The Other Half

by Sarah Rayner

  “Hey, this is nice,” said James.

  “You think so?” Chloë was amazed—its haphazard style was hardly in keeping with his designer suits.

  “Yeah.” He sauntered around, casually taking stock, peering at the fridge smothered in photos of Chloë with her friends, examining the quirky knickknacks on the windowsill, chortling at Rob’s camp fifties B-movie posters.

  He wandered through the double doors into the living room.

  It’s less tidy in there, Chloë worried. There were magazines everywhere and stacks of CDs that had been separated from their covers from last Sunday’s gathering with her girlfriends.

  “Ah!” James kicked off his shoes. “Sorry, old fella, my turn.” He shoved the cat off the settee so he could stretch out on it lengthways. “This is just my kind of place, you know,” he called through to Chloë. “Reminds me of where I lived when I first got to London.” She came to the door. With his feet propped up on one of the sofa arms, he looked as if there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

  “Do you want some more wine?” she asked. Living hand to mouth as she and Rob tended to, they had far from a cellarful, but they always had a couple of cheapish bottles in stock for emergencies. “I’m afraid it’s nothing spectacular.”

  “Please.”

  Chloë grabbed the red, two glasses, and the corkscrew and followed him into the sitting room. “Budge up.”

  He lifted his legs so she could join him, then promptly put them on her lap. And yes, there it was again—that whoosh of sheer, unstoppable desire. Chloë found it hard to concentrate on the corkscrew.

  “Let me.” James reached for it. He opened the wine easily, poured them each a glass, and placed the bottle on the coffee table. “Come here.” He reached for her.

  Chloë shifted so she was half lying on him, their faces level. With some men she worried at moments like this that she was ungraceful in the way she moved and too heavy, but not here, with James.

  “What time’s your roommate back?”

  “Not till eleven.” Chloë could feel his breath.

  He stroked her cheek. “You’re lovely,” he said, and kissed her. Ooh—it was even better than before! Maybe it was because she was sober, or more relaxed. Maybe it was because she was now pretty sure he liked her—a lot. Maybe … Chloë’s energies shifted out of her head, her brain went mushy, and … mmm … she could sense the bristles from his five o’clock shadow … She was being taken over by a divine sensation lower down. He undid the buttons of her blouse without a hitch—she’d known it was a good choice for that reason—and slid his hands into her bra. Yes, please … She was feeling very horny; certainly not like plump, clumsy Chloë now. With her satin shirt slipping off her shoulders, his own half undone—she’d forgotten how sexy his chest was—she felt wonderfully wanton.

  She knelt up and looked at him.

  “Take off your skirt,” he directed.

  There was no way to achieve this and remain close to him other than for Chloë to stand on the sofa astride him, balanced on wobbly cushions. Nevertheless she managed to accomplish the task by standing momentarily on one leg. More incredibly, because she was being watched by a thoroughly appreciative man, she did it with real grace.

  “There!” she said, still standing. Thank God for her best bra and knickers. He ran his hands up her legs. And thank God she’d shaved.

  She looked down at James, enjoying watching him taking her all in and relishing the sight of him, still in his trousers, his eyes full of lust.

  “Jeez,” he said, spellbound. “You look amazing. You are all woman.”

  “This is where I like my publishers to be.” She laughed, and knelt down, still astride him, the flatness of her crotch directly above the bump of his erection. She gently rubbed herself against it, knowing full well the effect it would have.

  “Chloë,” he groaned.

  Slowly she undid the remaining buttons of his shirt.

  “Thank God all features editors aren’t like you,” he muttered, unzipping his fly. “There wouldn’t”—he slid down his trousers—“be a hope in hell”—he pushed her knickers to one side—“of me being remotely able to keep my professional”—he began to thrust—“distance.”

  13

  “Open the door,” Jamie said to Nathan. They were home from playing soccer again, all tired and sweaty.

  Nathan opened the hall closet and stood back, ready for the ritual.

  “He shoots, he scores!” Jamie whacked the ball through the door, knocking a couple of coats off their hooks.

  Nathan squealed, delighted.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that.” Maggie sighed.

  “Oh.” Jamie sounded deflated.

  “That closet’s enough of a mess as it is.”

  “Gee, I’m sorry,” said Jamie sarcastically, and he winked at Nathan in camaraderie.

  “Boring Mummy,” said Nathan, which only made Maggie more irritable. She was tired and sweaty too, but not from having fun: she’d been vacuuming and scrubbing all afternoon. Plus it was the second day of her period—always the worst.

  “Actually,” she said, “I would appreciate it a lot if you could tidy it up in there. It’s full of junk. I don’t know how you can ever find anything—the other day it took me ages to unearth my trainers. I felt like I’d worked out before I even started running.”

  “Ooh, dear,” said Jamie, “what’s got into Mummy today? It’s probably that time of the month.”

  That he was right and addressed this remark to Nathan was the last straw. “In fact, I’d like you to do it now.”

  “What—now?”

  “You might as well. Before you shower.”

  “But the results are on in a minute! We’ve come back specially.”

  “Nathan can tell you them.” In need of no further excuse to escape, Nathan scarpered into the sitting room and switched on the television.

  “Why do I have to do it this second? Why not tomorrow?”

  He’s just like a child, thought Maggie. “Because you won’t do it tomorrow.”

  “I will.”

  “No, you won’t. And, anyway, I want it done now. Then I can relax.”

  “You can’t relax when there’s mess in the hall closet?” He seemed determined to provoke her.

  “No, I bloody well can’t!” Maggie raised her voice.

  “Jesus, Maggie. Sometimes I worry about you. You’re obsessed with everything being so goddamn tidy!” It was incredible how he managed to turn his own messiness into a failing of hers.

  “I am not obsessed. Anyway, if I am, it’s because someone’s got to be around here.”

  “Why? It’s hardly as if the world would stop turning if I didn’t tidy up your precious closet.”

  “Because if I left it up to you the whole house would be a fucking pigsty.” This was not a word Maggie used readily, and she checked Nathan was out of earshot.

  “Why don’t you just let it be for once? Then maybe I could relax.”

  “That’s rich. You know damn well you’d hate to live like that.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Maggie.” The use of her name, pointedly.

  “Tell me, how would you like to live?”

  “I wouldn’t have everything so anally goddamn perfect. It’s bad enough having my dinner plate washed up before I’ve even finished my pudding, but all our CDs arranged alphabetically! All my bloody underpants rolled in my drawers. My socks in color-coordinated rows. I don’t mind when you do it to your stuff, but I hate it when you do it to mine. Come to that,” he was so angry his cheeks were flushed, “if you really want to know how I’d like to live, I wouldn’t choose to live here at all.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re the one who wanted some beautiful sodding period home out here in the middle of nowhere. I’d much rather still be up in town. All this commuting, it’s wearing me out. If I don’t have any energy for housework, that’s damn well why!”

  Maggie was shaking. “You’ve got the ener
gy for soccer.”

  “It’s not the same and you know it! Look, we’ve got this huge bloody house with a huge bloody mortgage. I take care of the mortgage—”

  “So the least I can do is take care of the house?” Maggie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

  “Yes.”

  “You do not take care of the fucking mortgage!” She was close to screaming now. “We both do!”

  “Yeah right,” said Jamie. “And I’ve told you before, if you need some help, get a cleaner.”

  “I can’t find a cleaner!”

  “If you weren’t so snotty to them maybe they’d stay.”

  He’d struck a nerve. Maggie acknowledged she could be a tough taskmaster. “I never knew you felt that way about the house,” she said more soberly.

  “Well you do now,” muttered Jamie, calming down too.

  “You should have told me before.” She was close to tears.

  “I didn’t know what it would be like until we moved here.”

  “No, nor did I,” said Maggie regretfully. She missed her London friends—especially at times like this. Here she had so few people to confide in.

  “And I wanted to make you happy,” added Jamie. By now Maggie was crying and Jamie looked as if he really hated himself. “Though I don’t seem to be very good at that.”

  “Oh, it’s not you,” said Maggie, despising herself for being so foul to him.

  They both paused.

  “I’m sorry,” he said eventually.

  “Me too,” she said, and stepped forward as he reached to fold her in his arms.

  14

  As she lay in bed on Sunday morning, Chloë dozily replayed Thursday night, carefully selecting the memories that made her feel good and skipping over the issues—James’s family—that made her feel bad. She allowed herself to linger extra long on the compliments James had paid her, which made her feel all warm inside. He’d said she was “lovely,” “amazing,” that he loved her breasts (she quite liked them too—they were her favorite part of her body) and even (madman) her curvy hips, her belly. What was that phrase he’d used? “All woman.” She liked that …

  Ooh! She was suddenly fully awake. All things to all women … every aspect of an individual woman … something for every kind of woman … the whole truth about women … It certainly had several meanings. It even sounded a bit risqué, but that was no bad thing … Yes. All Woman would be a good title for her magazine.

  * * *

  A week later she got a call.

  “I’ve got you the go-ahead,” said Vanessa, not bothering with small talk. “And the board likes the name. You’ve three months seconded to this department initially, working with me and another assistant.”

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “It should prove interesting.” Vanessa sounded a few degrees above freezing. “I’d like to start at the beginning of October, as I’m going away for a couple of weeks next Monday. It would also help if you took any vacation time owed to you before we begin. That way we can get our teeth into it.” She probably sucked blood with hers, thought Chloë. “So you’d better tell your editor, sharpish.”

  Yes, thought Chloë. Not a task she relished. “Leave it to me.” She tried to sound capable. “I’ll let you know when I’ve spoken to her.”

  Well, no time like the present. Chloë pushed back her chair and marched purposefully to Jean’s office. The door was open—it was one of Jean’s I’m-one-of-the-girls practices (though as the boss there was heaps of gossip from which she was excluded). Chloë stood on the threshold and tapped lightly.

  Jean looked up and smiled. “Ah, Chloë,” she said. While she bore a resemblance to a more well-rounded Coco Chanel, beneath her polished and classically suited exterior, Jean was not a cold woman. And Chloë was aware that while her unconventional approach sometimes frustrated her boss, Jean had a soft spot for her. She’d nurtured Chloë’s career from editorial assistant onward and upward.

  She’s going to be pissed off no matter what, thought Chloë, but I owe her a lot, and I don’t want to ruin any future chances I might have with her. Diplomacy is key.

  “Ahem.” She cleared her throat, unusually nervous. “I don’t know where to start.”

  “Sounds ominous,” said Jean. “Have a seat.”

  “You know how much I love working here at Babe.”

  “Ye-es.” Jean was on her guard already.

  “And you know how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me—”

  “You’re leaving.”

  “Not exactly … I’ve been invited to work in special projects for three months.”

  “You have? They asked you? Just out of the blue?” Jean knew full well that this would not have been the case, but Chloë wasn’t surprised an immediate sense of betrayal made her snappy.

  “No, I approached them,” she admitted.

  “I see. And why was that, if you’re so happy here?”

  There was nothing else for it; she would have to be honest. “I’ve been developing another magazine concept.”

  “A women’s magazine?”

  Chloë knew exactly what Jean was driving at. “Yes, but it’s not a competitor to Babe, Jean, honestly.”

  “If you say so,” said Jean, sitting back. “I overheard Vanessa talking about it and I expected as much. I presume you kept it from me until it was definite. I want the whole story, beginning to end. And quit buttering me up.”

  Lord—as if Chloë was going to tell Jean everything! She related a highly censored version, emphasizing her work had all been out-of-office hours, and playing up Vanessa’s role. (Vanessa would like that, so no harm there.)

  When she’d finished Jean said, “It sounds very exciting. Though you know a lot of these projects come to nothing, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to keep your job open for you.” Jean did not even try to disguise how much this put her out.

  “That would be great.”

  “Not for me it won’t be. But it’s UK Magazines’ policy, so I’ve no choice.”

  “I’m sorry,” she ventured.

  “No, you’re not!” retorted Jean, spot on as usual. “Though I do understand. It’s because you’re good that I don’t want to see you go. So, from a selfish point of view, I hope you fall flat on your face and have to come back to me. But for yours, I wish you luck. I can’t begrudge you your ambition, given mine’s got me where I am today. Now off you go, before I throttle you!”

  * * *

  Another fortnight, and a couple of snatched clandestine meetings later, Chloë was longing for the opportunity to spend more than a few hours at a time with James. Especially as she was taking the next week off to use up her leave before starting work with Vanessa. She wanted to get to know him better, to discover if the connection that promised so much ran any deeper. In spite of her best efforts not to think of him too seriously, she was beginning to hope and believe that it did. As they lay curled up together at her place one Wednesday evening—this time James had used the hackneyed working-late excuse, believing he genuinely ought to play squash with his friend the next day—he said, “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to manage this next week.”

  Chloë could scarcely conceal her disappointment. She’d hoped to persuade him to take an afternoon off with her. “Why not?”

  “I’m going away.”

  “Oh.” I suppose he’s going on vacation with his wife, she thought. It’s only to be expected. Still, the idea made her feel left out and rejected. It was a familiar emotion—she’d experienced it watching her parents bickering, too preoccupied to be aware of the impact on her; and with men she’d been involved with in the past, as well. Because she didn’t expect her feelings to matter to James either, she said nothing.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me where I’m off to?” he asked, idly stroking her arm.

  “Mm,” she said quietly.

  “New York. For a week.”

  She couldn’t h
elp it. She was so jealous—it was somewhere she’d always wanted to go. “You lucky thing,” she said, trying not to sound envious and turning her arm so he could stroke it from a new angle. “Where are you both staying? Do you know people out there?” Yes, of course he did—Beth. She didn’t suppose they’d be staying with her. Though one never knew—perhaps enough time had passed that she and Maggie were friends by now.

  “Both? Ah!” He laughed, realizing her mistake. “I’m not going with Maggie.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’m going on business, and Maggie’s got to stay here and look after Nathan.”

  “Of course,” she said, feeling stupid for not thinking of this.

  “I’m going to visit US Magazines. It’s the annual conference.”

  It was obvious he’d be attending. UK Magazines sent their key people to the parent company event every year.

  “I’ll miss you,” she said.

  “And me you.”

  “It’s a shame, actually.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cause I’m off work next week.”

  “You are?”

  “I have to use up my vacation days before shifting departments. I’d kind of hoped … you might have taken a day off to spend with me or something.”

  “That would have been nice.” James sounded regretful.

  “Oh, never mind.” Chloë changed the subject, unwilling to seem overly keen. “Better make the most of this, then.” She kissed him persuasively. “Fancy giving me a massage?”

  * * *

  The next day Chloë was at her desk when an e-mail popped up from James. She read it at once.

  Have you opened your internal mail yet?

  She hadn’t bothered with any of her mail. With only forty-eight hours on the magazine to go, she hadn’t been able to get excited about anything to do with Babe that day. She riffled through the pile until she located the thick brown manila envelope tied with string those at UK Publishing still found occasional use for. Her name was scrawled at No. 15, the last on the list. It contained another smaller envelope labeled Chloë Appleton and underlined Private and Confidential. She tore it open and caught her breath.