Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Well, all I can say, Stephen, is that you’re not the son we used to know and love. You’ve changed in these last two weeks – and changed for the worse, I’m sorry to say.’

  Yes, he thought, dead right. The once mild-mannered, obliging Stephen was now contemplating robbery and perjury – not to mention matricide. But desperate situations required desperate solutions and, one way or another, he intended to live with Rosie in Seattle, whatever extremity it might require.

  ‘If it’s any help, Rosie, I could drive you to the airport.’ Forget the fact he didn’t own a car and that his mother was unlikely to lend him hers – not that a ten-year-old Ford Fiesta was worthy of Rosie anyway. No, he planned to hire a limousine and had already been online to suss out the various options: Mercedes, Bentley, BMW, or, if she fancied something more way-out, a pink stretch limo, or vintage Chrysler in wedding-white. OK, it would cost, but he was cutting down savagely on all other expenses and, in fact, felt secretly relieved that Rosie had opted for coffee over lunch for this, their second meeting.

  She hadn’t yet responded to his offer and seemed to be playing for time, spooning the chocolate-sprinkled froth from the top of her cappuccino in such a provocative way he longed to be that froth, licked by her, consumed by her, gently drifting down to her intimate regions and taking up residence in her delectable stomach. But he was on tenterhooks until she spoke, since his offer of a limousine was really a ruse to discover whether she already had a boyfriend. If that should prove to be the case, then the loathsome fellow would presumably be the one who would take her to the airport, whereas if she accepted his Merc, or Chrysler, or sky-blue-pink Rolls Royce, he could more or less assume he had no serious rival.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, Stephen. It’s sweet of you to suggest it, but my parents warned me not to go by car. You see, they hired a cab themselves, but it got bogged down in the most horrendous traffic and they were almost late for their flight. So Dad said I’d be better off catching the Heathrow Express, which takes only fifteen minutes.’

  He was still in with a chance. No mention of a boyfriend – yet. ‘Well, why don’t I come with you anyway, just to help you with your luggage – save you humping heavy cases around?’

  ‘To be honest, I haven’t finalized my plans. Admittedly, the Heathrow Express is quick, but it’s also jolly expensive, and I’ve been spending a bomb as it is, on new clothes and stuff for the States.’

  I’ll pay, he longed to say, but she might think that rather peculiar when they were still only casual acquaintances – well, in her mind, anyway. He was obviously a pathetically slow worker; should have bought the ring by now, or at least dared to hold her hand.

  ‘It also means schlepping out to Paddington and changing tubes and everything. Whereas if I go the whole way by underground, I can simply stay on the Piccadilly Line, and save money, too. OK, it’s a hell of a trek, but it’s actually less hassle.’

  ‘Well, I could still come with you, whichever way you go, and help you with your cases on the tube, or train, or whatever you decide.’ A ‘hell of a trek’ sounded much more promising than a meagre fifteen minutes, and he certainly needed time to move from casual acquaintanceship to throbbing intimacy.

  ‘But why should you bother, Stephen? I mean, it’s a drag for you and you hardly know me, anyway.’

  Yes, he thought, that was exactly the problem. In four days’ time, she’d be 5,000 miles away, so it was imperative to move faster.

  Daringly, he reached out for her hand, at precisely the same moment as she picked up her Danish pastry. His fingers closed on sticky icing, resulting in a furious blush. She’d think he was trying to nab her food – all the more humiliating when he had declined a pastry himself, not only on the grounds of cost, but because he’d embarked on a new fitness regime, to get in shape for the wedding. What an incompetent fool he was, if he couldn’t even hold her hand without an embarrassing cock-up. Indeed, it hardly boded well for any prospect of a speedy marriage proposal. He was even beginning to hope she’d refuse his offer of accompanying her to Heathrow, since he was bound to disgrace himself, maybe trip on the escalator and drop her cases from top to bottom, or lose her in the crush of people, or—

  ‘Here, have a bite. It’s yummy!’

  Lord! She was actually moving the Danish pastry towards his mouth, holding it close to his lips, as he bit into the tempting, yielding dough; her beguiling fingers brushing against his chin. This was truly intimacy and, in his mind, he was whooping with such full-throated jubilation they could hear him in John O’Groats.

  ‘And, if you really don’t mind coming with me to the airport, it would be a great help. You see, originally, Harriet promised to see me off, but she’s broken her ankle, poor thing, and can’t travel anywhere, let alone lug cases around. So a nice strong guy like you, Stephen, would be extremely welcome.’

  He had eaten a mere morsel of the pastry, yet his whole body was suffused with sweetness because, miracle of miracles, she needed him. And the phrase, ‘a nice strong guy’ had instantly added a good ten inches to his height and endowed him with the physique of a champion body-builder.

  ‘But, must fly, Stephen! Work’s piling up, as usual. Ta-ra for now.’

  ‘Ta-ra for now’ had become her signature farewell. the same lilt to her voice, every time she said it, the same radiant, sun-burst smile. And, as he sat on in the café, he, too, was smiling – with exhilaration, excitement, triumph – since he knew in his bones that their journey to Heathrow would prove thrillingly significant.

  He stood by the tube-doors, guarding Rosie’s adorable fondant-pink cases, but unable to see her for the mass of heads and bodies in the way. Some guy had offered her a seat – little wonder when she looked so fanciable – but his plan to declare his love as he sat beside her, arm around her shoulders, had been, once again, frustrated. He hadn’t reckoned with the crowds – a sweaty scrum of people, most lumbered with bulky luggage – nor with the roar of the train, which made it more or less impossible to speak, even had he been sitting close. If only she hadn’t chosen August to depart, at the height of the tourist season when every other person in the UK seemed to be fighting their way to Heathrow. And it was such a sweltering day that, although he had larded himself with deodorant and cologne, he feared he might smell of sweat, rather than of alluring musk. Certainly, by the time they reached Terminal 5, he would have disgusting damp patches under his arms and his insolent hair would have long since rebelled against its restraining morning gel.

  But all that was nothing compared with the fact that he had got nowhere with a Green Card and was beginning to think it highly unlikely he would ever find employment in the States – unless he offered to do the housework and gardening for Rosie’s parents, or worked as their general factotum. He would even beg in the streets, for pity’s sake. Whatever the humiliation, he would willingly accept it, so long as it meant he could be near her. OK, in the absence of a ticket or passport, it was hardly practical for him to fly out with her today. Besides, his mother would shit herself with worry if he simply disappeared, rather than joining her and his dad for their usual Friday evening fish pie. And if he absconded from work without giving in his notice, they would never give him a reference, which he might desperately need, if some fairy godmother should suddenly materialize and offer him an opening in a prestigious American firm. He allowed himself the fantasy of becoming the next Bill Gates – not that he craved wealth or power in themselves, only so that he could purchase a huge villa for Rosie in the swankiest part of Seattle, complete with swimming pool, jacuzzi, private gym and menagerie. (She liked guinea pigs, she had told him, as well as cats.)

  For God’s sake, he muttered, get real. Banish the wildlife and fix your mind on what you’re going to say to her, the minute there’s a chance. He had less than four hours left before she’d be summoned to the departure lounge and forced to leave him this side of the Atlantic, while she went winging across it to a far-distant alien shore. But before that dreaded moment, he must
have made his position absolutely clear: he couldn’t live without her and intended to join her in the States in just a matter of weeks. He was, in fact, due for some leave and, although he had originally planned a week’s holiday exploring the Yorkshire Dales, there was no reason why he couldn’t change it to a fortnight in Seattle, laying siege to Rosie. Well, no reason except the cost: £500 odd against a flagrant £2,000. There were always loan-sharks, of course, or he could even beg his father for help, although it might be rather tricky trying to explain why he was contemplating the hassle of a long-distance flight to a big, anonymous city, when his natural preference was for quiet, rural UK breaks.

  He was rambling again, going off the point. Nothing mattered at this juncture save working out the most persuasive formula to win the woman of his dreams. And, however brief the time left to him, he was determined to succeed.

  Pinned against the wall by some moronic heavyweight who also happened to be treading on his foot, he couldn’t help recalling those lust-inducing movies where couples actually copulated in lifts. Hardly a possibility in this jam-packed Heathrow lift, where the space was so confining he could barely breathe, let alone make glorious love to Rosie. A backpacker’s rucksack was digging into his chest – a distraction, at least, from the pain in his foot – and the anguished infant wailing in its space-consuming buggy was setting his already frazzled nerves on edge. Rosie, for her part, seemed unaccountably cheerful, considering they were about to be parted for what seemed like an eternity, but that only heightened his resolve to make his feelings clear as soon as they reached the terminal.

  And Terminal 5 proved to be a pleasant surprise: spacious, ultra-modern, spankingly clean and also unexpectedly quiet, given the crowds of passengers. He blessed the clever acoustics and the absence of canned muzak, which should make his task just slightly easier. His role at this moment, however, was to take charge of the proceedings, find the check-in desk with the shortest queue and carry the cases over in a capable, confident manner – act, in short, like the authorative husband he hoped soon to become. There would certainly be no problem recalling her flight-number. BA 0049 was steel-etched into his mind; the two zeros symbolizing the void that would open up in his heart once he’d taken his leave of her, however brief their separation proved to be. And the BA stood for the Blistering Agony, Burdensome Affliction and Buttock-clenching Anguish he would endure this evening, as he sat chatting with his parents about his ‘hard day at the office’, while Rosie sped further away from him with every passing second.

  ‘It’s so kind of you, Stephen, to take all this trouble. I’d never have managed without you.’

  Not only did she need him, he was now indispensable: a definite advance. In fact, he must focus on the joy of being the person actually seeing her off, instead of on the pain of their temporary parting. He yearned to take her hand as they stood waiting in the queue but, if he let go of the cases, they might be nicked, or fall on her foot, so he contented himself with telling her how much he liked her outfit.

  ‘It cost nine pounds ninety-nine at Primark. Are you sure it doesn’t look cheap?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I’d have guessed Harrods or Harvey Nicks.’ How lucky he was that she didn’t mind economizing. If he couldn’t afford the Seattle villa, she’d probably be content with a modest one-bedroomed apartment – if they had such things in America. Wasn’t everything and everyone supersized out there – another worry on his mind? At five-foot-seven, he couldn’t compete with those strapping, broad-shouldered Yanks. Suppose Rosie sat next to one on the plane – a sophisticated fast worker who would nab her there and then, while he was sitting with his mum and dad in Norbiton, shovelling down stewed prunes and custard.

  The thought was so appalling, he failed to notice that they had reached the head of the queue, until Rosie tapped him on the arm. ‘Stephen, the man’s waiting.’

  Hastily, he lugged the cases up to the desk, relieved when they were placed on the scales. Her luggage was so damned heavy, he’d been in danger of a hernia.

  ‘Are you travelling, too, sir?’ the British Airways clerk enquired.

  He was tempted to shout an exuberant ‘Yes!’, but Rosie got in first. ‘No, just me,’ she said. But shouldn’t she be weeping at the fact, rather than sounding so heartlessly jaunty?

  As the cases disappeared along the conveyor-belt, he longed to squeeze inside them and be carried into the baggage-hold, to be reunited with Rosie in Seattle for the start of their new life. Indeed, everyone but him appeared to have a route-map and a destination; only he was adrift and spare. But this was no time for self-pity; he had to move his marriage plan a little closer to reality.

  ‘Right,’ he said, authoritatively, once the check-in procedures were complete. ‘I think we need a coffee.’ There was a Café Nero at one end of the terminal, which was surely both propitious and appropriate, since all their meetings so far had been in some branch or other of the chain.

  ‘Sorry, Stephen, but I’m dying for a pee. Could you hang on a moment?’

  ‘No problem.’ He ushered her over to the toilets, glad that he’d mugged up the layout of the terminal last night, and so knew his way around – impressive in her eyes, he hoped. ‘See you here in five minutes, OK?’

  He had better pop to the gents himself, for a hasty wash-and-brush-up, and to spray himself with Lynx again, which, according to the ads, made women flock in droves – not that he’d noticed in his adult life so far.

  Five minutes was barely long enough for any major transformation, but it would be crazy to waste his all-too-brief time with Rosie, so, after exactly four-and-three-quarter, he was outside the toilets waiting for her.

  The minutes crept on – and on. What on earth could she be doing? Not reapplying make-up, or varnishing her nails – that simply wasn’t Rosie. Maybe, God forbid, she’d been taken ill, or was even now being brainwashed by some female terrorist seeking her help in blowing up a plane.

  ‘Sorry, Stephen. I noticed this dirty great ladder in my tights. I must have caught it on the case or something. Anyway, it meant I had to change them. Fortunately, I had a spare pair in my bag.’

  A provocative image of her peeling off her tights and revealing sexy knickers – perhaps with wisps of pubic hair poking out enticingly – engulfed him in such extremes of lust, he could barely resist running his bare hands up her thighs. ‘Now for our coffee,’ he gasped, breathless with the imagined thrill of fingering her luscious flesh.

  ‘Would you mind awfully if we went to Boots and Smiths first? I need to buy some baby-wipes, to freshen up on the plane, and a book to read, and… .’

  Couldn’t she have bought them in advance, or given him a list, so he could do her shopping? Boots and Smiths were hardly suitable locations for a declaration of love, and the shops were at the opposite end of the concourse from the Café Nero, thus thwarting his action-plan.

  ‘Yes, fine,’ he said, trying to suppress his annoyance and walking as fast as he dared, since every minute counted. As they continued their quick-march, he glanced up at the departure-boards: flights to every city in Europe, even domestic flights to Edinburgh and Manchester. Why did she have to travel so far? He wouldn’t need a Green Card to work in Manchester, and it was under five hours by coach, with a fare costing less than a tenner. But he had to face the fact that Rosie had expanded his formerly cramped horizons, so he was duty-bound to follow her to the very ends of the earth, even to the most distant of the planets.

  Actually, he couldn’t help reflecting that she spent so much time in the shops, they could easily have gone to Uranus and back, while she stood in Boots, dithering over every smallest purchase, and then browsing the books in Smiths.

  ‘These all seem a bit stodgy. Maybe I’ll try the “Beach Reads” section.’

  He plunged from Uranus into another delicious fantasy: Rosie on the beach in the skimpiest of bikinis, inviting him to unfasten her top and rub sun-cream into her ravishing back. Soon, they were having it off, right there on the golden san
ds; the gulls competing with her love-cries, and the tempestuous pounding of the breakers matching his own rhythm, as he threshed insistently against her yielding shore.

  Only a maddeningly long wait at the till brought him crashing back to reality; the magically secluded cove giving place to a raggle-taggle queue of clod-hopping shoppers, all of whom appeared to be losing their purses or fumbling for their credit cards – with Rosie still stuck in its midst.

  Once the ‘Beach Read’ was finally bagged, after what seemed like half a century, he steered her back across the concourse, determined to be masterful, for once. ‘I decided we should revisit our old haunt, the Café Nero.’ ‘Our old haunt’ made them sound an item; a couple who’d had time and opportunity to establish comforting routines.

  ‘I don’t really want a coffee, Stephen. I’m a bit hyper as it is, with all the excitement and everything. And, anyway, I don’t have that much time.’

  No wonder, he all but expostulated, when you’ve squandered it all on baby-wipes and trashy books. And, as she consulted her watch yet again, a tidal wave of jealousy reared up in his breast. She had never studied his face with as much focus and attention as she lavished on the watch-face – an inimical object maliciously counting down the seconds until they parted.

  ‘In fact, there’s no real need for you to hang around. You’ve been absolutely brilliant and I just can’t thank you enough, but now… .’

  This was rejection pure and simple; ingratitude on a massive scale. ‘But it’s only ten past one,’ he objected, ‘and your flight doesn’t leave till three.’

  ‘I know, but I’d prefer to go straight through to the departure lounge, so I can look round all the shops.’

  This was worse than rejection; this was downright cruelty. How could any shop – Dior, Tiffany’s, Cartier, or all three rolled into one – come before his five-star, solid-gold love? ‘Surely you can spare ten minutes?’ he said, with undisguised pique. ‘I mean, I could do with a drink, even if you don’t want one. And, anyway, there’s, er, something I want to ask you.’