“It’s a musical instrument,” her mother said excitedly. “Paul brought it at my request, all the way from China!”
Jen held it up and looked at it more closely. “Wow!” she said brightly. “So, what does it do?”
“Well, you bang it, of course. Look on the side— there’s a little stick attached.”
Jen looked, and sure enough, there was a little baton with a circular blob on the end. She banged the piece of wood and it sounded like . . . a piece of wood. “Thanks, Mum,” Jen said quietly. “Really, it’s great.”
She handed over her mother’s present, and Harriet opened it with great gusto. Inside was a first edition of Winnie the Pooh. It had been Harriet’s favorite book when she was little, and she would read it to Jen night after night.
Harriet looked at it quickly. “Oh, a book. How sweet. How lovely. Right, now, Paul, why don’t you open your present?” She deposited a large parcel in front of Paul, who frowned as he pulled away the wrapping. Jen forced herself to smile, trying not to get worked up about her mother’s dismissal of the present she’d spent so long tracking down.
“Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!” Harriet announced, clapping, before Paul could speak. “Isn’t it perfect!”
He smiled, looking at the book curiously.
“I’m sure you’ve already read it,” she continued excitedly, “but I just looked at it and thought of you.”
Paul nodded seriously. “Of course,” he said, putting the book down.
Jen eyed him suspiciously. “Of course, what?” she wanted to ask, but Harriet was already handing out gifts to everyone else and telling them how perfect the presents were before they had time to react themselves. Has she always been this annoying, Jen wondered, or is it a new thing?
By four o’clock, Jen was exhausted. The Tibetan hot pot had been surprisingly delicious, but there was no doubt that it had left a huge gaping hole in her stomach where Christmas pudding and mince pies should have been, and she’d spent about as much time as she could bear listening to Harriet tell everyone the story of how she’d set up Green Futures from scratch, the story of how she’d singlehandedly saved a large stretch of woodland in southeast England, and the story of her trip around the world to spread the message of corporate social responsibility and how grateful everyone had been.
Eventually, when Harriet stopped to draw breath, Jen stood up and walked over to her. She couldn’t stay silent, she’d realized. She just didn’t work that way. She needed to talk to her mother, needed to know the truth, and she needed to do it now. “Can I have a word?” she asked.
Harriet smiled beatifically. “Of course. Everyone, Jen’s got something to say.”
Jen cringed. “No, I meant in private.”
Harriet looked confused, then smiled. “Of course, darling. Let’s go to the kitchen. So,” Harriet said as soon as they were out of earshot, “do you have some news on your father? You’ve gone rather quiet lately.”
Jen sat down and Harriet joined her, looking at her expectantly. “I spoke to him.”
“Spoke to whom, darling?”
“Dad. I spoke to Dad.”
Harriet frowned. “You spoke to George? I don’t think I understand. Did he know it was you?”
Jen nodded.
“Oh God,” Harriet gasped. “So the secret’s out? How did he react? Was he very angry?”
“You had the affair.”
Harriet started, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry?” she asked angrily. “What did you say?”
“Dad told me that you had the affair, not him.”
Harriet looked at her daughter indignantly. “And you believe your father rather than me? Trust the man who betrayed me, who left you without a second glance . . .”
“Did he really? Or did you leave him?”
Harriet frowned. “Darling, it was all such a long time ago. Does it really matter now? The point is that you and I . . . we’re a team. We’re . . .”
“So you did have an affair?” Jen’s voice was monotone. She told herself it was because she was beyond caring, but in reality it was her way of keeping a check on herself, to stop her voice turning into a hurt, angry squeak.
Harriet looked closely at her daughter, then slumped back against her chair. Hesitating, she tried to take Jen’s hand, and when Jen quickly moved it away, she nodded, a look of resignation on her face.
“Jen, darling, I did what I thought I had to do. George may not have had an actual affair, but he might as well have done. He was never there, never left that bloody office. And when he said he was leaving, I just couldn’t bear the idea of him taking you, too. Darling, I wanted to protect you. . . .”
“You lied to me.” There were tears pricking at Jen’s eyes and she wiped them away angrily.
“I didn’t think you’d understand. I knew George would be too busy to see you, that he would only disappoint you as he had done already, time after time, missing your birthdays, your concerts. I thought . . . I thought it would be easier. . . .”
Jen looked at her mother and could see the insecurity in Harriet’s face, but it only made Jen more angry, more resentful. “He’s my father,” she said quietly.
Harriet nodded. “You’re angry,” she said. “And I understand . . .”
“You understand?” Jen asked incredulously. “You understand? Is that it?”
“Paul said that you’d react like this, and I just thought . . .”
“Paul knew?” Jen spat. “Paul knew about this and I didn’t?”
“He helps me, darling. I talk to him. I . . .”
“And how much do you pay him to listen, Mum? How much money do you pay him to tell you that you’ve done the right thing, that it’s okay to lie to your daughter? That it’s perfectly okay to convince me that not only does my own father not care about me, but that he’s also tied up in some corruption scandal. And it’s all utter bollocks!”
Harriet’s eyes widened. “That’s unfair, Jennifer,” she said, her voice faltering. “This has got nothing to do with Paul. And I think I know a little bit more about your father than you do. He’s a selfish, self-serving man, and I hoped I could show you that. . . .”
“Selfish and self-serving? What, unlike you?”
“I’ve only ever done my best,” Harriet said quietly. “You don’t know what it’s like to be lonely, Jennifer. Don’t know what it’s like to have to start from scratch.”
“Lonely? Mum, you took my father away. I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”
“I wanted what was best for you, that’s all.”
“What was best for you, you mean,” Jen said angrily. “You just can’t help it, can you? You have to control everything, have to run the show. Well I’ve had enough of you trying to run my life.”
Harriet looked at her with surprise on her face. “Run your life? I barely get a look in. I never know what you’re doing, where you’re going, anything.”
“That’s just not true!” Jen said exasperatedly. “And I’ve had enough. I’m not going to be your pawn anymore.”
“I sense tension.” Jen looked up, shocked to see Paul emerge through the door. How long had he been there? Had he heard everything, she wondered? “Perhaps some herbal tea would be a good idea? This kitchen has a difficult space—it encourages conflict.”
Harriet took his hand. “Oh, Paul, that’s a wonderful idea. Jen, why don’t we have some herbal tea?”
She looked at Jen hopefully and Jen stared at her. “Herbal tea? Are you serious?”
“It’s very calming,” Harriet said, her voice quavering. “Please, Jen . . .”
Paul put his hand on Harriet’s shoulder. “Jennifer is upset, and that is okay,” he said quietly. “She is finding her place in the world, and it’s a difficult time for her.”
Jen frowned, then felt an enormous rush of energy cascade through her. It was all suddenly very simple. She looked her mother straight in the eye, then pushed her chair back and stood up.
“Actually, it’s not as
difficult as I thought it would be,” she said calmly. “Paul’s right that I’m finding my place in the world—and one thing I’m sure of is that it isn’t here. So if it’s all right with you, I’m going home.” Slowly, she made her way into the sitting room, pulled on her coat, picked up her bag, and headed for the door.
“Darling, don’t go,” Harriet said weakly, getting up and following Jen toward the front door. “It’s Christmas. . . .”
“Right now I don’t really care,” Jen said tightly, not noticing that everyone had wandered out into the hall to stare at her. She couldn’t stay here another minute. Opening the door, she took one last look at her mother and walked out, closing the door behind her and finding herself outside on the deserted winter street.
It was one of those cold, bitter nights where every little bit of exposed skin burns against the wind. This has to go down as the worst Christmas ever, she thought to herself sadly. She suddenly remembered a bar of chocolate she had in her pocket and opened it, wolfing it down hungrily. She sat down on her mother’s stoop and contemplated her position. Christmas Day, on her own, freezing cold, and a good half an hour’s walk from home.
Still, she knew where she was now. The truth was out.
She walked over to her mother’s bin to deposit her chocolate wrapper and frowned slightly when she opened the lid. There, hidden under a Marks and Spencer’s bag, were several takeaway boxes with THE TIBETAN KITCHEN written on them. Surely Paul hadn’t cheated, she wondered with a smile. Perhaps he wasn’t all he’d made himself out to be either.
She shrugged—in that case, they truly deserved each other. Still, that didn’t mean he had to get away with it completely. Smiling to herself, she took out one of the boxes and carefully placed it just outside her mother’s front door.
Then she turned, buried her hands deep inside her coat pockets, and started the long walk home. Her mobile phone was in one of her pockets and, pulling her collar up against the wind, she took it out to transfer it to her bag. As she did so, she saw that she had a text message. Moving under a lamppost, she hit VIEW.
HPPY XMS. FNCY A DRNK SMTM WHN I GT BCK? DANIEL X
She stared at the message. Daniel “x”? He was kissing her by text? He wanted to know if she fancied a drink sometime?
Jen looked around. Suddenly she wasn’t a total saddo who was on her own at Christmas—she was a romantic heroine walking through a winter wonderland. Nothing seemed quite so bad anymore.
Do I fancy a drink sometime? she thought to herself happily. Ooh, I think I could be persuaded.
16
“Dum, dum, dum, dum, gonna use my style, gonna use my sidestep, gonna use my, my, my imagination, yeah . . .”
Jen hummed along to Chrissie Hynde blaring out of her stereo as she lay in the hot, steaming bath, watching her skin gradually go wrinkled and pink. It’s just a drink, she told herself. Just a drink with Daniel. Nothing worth getting steamed up about.
But even as she thought the words she knew she didn’t believe them. As far as she was concerned, this was their first proper date. The first date that definitely had nothing to do with work, MBAs, or anything else. No one would be waiting outside her flat at the end of this date, and there would be no walking around bookshops. No, this was absolutely worth getting steamed up about.
Jen lifted one of her legs out of the water and started to shave it. She’d have had them waxed but getting an appointment at short notice had proved to be completely impossible—all the salons were either closed over Christmas or booked up. Of course, shaving would mean that next time she had them waxed her beautician would tut at Jen and give her that reproachful look that made her feel like she’d admitted to running a small slave-trade operation rather than simply whipping out her razor in an emergency. But that was nothing that couldn’t be sorted out with an extra-large tip.
When she finished, she reluctantly heaved herself out of the water and immediately felt a cold draft hit her. That was the problem with “character” apartments like hers. They looked lovely, but the windows were always centuries old and you could never get properly warm. Like country houses—Jen had learned many years ago that if you ever got invited to someone’s country house (or rather, someone’s parents’ country house), you had to bring not just jumpers, but blankets, thick socks, thermal underwear, and woolly hats and you’d still be cold. Maybe that’s why the English have stiff upper lips, she thought to herself as she dried herself quickly and slathered on body lotion. Maybe they were frozen that way.
Quickly, Jen wrapped her old, battered, but much-loved terry towling bathrobe around herself and stuck her feet in her trusty Ugg boots. It wasn’t a look that screamed “sex goddess,” but it was warm, and right now, that was what really mattered.
Did she even know how to scream “sex goddess” anymore, she wondered, taking out some tweezers to pluck her eyebrows. It had been, what . . . she counted on her fingers . . . quite a few months since she’d last had sex. And the last time had been a not particularly fulfilling post-Gavin fling with Jim, a friend of a friend, who had been very drunk (as had Jen), and which had led to an excruciating morning after, in which both she and Jim had been keen to get him out of her flat as quickly as was humanly possible.
Not that she’d necessarily be having sex tonight or anything. Not definitely.
She peered at her reflection in the mirror, trying to ascertain what makeup to wear. Her skin was pale, with red blotchy bits around the nose and chin—the result of Christmas drinks and the bitterly cold weather. So, foundation then. Lots of concealer.
She wandered over to her stereo and put on Style Council at full volume. There was nothing like the prospect of a love affair to make everything seem a bit more shiny and new. It was the same feeling (although, you know, a lot better) that she used to get in September when she was starting a new year at junior school with a neatly pressed uniform that hadn’t yet been covered with ink or bits of lunch; her pencil case would be full of bright new pens; and her new classroom would signal loud and clear that she’d moved up in the world. There was so much expectation, so much hope that this time things would be better—that she’d suddenly be in with the in-crowd and know all the pop songs her schoolmates sang in the playground, and wouldn’t get a single red mark in her exercise book or, worse, the ominous “Please see me.”
Of course, it usually only lasted a week or so before she realized that a new desk and clean uniform didn’t make her any different. Her mother still refused to let her listen to pop music on the radio or even to watch Top of the Pops, which led to a significant disadvantage in the playground; she still daydreamed too much, mobilizing her teacher’s red pen every time she sat down to write something. And it was usually the same with love affairs—all too quickly the sheeny, shiny, new love interest turned out to be a man like any other, “forgetting” to call, refusing to plan more than a week ahead, insisting on going to a pub that was showing “the game,” whether it was football, rugby, or cricket.
She sighed, then shook herself. Now was not the time to think about such matters. She was getting ready for a date, and who knows, maybe this time would be different.
“You look . . . gorgeous.”
Daniel was smiling, and Jen felt herself go a bit wobbly inside. “Th . . . thank you,” she said, shivering. A cold December night was not the time to wear a skirt and high heels, she knew, but practicality wasn’t everything. Earlier that evening Jen had peered outside at the snow gathering on her windowsill and had spent a few minutes trying to convince herself that sheepskin boots were, in fact, pretty attractive and would demonstrate just how relaxed she felt in Daniel’s company. Particularly when she’d opened her front door to an icy cold gust of wind. But she knew that legs did not look their best in flat, chunky boots, so eventually she had compromised with a fairly substantial yet still quite delicate pair of highish black pumps. And she was absolutely bloody freezing.
“Shall we get you inside?” Daniel suggested, and held open the door. They
were at Ketners, a bar in Cambridge Circus, just down from Oxford Street and a stone’s throw from Soho.
Jen nodded gratefully and found herself walking into a small, cozy room with waiters in black suits and groups of people sitting around tables drinking champagne.
“I guess people are in a celebratory mood,” she said to Daniel, and he grinned.
“Actually it’s a champagne bar,” he whispered. “I heard that girls like champagne. Sorry, women. Um . . .”
He looked perplexed and Jen smiled. “Girl is fine,” she said. “It’s usually only when you’re a teenager that you want to be called a woman. Once you’re the wrong side of twenty-five, girl is always welcome. Although not if you say it in a patronizing tone. Oh, and never say lady. That’s the worst.”
Daniel nodded seriously as they were shown to a small table in the corner of the room. “I’ll try and remember that,” he said. “But in the meantime, what shall we order?”
Jen frowned. “We have a choice?”
“Absolutely. Straight champagne, champagne cocktail, vintage champagne, new champagne, pink, white . . .”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture. Just straight champagne for me.”
Daniel nodded and a waiter appeared out of nowhere. “A bottle of champagne,” he said. “And some nibbles. Olives, bread, that sort of thing.”
The waiter disappeared, and the two of them were left alone. Jen found her stomach doing flip-flops.
“So, good Christmas?” Daniel asked.
Jen rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t call it good, exactly. Interesting, maybe.”
Daniel grinned. “Don’t tell me you come from a dysfunctional family, too?”
Jen nodded. “There’s no way yours can be as bad as mine,” she said with a little smile.
Daniel’s eyes glinted slightly. “Oh, so we’re competing, are we? Well, okay, mine aren’t exactly dysfunctional, but they do live in the middle of nowhere and they like trifle on Christmas Day, not Christmas pudding. And they take the Queen’s speech very seriously indeed. Why do you think I was texting you on Christmas Day? I was desperate!”
Learning curves: a novel of sex, suits, and business affairs Page 14