by Penny Smith
Paul Martin was the last to make an appearance, wearing an intricate gold crown. He got a standing ovation–although it would have been difficult to do it sitting since there were very few chairs. This was, after all, a party, and the production company was hoping for dancing and inappropriate behaviour, which could be cobbled together for an ‘and finally’ programme, to be slotted in wherever the schedules allowed.
Katie had been looking forward to it to take her mind off an unsettling conversation she had had with her brother Ben that afternoon. Their father had apparently been overcome by an unusual bout of intransigence and was even talking about divorce. He was living with a friend of his they had never heard him mention. ‘He’s turning into a bit of a dark horse, is Dad,’ he had said.
‘You’re making it sound like a joke,’ said Katie, tersely.
‘They’re grown-ups. They can do whatever they want to do. If he’s had enough of Mum or she’s had enough of him…’
‘Hardly likely.’
‘Whatever…well, it’s up to them to work it out. Nothing we can do.’
‘Yes, there is.’
‘What?’
‘Give them a good talking-to. Explain why it’s imperative they stay together.’
‘But it’s not imperative,’ he asserted.
‘It is,’ she stressed. ‘I’d come from a broken home.’ She sensed him smiling even though he was hundreds of miles away. ‘Yes, OK,’ she admitted, ‘I concede that it perhaps wouldn’t make any difference to the outcome if we did speak to them. But you must find it as upsetting as I do.’
‘You’ve had less time to get used to the idea, that’s all,’ he said.
In the intervening time, she had been mulling it over in her head. She kept imagining scenarios that would bring them together. Whatever the ruse, though, it foundered on the stubbornness of both parties. Jack was usually the emollient one and if he couldn’t be budged…
Eventually, she had taken the bull by the horns, and phoned her dad on the number he had given at his friend’s house, with little idea of what she was going to say. The conversation had lasted more than an hour, and towards the end she had become acutely conscious of the bill that must be racking up on her mobile.
‘I’m sorry, Katie,’ he had said, ‘but you haranguing me isn’t going to make me change my mind. Your mother and I have always had our differences, and in the past we’ve worked through them. But there comes a time when you’ve had enough of pulling in opposite directions. When you yearn, positively yearn, for a quiet life. I feel unhappy. What else can I say? You talk to your mother. I’m sure she’ll tell you her side of the story. I can’t live with the non-stop grumbling, griping and sniping. You’ve been at the sharp end long enough to know how it eventually wears you down. I can’t cope with what she’s become, and that’s the truth. She’s turned into a harridan. I can barely put down a cup without it being moved. Whatever I say, she contradicts me. She’s sucked out my energy. I don’t want to end my days feeling like I’m in the way and always in the wrong. Do you understand?’
Katie was silent.
‘Katie?’
She sniffed, and blew her nose sideways into a tissue, with the phone still clutched to her ear. ‘Yes. I’m still here. I didn’t realize it had got that bad. Would it do any good if I called Mum?’
‘Of course you should call her. I can’t at the moment because I’m so angry.’
And hurt, she would bet.
She splashed cold water on her face and composed herself.
Her mother had sounded robust. ‘I know what you’re going to say, Katie.’
‘No, you don’t. You can’t,’ she responded. ‘I don’t even know myself.’
‘Fine. Go on, then. I assume you’ve been speaking to your father. When you next talk to him, can you tell him the dog’s pining for him? If he gets somewhere settled, he can come and pick Hercules up.’
This was awful. It was like watching a depressing French film in black-and-white. ‘Mum, don’t be silly. How about going to Relate?’
‘At our age? Don’t be silly, to quote you back to yourself. I know that it’s a shock, Katie, but I’ve come to terms with it. Lots of women manage very happily on their own.’
‘But you’re not one of them, Mum.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Katie. Anyway, shouldn’t you be getting on with filming?’
‘You know it’s all over. The only thing now is the party.’
Her mother could be heard drumming on the hall table. ‘Do you think you did the right thing by going into it?’
Katie frowned. ‘Has Celebrity X-Treme had something to do with why you and Dad have split up?’
Her mother was a little too quick to deny it. ‘You always think you’re the focal point of everyone’s lives. You aren’t,’ she said briskly.
‘Thanks, Mum. Of course I think I’m the centre of everyone’s lives,’ she said sarcastically. ‘But did you and Dad argue over it?’
‘We had a small disagreement.’
‘And I know exactly whose side you’d have been on,’ said Katie, pointedly.
‘You’re being very snippy. We had a disagreement over whether it was a good idea for your future career, that’s all. It was a spurious argument because it was entirely your decision, obviously. Now I need to get on. Tell your dad about the dog, won’t you?’
Katie was incensed. Parents. You couldn’t leave them alone for a minute without them doing something stupid. She could have banged their heads together. She humphed quietly as she recognized her mother’s expression. But it was beyond the pale. She couldn’t bear the thought of not going home to ‘Mum and Dad’. They were an entity. She never thought of one without the other.
She went and had a shower and got ready for the party.
So by the time Paul Martin entered the room, she had downed a couple of glasses of punch and some vodka shots and had the bit between her teeth.
Paul saw her immediately, as he accepted the felicitations of the cast, crew and fellow celebrities. He thought she looked stunning. She was wearing a green dress, which was moulded to her newly honed body, and her auburn hair shone in waves down her back.
He made a leisurely tour and, near a sneaky camera hidden by one of the columns, slipped his arms round her and gave her a hard, meaningful hug.
She flushed slightly. ‘Well done,’ she said, smiling and looking up into his eyes.
‘Thanks. Do I get a congratulatory kiss?’ he asked.
‘Don’t see why not,’ she said. She lifted her face as he bent his head towards her and pressed his lips to hers.
She knew she should have stopped him. Of course she should have. But she was an addict. Kissing was like drinking the finest wine. More often than not it had no more meaning than that. A moment of supreme deliciousness. An indulgence.
And he was the most marvellous kisser. Strong and swift and dominating. Oh, it was so wonderful to be held and given such a thorough mauling.
She was brought up guiltily by Siobhan’s voice.
‘Adam will find that an edifying sight, no doubt,’ she said caustically, as Paul withdrew his mouth, but left his arm draped casually across Katie’s shoulders.
‘Only if someone takes the trouble to tell him,’ sparked Katie.
‘There are cameras here, in case you’d forgotten,’ she said.
Katie bit her lip. ‘It doesn’t have to go in, though, does it?’ she mouthed to Siobhan, so that any lurking microphones couldn’t pick it up. Siobhan simply smiled at her and walked away.
This was dreadful, thought Katie. She blamed the punch–it was obviously stronger than it looked.
Paul turned her towards him again, and it seemed as though he was going to make another attack on her lips. ‘No. No. Stop it,’ said Katie, angrily, and slightly slurring. ‘Not here.’ She left the room. He followed.
‘You knew about the cameras!’ she accused him.
‘No, I didn’t. Well, I suppose I sort of assumed there might be
some somewhere,’ he said.
She narrowed her eyes. ‘Am I part of your game plan?’
‘I don’t get you. I think you’re bloody gorgeous. I’ve never made any bones about that.’
Funny expression, she thought, woozily Making no bones about something. Would it involve an awful lot of grinding?
‘And you obviously don’t care enough about the bloke you’re with,’ he continued, ‘or you wouldn’t be here. And you wouldn’t be responding like this…’ He pulled her towards him again. Although she put up a token resistance, there were no cameras in sight and she gave herself up fully to the luscious feeling. Bliss. He was a god. She loved him. Or she loved kissing him. This was what life was all about. Her parents’ troubles receded. Adam receded. There was nothing but the fizzing in her blood.
On Saturday morning, Katie had such a big hangover that she could barely blink without a throbbing pain thumping through her skull. What the hell had been in that punch? She tried to lift her head off the pillow. It wouldn’t go. It lay there, like a medicine ball. As parts of her brain began to activate, the memories started to seep in, then avalanched, building up into an unbearable catalogue of beautiful but ultimately terrible sequences. She pressed her hands to her eyes and tears leaked out.
She was a mess. There was no other word for it. She had, willingly or not, buggered up a perfectly good relationship for the instant gratification of a kiss. And she was seeing Adam today. She would have to make a clean breast of it, and leave it up to him to decide whether or not they would carry on. When had she heard herself say that before? She dragged her mind back to a similar incident involving a man at a nightclub.
If this was America, she thought, I’d be phoning a helpline this instant. Be seeing a therapist.
My name is Katie Fisher. I am a kissing addict.
Was it so bad?
Why was it so bad?
She wouldn’t mind if she found out that Adam had been kissing someone else.
Or would she?
Yes, but the thing is, men never stopped at just kissing. Kissing for them was a prelude to sex. Women could enjoy it for the sheer delightfulness of it. But men didn’t understand that. How could one explain it to them? It was like trying to describe the taste of an Irish whiskey to a teetotaller.
In the bus to the airport, she was unusually quiet. She had her huge sunglasses on and sat next to Dave Beal, knowing it gave neither of them any pleasure. She turned her face to the window and pretended to look out, but her eyes were closed as her discombobulated brain tried to find a way through.
Paul tried to talk to her, but she put up her hand and moved quickly away.
Eventually she came to a conclusion. She would think about it tomorrow. I’m turning into Scarlett O’Hara, she thought. She’d be pining for the red earth of Tara if she wasn’t careful.
Paul Martin was hoping she would be pining for him. He was hoping that the footage of their kiss would precipitate the end of her relationship with that stuffed-shirt boyfriend. Not only did he find Katie seriously sexy, but it couldn’t do his career any harm if he started dating a television presenter. Looking at her this morning, he thought it was a job done, and he was wise enough to let it go.
The flight was uneventful, the arrival back in Britain curiously flat after the hot-house atmosphere of Celebrity X-Treme. There was a clutch of photographers at the airport, but it was all over swiftly, and as afternoon verged towards evening, Katie let herself into her flat.
‘Hello, flat,’ she said, pleased to see that the cleaner had been in while she was away. There was a nice smell of wood polish, and a huge bunch of flowers in a vase on the table.
She put her bags in the bedroom before going to read the card. ‘Welcome home. There’s a little something in the fridge. See you tonight. Eight p.m. at Sheekey’s. xxxxx’
Aaah. A wave of guilt threatened to engulf her. He was lovely. Truly lovely. She didn’t deserve him. The flowers were beautiful. Pink and orange gerberas. She caressed one of the soft petals. If only they had a smell, gerberas would be the perfect flower. They were so bright and so tidy. None of those pesky leaves to deal with, or polleny bits to cut off so they didn’t stain where they fell.
She padded through to the kitchen. In the fridge she found a tiny bottle of champagne with a red ribbon round it, and a card saying: ‘Drink me.’ Next to it was a chocolate brownie from Maison au Chocolat with a card next to it, saying: ‘Eat me.’ She smiled. Alice in Wonderland–a book she occasionally quoted from.
She pulled out her mobile phone and sent him a text. ‘No need to look for the Cheshire Cat–she’s here. Love you. Thanks. See you at eight, xxxx’
First things first, though. The suitcases needed to be unpacked before she could do anything. As the washing machine set up its pleasant drone, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and sat down to make a call. ‘Well, good evening, Mistress Dee,’ she said, as the phone was answered, ‘and I hope you’re getting yourself ready for this evening’s momentous event.’
Dee sounded breathless. ‘I sort of am.’
‘As in?’
‘I can’t find my dress. My shoes have gone walkabout. And I put a conditioning treatment on my hair and it’s gone as limp as a lettuce. And I think I’m developing a spot.’
‘Hmm. So, situation normal.’
‘And if he is going to propose, I’m going to look like shit.’
‘No, you won’t. You’re working yourself up into a state. Tell me what you can see in the bedroom.’
‘Your idea of hell. Clothes everywhere.’
‘Can you see one dress–any dress?’
‘Yes. It’s that boring black one. And it’s got a funny stain on it.’
‘Right. Well, that’s what you’re wearing. You’ve got time to wash it in cold water, after getting rid of the stain…’ And Katie talked Dee down from panic. ‘Don’t forget to say yes,’ she admonished her.
Having done her good deed, she slurped the dregs of her coffee and went to get the bottle of champagne and the chocolate brownie. The knowledge of her perfidy hung over her head like a halo of thorns. It was almost impossible to see a way through that would allow her to converse in a normal way. It would be hovering there, waiting to make itself known. She knew that some things were best left unsaid. Was this one of them? What did it mean, after all? A drunken kiss…like every other drunken kiss she had indulged in. And lost the love of her life. She caught herself up guiltily. Did I just say that? Did I just use the expression ‘love of my life’? About Bob?
Anyone looking in on the scene would have recognized a woman wrestling with a dilemma. She sat on the sofa, a glass in one hand, a brownie in the other, knees together and feet splayed, gazing out of the window at the river. As the washing-machine went onto spin cycle, she sighed and got up. Things to do, places to be. No time like the present. Idle hands make light work. What was she on about? She ought to get on. She strode determinedly through to the bedroom.
A few hours later, she was having her coat taken from her at the restaurant and was enveloped in an enormous hug by Adam. He was so handsome, she thought, her body thrilling to his touch.
‘Thank you for my gifts,’ she said, green eyes sparkling up at him. She had supplemented the champagne with a few vodka shots for Dutch courage.
Adam recognized the signs, but didn’t say anything. He beckoned the waiter over. ‘Shall we continue with the theme?’ he asked her, and, with her assent, ordered a bottle of Krug.
‘How lovely. My favourite.’
‘I know…So tell me…’ he said, as it arrived, both of them aware of the metaphorical elephant in the room ‘…how did you leave Mr Martin? Was he well?’
‘I know what you’re thinking. I saw what the newspapers were saying. I was given some of them after I got the bump on my head. I left a message for you about it.’
‘Yes, I know.’ He smiled, his eyes crinkling attractively. ‘Your lovely long message that went on right through two meetings and into an early
-evening drink.’
‘It did not.’ She laughed, her heart beating uncomfortably hard. Now that the moment had come, she was wondering whether she ought to ’fess up, as their father used to say when she or Ben were caught doing something naughty.
‘And?’
‘And it’s out of all proportion to what actually happened. They were making out that I was having an affair with him. And I was categorically not. Absolutely not.’
She felt like Clinton and his ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman’ comment. It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t quite the truth.
Katie pressed on: ‘Compared to you, he’s a munter. Why would I risk losing you for the dubious pleasure of an affair with a two-bit columnist?’ she asked, appealing to his vanity.
And Adam, having come to a similar conclusion, was willing to leave it there. He had decided to broach the subject now and find out the details later. He had clean sheets on the bed, breakfast organized, and he wasn’t about to ruin the evening. ‘I believe you. Thousands wouldn’t,’ he said.
It was the one expression he used frequently that annoyed her. But she was in no position to bring it up now. Suddenly her dress felt less constricting. And she was glad she was wearing stockings. It was all looking a lot more positive.
Apart from that niggling doubt at the back of her mind. Was Bob really the love of her life? And if he was, what was she doing playing out this other relationship? Unconsciously, she began to compare the two men. The one so very fitting for her city life. The other an altogether kinder prospect. A man for all seasons. She wondered how it was possible to be thinking these thoughts while listening to Adam telling her his thoughts about the show and the fallout from it. Then he stopped, and she realized that, actually, it wasn’t possible, because he seemed to be requiring an answer, and she hadn’t heard the question.
She fell back on the traditional response she used in these situations. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t listening. Just kind of gazing at you and thinking that you are, without doubt, the most attractive man alive.’