A Minor Indiscretion

by Carole Matthews

  Eventually it was his turn at the counter. “You’re looking very pukka, mate,” Mr. Akash said.

  “I’m feeing pretty pukka,” Christian said with a smile and he bundled the Quality Street and Good Housekeeping magazine into his backpack and with a spring in his step set off to nurture and nurse the life out of Ali.

  CHAPTER 85

  I can quite honestly say that the next few minutes pass in a blur. One minute I’m lying in bed wishing the duvet would fold over me and eat me in the manner of a 1950s B movie, and the next Ed’s standing there like some latter-day knight in shining armor. And it may be a trick of the light, but he’s all bathed in this shaft of sunlight like whatshisname in Highlander. And now you think I’m going mad because of all the tablets I’ve taken. Perhaps I am. But I know that I’ve never made a more sane decision than agreeing to put an end to all this unnecessary madness and go home with Ed.

  Within a flash he’s lobbing my clothes into a holdall like a thing possessed. Then he helps me to struggle out of bed, and it is a struggle. Even the ridiculous sense of excitement that’s growing inside me can’t give my wobbly feet wings. Instead, my flight consists of me hobbling round the bedroom, wincing feebly. Ed hands me my dressing gown. “Put this round you,” he instructs. “I just want to get out of here.”

  He looks all manly and masterful and he’s striding about grabbing anything that looks remotely lacy that might belong to me.

  I give up trying to find something else to get dressed in and submit to the dressing gown.

  “Ready?” Ed says.

  I nod and, despite being burdened with a bulging holdall of no mean weight, he scoops me up into his arms and carries me toward the door. I put my arms round his neck and have not the slightest fear that he will drop me or that he’ll let me fall. He’s strong and certain and I’ve never felt safer. As we reach the door, I look back at the room with its beautiful antique furniture and its bleeding commandos on the walls, and there is absolutely no trace of me. None whatsoever. It looks like I have never been here at all.

  Ed carries me down the stairs and past an openmouthed Rebecca holding a grubby tea towel. “Goodbye,” I say over Ed’s shoulder.

  Rebecca moves toward us. I can’t read the look on her face—it’s a mixture of fear, elation, relief and regret. “Ali…” she starts, but I don’t want to listen to what she has to say and my husband is clearly not intending to stop. We burst out of the house and into sunshine so strong that it hurts my eyes.

  “Top pocket,” Ed pants.

  And I fish about until I find the car keys and flick the lock open. Ed dumps the holdall on the pavement and, one-handed, opens the car door and lowers me into the passenger seat. Tugging at the seat belt, he feeds it across me gently, tenderly, and then sprints round to get in on the other side. As he starts the car, I notice his hands are shaking, and I don’t think it’s from the effort of carrying me. His cheeks are wet with tears, and I reach up and brush them away with my fingertips. He grips my hand and kisses it fiercely. “Okay?” he says gruffly.

  I nod, unable to speak. I feel as if we’re fleeing from a prison. Just the two of us. We’ve dug the tunnel together and we’re out. Out on the other side of the big, big wall. We’ve made it. We’re free. We’re going home.

  CHAPTER 86

  Quickening his pace and resisting the urge to sing in public without the bolstering effects of beer, Christian swung round the railings, onto their path and in through the front door, which was already open. He dumped his backpack in the hall and it in turn spewed the chocolates and magazine onto the floor.

  “Hi, honey, I’m home,” he shouted and, snatching up his peace offerings, started to run up the stairs.

  “Christian.” Rebecca came out of the kitchen. She was red-eyed and pale-faced and she twisted the power bracelets on her wrist nervously.

  He stopped midstride. “What?”

  “She’s gone.”

  He looked blankly at her.

  “Ali’s gone,” she repeated.

  “She can’t have,” he said. “She’s not well.”

  “Her husband came.” Rebecca hugged herself and avoided his eyes. “He took her home.”

  Christian raced up the stairs, burst into the bedroom and it was empty. Just as Rebecca said, Ali was gone. All Ali’s toiletries had gone from the top of the chest of drawers. The stuff she had always thrown over the Lloyd Loom chair—gone. He flung open the wardrobe. Gone. Gone. Gone.

  The bed was made. No crumpling of sheets, no imprint on the duvet to show where she might have been. Christian lay down and stared at the ceiling. The ceiling with the commando’s foot crashing carelessly through. She was gone. His mind was so numb it refused to process anything else. Ali was gone. Gone. The copy of Good Housekeeping slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor with a clatter. She would never know how to pack the perfect picnic or pickle her onions using only the power of red wine. Clutching the Quality Street to his chest, Christian Winter squeezed his eyes shut and cried for the loss of the one good thing in his life.

  CHAPTER 87

  What can I tell you? I’m lying on a sun lounger in the garden enjoying the longest, hottest summer since 1976. I am covered from head to foot in Factor Overcoat suntan lotion, because cancer is now a very real thing to me, and having got rid of it from one place, I don’t want it springing up somewhere else through my own stupidity. And stupidity, like cancer, is something I know a lot more about than I previously did.

  The chemotherapy stripped my gorgeous, gorgeous hair from my head, but it’s growing back and I’ve given up on wigs and Amish headscarves. I think it’s going to be curlier than ever and a deeper shade of ginger biscuit, if that’s humanly possible. By the time I’ve got a full head again, I’m going to look like one of those rusty wire-wool pan scrubbers. But guess what? I love it. And it just goes to show that the old chestnut “you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone” is right every time. I think I’d better buy shares in John Frieda Frizz-Ease, though.

  And it’s not just my hair that I’ve developed a new appreciation for: The grass is greener, the sky is bluer, the birds are tweetier—and if you think that’s corny, then I really don’t care; it’s true and I hope you’ll just take my word for it and that you never have to find out in the way I did.

  I look at my family and feel such a surge of love for them that I could cry with joy. Elliott is in the sandpit, trying to convince Harry, next door’s dog, that sand is a really great diet, and I’m pretending not to notice. Tanya is lying on the grass plugged into her CD player, kicking her bare feet complete with orange-painted toenails in the air. She is growing up fast and has turned into the model teenager. She knows where the kettle is, what a duster is for and has even tidied her room on a weekly basis. I am overjoyed by this turn of events and wonder how long it will be before I’m shouting at her and she’s telling me that I’m the worst mother in the world because all of her friends are allowed to do everything that she isn’t. Not too long, I suspect. And I’ll welcome it, because then I’ll know we are finally back to normal once more. Thomas, unscathed it appears by his dalliance as a drug addict, is reading the latest Harry Potter. Harry Potter and The Ten Million Quid in the Bank—or something like that. Perhaps I ought to write a book. Or perhaps not.

  I had a note from Kath Brown offering me my old job back, and I think I may well take her up on it when I’m fully recovered and have enough hair not to scare away her customers, seeing as she’s had the sense to grovel. I knew all along I was indispensable.

  A card came from Christian too. It had a cartoon cat vomiting on the front and inside it said SORRY in big, theatrical letters. And I guess that just about sums it up, really. Inside there was a ticket for a pawnbroker in the East End. A pawnbroker who had custody of my engagement, wedding and eternity rings. And I now know how Christian paid for our wonderful romantic trip to the Maldives, by pawning my rings. I showed the tickets to Ed, who, without a word, got in the car, drove to
the address on the ticket, retrieved my rings at vast expense and put them back on my finger, where I hope by all that is good, that they will always remain.

  I retrieved my drawing from the back of the wardrobe and tore it up in case there was a time when I was ever tempted to think that I really did look like that and remember it with fondness. I wonder one day will I go back past the house in Notting Hill to see if they are all still there peering at each other through the gloom or if Christian has moved on to invade someone else’s life. But I don’t blame him for any of this, not at all. I lay it all squarely at my own feet. It takes two to tango, but I should have been more aware of the trouble that slow dancing with a stranger could bring. Especially a stranger who was a beautiful, heartbreakingly irresponsible boy.

  I see a bright future for us all—Ed, Elliott, Thomas and Tanya. They are my life, and I can’t believe how much I took them for granted. You can be sure I won’t ever do it again.

  Ed comes out of the house, through the conservatory, bearing a tray of cold drinks. He has taken a month’s leave of absence from work to look after me, and it’s brought us closer than we’ve ever been. The other thing I’ll never take for granted again is the luxury of time, and we’re going to make sure that we have plenty for ourselves.

  Wavelength have decided to set up a subsidiary film production unit to find scripts from new, young British writers, and Ed’s going to head it up. Although I think he’ll really miss the commercial and promotional video side, this will give him a new challenge to look forward to.

  Ed sets down the tray and hands me a glass of lemonade. He gets more handsome with age or, like the birds and the grass, perhaps I just see him differently now. I kiss his hair, which is warm from the sun. He smiles up at me. “I thought we’d have a second honeymoon,” he says. “When you’re feeling better.”

  I stroke his cheek, enjoying the feel of his skin. “I’d like that.”

  “Can I come?” Elliott says as he runs down the garden as if this is the only glass of lemonade he’s ever seen.

  “The idea of a second honeymoon,” I say, “is for mummies and daddies to spend some time alone without pesky children.”

  Elliott pulls a disgusted face. “Just remember,” he warns sternly, “if you’re going to do that gushy stuff, we don’t want to end up with a baby brother just like me.”

  “I don’t think there’s any chance of that, Elliott,” I say. Ed and I look at each other, and we both start to laugh.

  CHAPTER 88

  Orla came out of her inner sanctum, leading Harrison Ford into the main office. She shook his hand. “I’m really pleased you’re on board,” she said earnestly.

  Neil was surprised how much the actor looked like Indiana Jones in real life. Though not quite as dirty. Or as sweaty. And he was wearing a white linen jacket, not scruffy leather.

  “I’m delighted,” he drawled.

  “We’ll set up the filming in Prague. I guess we’ll be in Europe for about a month,” Orla said.

  “Great.” Harrison is clearly unfazed. But then, a man who has wrestled snakes and Germans with his bare hands is unlikely to be stressed by a mere trip abroad.

  Orla strode across the room, happy to be calling the shots. Neil smiled benevolently. “This is my partner,” she said, placing a reaffirming hand on his shoulder. “Neil Kingston.”

  “Hi.” Neil held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” Harrison answered, and nearly crushed his knuckles with his firm grip.

  “My brother worked with you years ago,” Neil said. “On Raiders. He was in Special Effects.”

  Harrison looked decidedly blank.

  Neil shrugged it off. “You probably won’t remember him.”

  “Not Ed?” Harrison said, his million-dollar, mega-star smile widening.

  Neil laughed. “Yes.”

  “Ed Kingston?” Harrison’s eyes widened. “You’re Ed Kingston’s brother?”

  Neil laughed more nervously. “Yes.”

  “He’s a great guy! I loved working with him. We were like brothers.”

  “Really.” Neil thought his voice sounded sickly.

  “How is he?”

  Neil shrugged. Never, ever again would he take the piss out of Ed for telling Harrison Ford stories, and he would apologize, just as soon as he could, for ever doing so. “He’s fine.”

  “Call him,” Harrison insisted. “Let’s call him.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?” Harrison said. “What time is it in England?”

  Neil looked at his watch. “It’s about tea time.”

  “Tea time?” Harrison guffawed. “You guys crack me up. Tea time! So call him. Let’s interrupt his tea.”

  Neil looked at Orla for approval.

  “Call him,” she said.

  Harrison clapped his hands together in excitement. “Boy, would I like to shoot the breeze with Ed again.”

  This, Neil couldn’t wait to hear.

  Harrison turned to Orla. “Do you know Ed?”

  “Well…” Orla said.

  “Ed’s a great guy. Can’t we get him on this shoot?”

  Orla looked at Neil. “Well…”

  Neil picked up the phone.

  Ed heard the phone ringing from the garden. He put down his glass and kissed Ali on the cheek. “Back in a mo.”

  He went into the cool of the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Ed Kingston.”

  “Hey, bro,” Neil said. “It’s me.”

  “Neil.” Ed settled himself on the nearest stool. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine, fine.”

  “And Orla?”

  “Fine, fine,” Neil said impatiently. “Ed, listen. You’ll never guess who I’ve got here who wants to talk to you!”

  “Who?” Ed said, scanning the calendar. Maybe they could go out and visit Neil later in the year, if Ali felt up to a long flight. It was worth thinking about.

  “Here,” Neil said. “I’ll pass him over.”

  “Hi, Ed,” a deep voice drawled. “It’s Harrison Ford here. How’re you doing?”

  Ed smiled to himself. All his dreams of Harrison Ford and taking Hollywood by storm had long since evaporated and, surprisingly, he had never felt more content. It would be him and Ali from now on, and nothing else mattered. “Yes. Very funny, Neil. Ha, bloody ha.” And with a chuckle, Ed hung up.

  He went back out into the garden grinning to himself and sat down beside Ali. She was looking better all the time, stronger, happier. He hoped that all of their bad times would be behind them and that everything in the garden would be rosy once again.

  She put her book down and glanced up at him over the top of her sunglasses. “Who was that?” she asked.

  He squeezed her hand tightly. “No one,” he said. “No one at all.”

  First North American edition August 2003

  A MINOR INDISCRETION

  A Red Dress Ink novel

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4861-8

  © 2001 by Carole Matthews.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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