The Mistake I Made

by Paula Daly

  He hesitated.

  ‘I find you wildly attractive,’ he said softly, ‘the curve of your body, the way you laugh without pretence. I think about you when I shouldn’t. I think about what it would be like to be next to you.’

  Then he seemed to gather himself.

  ‘And so if you do decide yes,’ he said, once again more formal, ‘then I don’t see any reason why this can’t work. We’re both sensible adults, after all.’

  ‘Just to be clear, though, Scott, this does involve sex, doesn’t it?’

  He smiled at my candour. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Roz Toovey, this is very much about sex.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘And with regards to your fee … I thought four thousand pounds would be a reasonable amount. For the night.’

  ‘Right,’ I said again.

  Then he stood.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, and held out his hand, giving mine a firm shake, ‘if that’s all in accordance with what you had in mind, might I suggest a date?’

  I nodded.

  ‘This is probably a little soon, but I was thinking, if it’s possible, then tomorrow evening would work for me, I don’t know if—’

  I lifted my palm to silence him.

  I said, ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  11

  ‘JESUS CHRIST, WINSTON, when do I ever ask you for anything?’

  We were in my ex-husband’s mother’s kitchen. It was around 6 p.m. and Winston had a can of WD 40 in his hand and was shaking it back and forth, back and forth, before applying it to the chain of his BMX, which was upturned on top of the kitchen table.

  ‘I never ask you, and the one time, the one bloody time,’ I said.

  ‘What’s so important that you need to stay away all night?’

  ‘Do I quiz you on what you do?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’d tell you if you did. What about your sister, can’t she do it?’

  ‘She’s in New York with Vince.’

  Winston cast me a sideways glance. I probably don’t need to mention that Winston and Petra never really saw eye to eye – and this was way before Winston’s eye wandered off to look at lots of other women.

  ‘What’s she doing there?’ he said.

  ‘She’s forty.’

  ‘And?’

  I sighed out heavily. ‘It’s what people do, Winston. What normal people do to celebrate the big milestones.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, and nodded thoughtfully, as though learning this fact for the first time.

  Winston didn’t really get celebrations. For my thirtieth birthday, he took me on a night out in Kendal. When I say ‘night out’, I mean a pub crawl – Winston never saw the attraction in spending a day’s wage on a restaurant meal, not when it could be better spent on beer. At closing time we stumbled towards the taxi rank and, finding around thirty people in the queue, Winston kept on walking until he got to a kebab house.

  He dialled the phone number displayed and requested two large doners (extra chilli, no onion) for home delivery. When the clapped-out van pulled up in the front of the shop minutes later, Winston grabbed me by the hand and pulled me across the street, slipping the delivery guy a fiver. Riding home amongst pizza boxes and an odd assortment of gardening equipment (the driver’s day job, it would appear), I fell in love with Winston Toovey.

  Petra said Winston was a child trapped inside a man’s body. She said he had no concept of the adult world and what it meant to put other people’s needs before his own. Which I couldn’t really argue with, given the state he’d left us in. But Winston’s big problem – his real problem, in my mind – was that he had no understanding of delayed gratification. When Winston wanted something, he went and got it. Even if he was broke he would always find a way.

  The BMX that was in front of me was a new toy. Winston was forty-three years old, living with his mother, no job to speak of, and what was he doing? Riding BMXs.

  Winston thought Petra was a martyr. He said she liked to make life hard for herself, and therefore everyone else in the process. He glanced my way. ‘New York, then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought Petra would have preferred two weeks all inclusive on a crucifix.’

  I ignored him.

  ‘Is Vince all right?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  ‘I’ve not seen him around in a while.’

  ‘Vince is fine, Winston,’ I replied.

  ‘Poor sod,’ he said.

  This was how Winston referred to Petra’s husband: ‘Vince, the Poor Sod’. Like he had some grave illness or had suffered a terrible tragedy. When Winston and I were a couple I would have to explain to people, if Vince, the Poor Sod, cropped up in conversation, that Vince was actually in good health, had nothing wrong with him, in fact, other than being the long-suffering husband of Petra.

  ‘Winston,’ I said to him now, sharply, ‘will you look after your son or not?’

  ‘I am looking after my son this coming weekend. As per our arrangement. But tomorrow night I have plans. I might come home, I might not. I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Who are you seeing? Some teenager?’

  He put the can down. ‘Who are you seeing, Roz?’

  ‘No one. I’m not seeing anyone. You know I’m not. But if I were to see someone, don’t think you could go and—’

  ‘Roz,’ he said, smiling, ‘chill. You can see who you like as far as I’m concerned. In fact, it’d do you good to get a release. It might get you off my back for a bit.’

  ‘Piss off, Winston.’

  He laughed and began spinning the pedals of the bike backwards, leaning in to check the chain was running smoothly. ‘I love it when you talk sexy, Roz. Swear at me again, it reminds me of when we used to have great sex after a big row. Do you remember that time when we were at Aira Force, the waterfall …’

  His words trailed off as his expression turned wistful.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said, grabbing my bag and shouting for George to come through from where he was watching television in the front room.

  ‘Roz, Roz,’ Winston said, reaching out, putting his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m just pulling your leg. ‘’Course I’ll do it. Just wanted to see you sweat a bit.’

  I slapped his hand away and looked at him. ‘You’re such a bloody child sometimes.’

  ‘Don’t be mad.’

  ‘You make me mad. Christ,’ I whispered, and closed my eyes.

  Turning away from him, I placed both hands on the kitchen work surface and took a steadying breath. In front of me there was a neat row of vegetables. One large onion, two carrots, a stick of celery and six large scrubbed potatoes. Thursdays, I thought, picturing Winston’s mother, Dylis, in her wipable apron and Scholl sandals. Thursdays meant shepherd’s pie, regardless of the weather, and Dylis had arranged her ingredients ready to cook for the following day. This was the simplicity of Dylis’s life.

  I turned around. ‘I’m under a lot of pressure at the moment,’ I told Winston finally.

  ‘You put yourself under a lot of pressure. Anyway,’ he said, just as George came in, ‘are you going to tell me where you’re going or not?’

  I began busying myself, rummaging about in my bag, pretending to locate my car keys. ‘Like I said, it’s a work thing.’

  I raised my head and Winston was regarding me sceptically.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘A work thing.’

  He took a pound coin from the pocket of his jeans, before passing it over to George.

  ‘Be a good lad for your mum,’ he told him.

  A word of caution: Should you ever find yourself in the same position as me, do not read up on the subject of escorts and escort agencies in preparation.

  You will panic.

  Granted, Belle de Jour’s The Intimate Adventures of a London Call Girl was probably not the best place to start, but it was the only book stocked by W. H. Smith in Windermere that was even vaguely connected with the subject. I had read only as far as chapter three
before realizing what was ‘normal’ for me certainly didn’t apply to large chunks of the population. I closed the book feeling pretty grubby, glad I didn’t get a copy from the library, hoping that when Scott Elias said he wanted ‘nothing weird’ he actually meant it, and then I tried to get some sleep.

  When I woke, it was with the deepest sense of dread.

  Dread that I had to go through with this thing that I desperately did not want to do.

  Petra got migraines when she found herself not looking forward to something. Not that dread had ever been openly acknowledged as the cause. She took a cocktail of medication to prevent attacks, which, according to her, came about from changes in atmospheric pressure, hormone fluctuations and, occasionally, preservatives in pork products. Invariably, though, they tended to coincide with trips to see Vince’s mother at her nursing home in Wigan and school governors’ meetings, where, as secretary, she was required to take down the minutes, and those things had a habit of running on and on.

  I sat up and swung my legs out the bed. A layer of dust had collected along the skirting board.

  Hanging down from beneath the radiator there were three cobwebbed clumps. The house badly needed attention.

  From the open window I heard a door close and, a moment later, the soft whine of Celia’s gate, followed by an engine turning over. Foxy’s morning walk.

  Like a lot of older folk, Dennis liked to reverse his car out ready for its outing, a half-hour or so before they actually planned to leave. As though the car itself needed a small preparatory run before being fully ready to be driven any real distance.

  I got up and walked to the window. Watched as Dennis’s Rover crept away quietly and disappeared out of sight. Such a gentle soul, Dennis. In contrast to Celia, who, when I’d gone around to collect George the previous evening was blowing hard on a refereeing whistle straight into her mobile phone.

  I’d noticed the whistle on a ribbon around her neck and assumed it was for retrieving Foxy if she strayed too far. Forgetting, of course, that Foxy was reluctant to walk, never mind stray. When I’d shot Celia a questioning look she informed me it was her way of dealing with nuisance telesales callers.

  ‘Isn’t that a little brutal?’ I asked. ‘I mean, they’re wearing headsets, Celia.’

  ‘Not at all. They are so insistent … not to mention rude. It’s no less than they deserve,’ she said. Then she went on to tell me how George had been walking Foxy and how Foxy positively pranced along for him. Hardly pulling on the lead at all, she said.

  I walked away from the window and stood at the mirror.

  The wrong side of forty. I lifted my right hand and gave a slow wave, watching as the flesh of the tricep swung methodically, as though unattached. This was a new development, the first deterioration I’d noticed as my body marched towards middle age. I was still strong. I had good upper body shape and a lean, hard musculature that came from the job, and yet …

  And I’d started smiling at dogs recently. Which was definitely a sign of getting older.

  We had arranged to meet north of Lancaster at a country inn not far from the motorway exit. It was an hour’s journey from home, which I agreed with Scott Elias was ample, and it served the expensive gastro-pub-type fare at silly enough prices to put off the majority of people we might bump into. It was the kind of place that seemed purpose-built for clandestine couples; it offered a refined, elegant environment, with well-trained staff avoiding the usual interrogation a tourist would need to feel properly welcomed: Where have you travelled from? Have you stayed with us before? Was the M6 truly awful today?

  The difficulty came in knowing what to wear. I expected Scott wanted me to dress like a woman. But what did one wear for dinner at a country inn, midweek, in rural Lancashire?

  Tricky.

  This wasn’t a date. And I found myself with the uneasy sensation of wanting to appear presentable for the job which I was employed to do, whilst at the same time feeling hugely self-conscious at the prospect of looking sexy for a man who, under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t sleep with.

  I opened my wardrobe and waited for inspiration. On the far right was a floaty, chiffon dress from Coast covered in tea roses that I wore for a wedding last year.

  Too weddingy. And perhaps a tad virginal.

  Next to it was my Christmas-party staple: a wraparound black dress that was cut too low in the front. I would pull it up high early in the evening, pull it lower nearer to midnight – depending on how much I’d had to drink and who was around.

  Then there were three identical dresses, Petra’s cast-offs and what I would describe as conservative. With the right underwear, though, they could be made to look a little sexy. Petra bought these dresses last year and she’d since lost weight, claiming they now buried her, and I was more than happy to give them a home, unoffended by her comment, because Never look a gift horse, and so on.

  I decided on the vivid green version and slipped it on quickly to check there were no loose threads, no ugly creases across the tummy or stains I’d failed to notice when I’d last taken it off. I wouldn’t have a great deal of time after work to prepare and so wanted to have this side of things well organized ahead of schedule.

  It looked good.

  Attractive, not slutty, and I could easily pass for a company CEO, the type of woman who refused to dress like a man just because of her position.

  Satisfied with the choice, I went to get George his Weetabix and sort out his packed lunch. We were down to the dregs again: slightly stale bread and an unbranded cream cheese that had the advantage of staying free from mould for around a month. I cut the crusts off to perk up the sandwich and examined a banana which, if I were a different kind of woman, with a different of life, would declare was fit only to make banana bread with. I tossed the lot into a Bargain Booze plastic bag, along with George’s water bottle, which was beginning to smell of damp dishcloth around the rim.

  Poor kid.

  Tying it up, I found myself murmuring that this would all change soon. This time next week, after my landlord was paid, there would be enough money in my account to afford a Tesco’s home delivery, and George could have sushi for his lunch if he so wished.

  This time next week things would be ticking over again and my evening with Scott would be on its way to becoming a memory.

  12

  ‘GOOD EVENING,’ I said. ‘I’m here to meet a resident, Scott Elias. Could you tell me if he’s checked in yet?’

  I hadn’t spotted Scott’s Ferrari in the car park, so expected he was running late.

  ‘Mr Elias is waiting for you in the bar area. I’ll show you through. Would you like to leave your overnight bag here, and I’ll arrange to have it taken to your room?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ I replied.

  I followed the young man into a pleasant, spacious hallway, dotted with antique occasional tables and freshly upholstered French dining chairs, before he stopped and gestured towards a doorway on the right.

  He smiled. ‘Just through here,’ he said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

  The furniture was cleverly arranged to give rise to a number of distinct spaces to afford privacy. There were no large sofas. Instead, highly polished maple coffee tables were encircled by armchairs of differing designs, all carefully chosen to blend with the muted sage and ivory decor.

  As I entered the room further, I became aware of Scott rise from his seat at the far end and smile my way. I passed a couple in their early sixties who were reading – she a copy of David Hockney’s A Bigger Picture and he a biography of the jockey A. P. McCoy. She glanced up as I came their way and then immediately down towards my shoes, I assumed to see what I’d paired with the green dress. Judging by her small smile of satisfaction, it appeared that the black patent were entirely the wrong choice.

  ‘Roz,’ said Scott, taking my hands and kissing me on both cheeks, ‘so good to see you.’

  He smelled lemon fresh and had taken a little sun since I’d seen him yesterday. It suited
him: he looked younger, healthy.

  There was an open briefcase on the coffee table and two stacks of papers to the side.

  ‘Nice ruse,’ I said quietly, nodding to the briefcase. Scott had skilfully arranged things to give the impression of a business meeting.

  ‘You look stunning,’ he said ‘What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Oh – anything – anything,’ I stammered. ‘I’ll have anything wet.’

  ‘I’m drinking red. But if you’d prefer some fizz, or how about a cocktail?’

  ‘Red’s great.’

  ‘It’s really good to see you,’ he said again, holding my gaze for a moment too long before gesturing towards the bartender.

  We settled into our seats. Nervous, I crossed my legs one way, and then the other. Not in a Sharon Stone way, since I was wearing underwear. Underwear that had a habit of misbehaving, forcing me to wriggle in the chair.

  ‘I didn’t see your car,’ I said.

  ‘No, I’m in my other.’ He dropped his voice. ‘The Ferrari’s not great when my sciatica flares up, to be honest.’

  I tried to smile. ‘That’s why the football players all switched to Range Rovers.’

  ‘Because of sciatica?’ he said, surprised. ‘They’re too young, surely?’

  ‘If you drive with your knees higher than your hips, it irritates the nerve root, sending the hamstring muscles into spasm. Which means they’re more liable to tear when suddenly stretched.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said as my glass arrived. ‘Anyway, you don’t want to talk shop, I’m sure. How was your day?’

  ‘Hot. Tedious. Yours?’

  ‘The same.’ He poured, passed me the glass and raised his own. ‘To you,’ he said, and waited as I lifted the glass to my lips.

  We were presented with the menus and guided through the chef’s recommendations of the day by the maître d’, an affable chap who made an impression on account of his immense bulk. It occurred to me as he and Scott went on to talk of vintages and regions, the terroir of some obscure valley in the Languedoc region of France, that it was a position usually held by a very thin person.