thing I need to hear. I want her to tell me that we are about to be inundated by an avalanche of work as the well-heeled couple have seventeen houses that want tarting up and that she can’t spare me for a minute and, in fact, would I like to work some overtime? Something that hasn’t happened since I’ve been here. But I can live in hope.

  “You can go home early, if it will help,” she says kindly, and then I realize she’s probably noticed that I’ve been staring at the same invoice for the past two hours.

  “I think I will, if that’s okay.” I try to look pathetic and worried, which isn’t all that difficult.

  “Sure.” Kath Brown can be very sweet. “Take it easy. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ali.”

  “Yes.” I really am beginning to feel awful now.

  I fuss my papers away hurriedly to escape from her unbearably sympathetic gaze and rush out.

  Standing outside the shop, I linger in the doorway. The air is heavy, close, carrying the scent of rain. I breathe deeply, glad to be out of my cupboard. I step out onto the pavement and stop in my tracks. Heedless of the taxis whizzing by, I stand back in the gutter and stare speechlessly. In bright red chalk, there is a message for me scrawled on the concrete.

  DON’T BE LATE, ALI KINGSTON!!

  Christian has drawn a smiley face underneath it. And two kisses. I check to see that Kath Brown is safely ensconced in her shop and try to rub it away with my shoe, starting with the kisses. Red chalk is impossible to get off pavement. Did you know that? I do. I look at the sky, and the black clouds have drifted away harmlessly. I check the pavement, and the message is still there. I hope the clouds come back and it will rain soon and wash away my embarrassment. And certainly before Kath Brown comes out. I don’t know quite what she’d make of this.

  I walk down the street, lighthearted in my non-Jimmy Choo’s and smile to myself with exasperation when I think of Christian and his bare-faced cheek. Don’t be late! No, I won’t be late, Christian Winter, because I won’t be there!

  CHAPTER 10

  Neil was puffing. He stopped running around and put his hands on his hips, bending forward to ease the stitch in his side. “Edward. You seem to be hitting that little ball with rather more venom than is absolutely necessary.”

  Ed stopped running about too. His face was set with determination. “What?”

  “You’re thrashing me already. Can’t we just ease up into knockabout mode, like normal? I’ll let you win and buy the beers if that helps.”

  Ed wiped the sweat from his forehead with his T-shirt. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You seem to be on a mission to launch that rather inoffensive little squash ball into outer space. You’re no fun to play with when you’re like this. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Ed bounc
ed around on his toes a bit and eased his shoulders in an attempt to loosen them up. Squash courts always stank of sweaty trainers, and it was grating on his nerves. “Let’s get on with it, shall we?”

  Neil held up his hands. “I give in. No more. I’ve got a cramp in everything. It all hurts. I can’t run another step. If I had a white flag, I’d get down on my knees and wave it.”

  Ed was getting agitated. He’d been like it all day. “Just hit the ball, Neil.”

  “Did the bird in the bikini saw one of her legs off?”

  Ed stopped and stared at his brother. “What?”

  “In the Performing Power thing advert?”

  “No. She did not.”

  Neil snorted. “Well, it must have been something pretty catastrophic.”

  “It’s nothing, okay? Now, hit the ball.”

  Neil shook his head. “I’ve had enough. You hit it.” He threw the ball to his brother. Ed caught it on the fly and slammed it hard into the back wall, grunting with the effort. The ball, reluctant to take any more abuse, rebounded faster than a speeding bullet and hit Ed squarely in the eye.

  Much, much later, Neil came ambling into the bar fingering his damp hair. Ed was clutching a bag of Sizzling Steak Ranch Fries to his injured eye. “I don’t think Sizzling Steak Ranch Fries will work in the same way,” Neil advised as he sat on the stool next to his brother. “You need raw meat for swelling.”

  “You’re a bloody photographer,” Ed growled, “what do you know about first aid?”

  “More than you, it seems.”

  “It was all they had and I’ve got an ice cube under them, clever dick.”

  “Oh.”

  “You could hose down three elephants in the time it’s taken you to have a shower.”

  “Are you ready to talk about what’s wrong now, or do you want me to put the other eye out for you first?”

  Ed scowled in what would have been a menacing way if his face hadn’t been half-obscured by a packet of crisps. Neil sat in silence. Eventually, Ed sighed and said, “Orla’s offered me a job. A good job. Back in films.”

  Neil shrugged. “Great.”

  “In the States.”

  “Less great.”

  “Ali won’t even consider it.”

  “Have you talked to her about it?”

  Ed glared at Neil again, but it hurt his cheek. “No, I transmitted it to her telepathically while she was asleep.” He nursed his beer sullenly.

  “And?”

  “And I should let it go. But I can’t.” Ed adjusted his crisps. “I feel like someone is dangling a big juicy carrot in front of me.”

  “I hate carrots.”

  Ed ignored him. “It’s so close I can smell it, but it’s just out of reach and I can’t bear the thought that it might always be.”

  “Orla?”

  “Orla what?”

  “Orla’s holding the carrot?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And is that part of the problem?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So Ali doesn’t know about Orla?”

  “There’s nothing to know.” He had waited all day to talk to Orla, but she was busy. Busy analyzing this and reviewing that. He’d tried to bump into her over lunch and in the little kitchen where they all made coffee, but there were too many people around. She had smiled noncommittally at him in the way that people do when they have shared secret knowledge, and it churned his stomach so much that he couldn’t drink the coffee he hadn’t wanted to make in the first place. Ed was desperate to talk more to her about the job, what it entailed, who were the movers and shakers these days, he wanted to hear it all even though he knew it would torture him, because eventually he would have to tell her that he couldn’t take it. All his dreams snuffed out in one little sentence.

  Neil frowned vacantly. “I don’t know what to say, bro.”

  “Now do you see why it was pointless even discussing it?” Ed took his crisps away from his eye and prodded the area gingerly before putting them back. “I’ve lived my life nursing this regret and I didn’t even know it. And now I’ve got a chance to put it right. What if you had one thing stopping you from achieving your big break, your lifetime’s ambition?”

  “I have.”

  Ed looked at his brother. “What?”

  Neil wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Lack of talent.”

  “Lack of motivation more like,” Ed snorted. “You’re just an idle bastard.”

  “And maybe you’re too driven,” Neil said. “Stop and look at what you’ve got. Count your blessings. You’re healthy, wealthy and sometimes, on rare occasions, wise. You could spend your life chasing rainbows and never find a pot of gold. Believe me, the only thing at the end of most rainbows is a crock of shit.”

  Ed started to laugh. “You’re going to start singing ‘Always Look on the Bright Side’ in a minute, aren’t you?”

  “I might.”

  Ed took his bag of Sizzling Steak Ranch Fries from his eye and dropped the sliver of melted ice cube that remained into the ashtray on the bar. Then he tore the bag open and offered it to Neil. “Want a crisp?”

  “No thanks.” Neil grimaced. “It’d be like eating a surgical dressing.” He jumped down from his bar stool. “Come on, let’s get you home. Do you think you need to pop into Casualty on the way back just to get your eye checked out?”

  “No.” Ed shook his head. “It’ll be fine. I can see things quite clearly.”

  Neil picked up his car keys and stared at Ed. “I hope so, bro. I sincerely hope so.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Ooooh.” Ed lies down in the bed with his hand over his eye.

  “Let me look at that,” I say, and try to prize his fingers off.

  “It’s okay, Ali. It’s just a bruise. I don’t want you messing around with it.”

  “I’ll get you some arnica.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s for bruising.”

  “I don’t want any. I’ve put ice on it. It’s fine. Neil looked at it.”

  “What does Neil know about anything?”

  “He knows quite a bit about getting hit with squash balls.”

  “You’ll have a black eye in the morning.”

  “Will I?” Ed sits up and looks alarmed.

  “Let me look at it.”

  Ed leans forward. “Don’t poke it around.”

  “I won’t.” Wearing my serious face, I examine Ed and try not to poke around as instructed. I have inherited a lot of things from my mother, and my inability to be gentle when faced with another’s pain is one of them. I use the bully-them-back-to-health method of nursing. It worked perfectly well for me as a child, and I’ve suffered no lasting harm from not being mollycoddled.

  Ed’s eye is a bit bloodshot and puffed up, but there’s no cut, and I think he’s been quite lucky to escape with a bit of bruising from what Neil said about the force with which Ed hit the ball.

  I smooth my finger over Ed’s eyebrow. “Oooh,” he says again. “It hurts.”

  “Shall I kiss it better?”

  “Mmm,” Ed murmurs and tilts his face toward mine.

  I stroke his fringe away, which like the lawn needs cutting again, and move my lips lightly against his eyebrow.

  “Oooh,” Ed moans, a mixture of pain and pleasure.

  I kiss gently along his eyebrow and over his eyelid, barely touching him, caressing his skin with my breath. “Does it hurt anywhere else?”

  Ed pouts his lips and points to them with his finger. “Here,” he says. I kiss his lips tenderly. Ed points to his throat. “Here hurts too.” And I obligingly kiss his neck.

  “And here?” I ask as I slide down his body. Ed has dark, curled hair on his chest. It is soft and warm and would be fabulous for stuffing a duvet. I love lying against him on cold winter nights with the warmth of his skin and his soft down snuggled against my back.

  “Mmm.” Ed relaxes back against the pillow. “Are the bratlets in bed?”


  “Yes,” I murmur, continuing my tender assault. “Ages ago.” I press my face against his soft skin. I love the scent of him. Even after all these years. He smells of musk and vanilla and manliness. I could drown in that aroma, which is better than newly mown grass or creosote or freshly baked bread.

  Ed strokes my hair and I let my kisses linger over his stomach, which is burning hot, a comforting fire. I lift my head and smile at him. “Does this hurt?”

  “Oh yes,” he says, and closes his eyes, the pain clearly forgotten.

  It is some ungodly hour and I try not to look at the clock and worry about getting up in the morning, because I am contented. We are curled together in post-coital bliss. “God, Ed,” I sigh. “Midweek passion? When did we last do that?”

  “When was the last lunar landing?”

  I poke him in the ribs. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “Too long,” I agree, and Ed wraps his arms round me and we lie comfortably in that delicious state between waking and sleeping. “Ed?”

  “Mmm.” Ed sounds like he has tipped over the edge into sleep and is dozing.

  “Ed. Did Neil say anything about Jemma last week?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” I snuggle farther into his arms. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “What—nothing at all?”

  “Ali.” His tone is warning.

  “Do you think we should invite them both round for dinner sometime?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re trying to pair them off and they’re not suited.”

  “I think they’d make a lovely couple.”

  “That’s because you’re desperate to get your sister married off.”

  “I’m not.” I prop myself up on my elbow and Ed opens his good eye. “I think they have a lot to offer each other.”

  “Like what?” Ed lies there, looking like he’s winking at me. “Your sister’s got more miles on her than a clapped out Volvo and my brother’s got a great collection of take-away cartons. And that’s another thing. She’s your sister and he’s my brother. How could we do that to them? Let them make their own mistakes. I do not want to be responsible for my brother’s happiness.”