by Sarah Rayner
And then he kissed her.
To Maggie’s amazement, it was fantastic. Gentle and soft, but oh, so sexy. Had Alex always kissed like that? She was sure he hadn’t. In fact, once it had started she didn’t want it to stop, and were it not for a vague awareness that someone might emerge from the dining room and catch them, she would happily have stood there, in the corner of the hallway, kissing him, so deliciously, for the next few hours. She felt her whole body come alive, as if what was happening to her lips was a magic key, unlocking her entire being.
Suddenly, she thought about Jamie, about how she’d been judging him, about how she’d implied to Fran only a few days previously that infidelity was such a clear-cut issue. Was this what had gotten into him? Was this what it had been like with Chloë, so tantalizing, so irresistible?
She pulled away. “Oh, Alex … I’m not sure we should be doing this, should we?”
“No, we probably shouldn’t,” he said, but he didn’t sound as if he meant it, and merely started kissing her again.
Lord, it was so good!
He felt different from Jamie, smelled different. Yet he felt and smelled familiar too, and briefly Maggie was taken back to her youth, to the years they’d spent together. How comforting, reassuring. And then again as they continued embracing, touching, she grew increasingly aware that Alex wasn’t the man he’d been then, that he was different, somehow, somebody exciting, new.
“Maggie, you do know I still care about you, don’t you? I care about you an awful lot…”
“And I you,” she said, realizing that she did, though unsure whether it was quite to the same degree. And as she was swept up into his kisses once more, and felt the solidity of his body against her, she was filled with yearning for him, for his uncomplicated kindness and humanity.
“Where are you staying tonight?” he murmured a few minutes later. “Have you got to go home?”
“I was supposed to be staying here,” Maggie whispered, “with Liz and Will…”
“Why don’t you come back with me?” He pulled away from her a little, and started stroking her hair. She remembered how he’d always loved her hair, how soft and beautiful he’d said it was. “It’s not far…”
Maggie frowned. If I go back I can guess what will happen, she thought. I’m far too turned on not to have sex with him. Then there won’t be the clear distinction between my behavior and Jamie’s anymore. It’s only been a month since Jamie moved out and I haven’t sorted my feelings about him, let alone another man … But then, she argued with herself, would it really be so bad? She’d been so goddamn good. Wasn’t it time she had some fun? And at least with Alex she knew he cared …
Ultimately, what swayed her was curiosity. As far as she remembered—but it had been over fifteen years since she’d slept with him—Alex hadn’t been that great a lover, at least not as good as Jamie, and she wanted to see if this was still true. Because if these incredible long kisses were anything to go by, he had changed … He had changed, a lot.
“Okay. What the hell? It’s New Year’s Eve…”
“I’ll tell them you don’t feel so good,” said Alex, appreciating without her saying that she’d want to be discreet. “I’ll say I’m going to drop you home after all.”
“Thank you.” She smiled up at him. He’s generous, she thought.
And so, an hour later, she found herself in Alex’s apartment in Putney. He poured them each a nightcap, and sat down next to her on the sofa. Maggie felt self-conscious all over again.
What am I doing? she thought. Is this really such a good idea? Won’t it ruin the chance of a reconciliation with Jamie once and for all, or are we beyond that anyway?
Alex seemed to pick up on her doubt. “It’s okay.” He took her hand. “I’ll look after you, I promise. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And you’re not to worry—I’ve no expectations beyond tonight.”
Yet as he said that, Maggie knew that she did want to—that she more than wanted to, she needed to, and she needed Alex to want her very much indeed. It was as if the lid had been lifted off all the unexpressed passion she’d harbored for months, and now she had an outlet for it, with someone who reciprocated her desire.
What started as a little tentative hand-stroking rapidly developed into more; within minutes Alex had slipped his hands into her bra and was stroking her breasts. Soon they’d tugged off each other’s clothes and she’d pulled him on top of her. Then they threw the cushions off the sofa and—laughing—tumbled onto the floor. Maggie could feel the carpet scraping her back, but she didn’t care. Far from it—there was something about the mild discomfort that turned her on even more. With one foot, she pushed away the coffee table so she could lift her legs, allowing him to penetrate more deeply.
Bloody hell! she thought, I am quite, quite convinced Alex did not do it like this before …
Halfway through he stopped and withdrew from inside her, then very gently put two fingers into her, pushing slightly toward her belly, then away as he did so. Jesus, she said to herself, I’ve not had that experience, ever—maybe it’s the G-spot I never really believed existed … And then he started to kiss her body, pausing to suck on her breasts—mmm, she’d always liked that. He continued kissing her lower down, so she wasn’t sure what was what or where, only that it felt so good.
She opened her eyes and looked down at him, and as she did so she could see him tenderly watching her, seeing if she was happy.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
It made her long for him all the more. She nodded. “Alex, come back inside me now … I want to come with you…” So he stopped what he was doing and did as she asked. “Can you feel it?” She breathed. “Can you feel I’m about to?”
“Yes,” he whispered, and paused, so he could feel the pulse of her. He began to move rhythmically again, and digging her nails into his back, she came with a fantastic shudder. Sensing her do so, he gave in to his own desire also.
42
On February 14, the first issue of All Woman was launched. The day the magazine hit the newsstands, its controversial subject matter and provocative tone, offset by typography, illustration, and photography that were stylish and groundbreaking in equal measure, caused a Twitter storm, and Chloë found herself asked to talk about it on local radio and television. The first time she had to do so, she was nervous, but having done it once, she discovered she took to center stage rather well.
“You’re more of an actress than you’ll ever know,” Rob had observed, after watching her on the TV. “Must be the theatrical family background—you put this particular drama queen to shame.”
The main event of this frantic week was the launch party, due to be held—at Chloë’s insistence—at the Café de Paris in Leicester Square. While it was no longer the trendy nightspot it had once been, Chloë believed its opulent faux-Baroque interior would provide the perfect backdrop for a fancy-dress extravaganza. Guests were invited to come as historic figures they felt were “all woman,” and as word spread that it was a media event to be seen at, invitations became highly sought after, with style and news correspondents fighting to get on the list.
Rob couldn’t contain himself when he heard. “You’re going to have all these straight journos turning up in drag!”
“Exactly.” Chloë nodded. “They won’t be allowed in otherwise. It’ll be a scream, don’t you think?”
“Ooh, I wish I could come.” He pouted.
“I’d love for you to, but it’s not really up to me, I’m afraid. Everything’s organized by our PR department.”
Inevitably Chloë took ages to decide what to wear. She was determined to look unique, so she rejected rental shops, yet in the end she left it so late that she was forced to assemble the outfit herself, running round the wholesale outlets of Soho’s backstreets to piece it together.
“Well, what do you think?” she asked Rob when she was ready, twirling into his room.
Rob looked at her, mystified. He took in th
e white sheet swathed around her hour-glass form like a toga, exposing not unattractive amounts of curvy flesh. Her dark curls were gathered up like those of a Greek goddess, with a few tendrils framing her face becomingly. Her eyes were emphasized with copious black liner. Her wrists jangled with gold bangles, and on her feet were thong sandals. The final touch, which she was proudly brandishing in front of her, was a large box.
“Totally divine,” he acknowledged. “Though who the devil are you?”
“Open it,” she ordered, thrusting the box into his hands.
He read the carefully handwritten label, A Gift from Zeus, and lifted the lid. Startled, he jumped back as half a dozen springs popped up, narrowly missing his face. Yet where one might perhaps have expected there to be a jack-in-the-box, on the end of each spring was a different object: the figure of a little devil, a lipstick, a miniature bottle of tequila, a packet of condoms, and a scaled-down copy of All Woman … He scratched his head. “Evil things…” he muttered. “So you’re wicked … but not Eve…”
“Ye-es?”
“Hmm?”
“… a box…”
“You’re Pandora!”
“Appropriate—don’t you agree—that I should be single-handedly responsible for bringing all the troubles into the world?”
“Ideal for the editor of such a contentious mag.” He nodded.
“Thank you,” said Chloë, as the doorbell rang. “Eek, that’s my taxi!” She snatched back her most crucial accessory.
“Knock ’em dead!” shouted Rob, as she bolted out of the door.
On arriving at the Café de Paris, Chloë helped herself from the silver tray laden with glasses of champagne held by a waiter in the foyer and downed it in one to steady her nerves. Then she moved on to a second waiter for another and pushed open the double doors into the main body of the nightclub.
The first thing she saw, straight ahead of her, was a giant poster of the All Woman front cover. Chloë flushed with pride; at what must have been twenty feet high, it took up the entire stage, spanning the lower and upper levels of the club. She moved toward the edge of the balcony, where two symmetrical staircases swept in golden spirals to the main floor below, and looked down.
She’d made sure not to be too early, aware that waiting for guests to arrive would only make her anxious, especially as she was one of the hosts. When she and Rob entertained at home she had no choice in the matter, but here, at a work party where everything was set up already, she didn’t have to sit around biting her nails. The bar area thronged with people. Despite the dim, ultraviolet lighting, from her vantage point Chloë could see many familiar faces. There was Jean, dressed as … yes, Anaïs Nin. How typical of her to choose someone so literary. There was her co-host, Vanessa—or Morticia, rather—she’d barely had to dress up at all. And there, surrounded by three male Marilyns, clearly relishing an invitation to assess their fake cleavages, was Patsy—Holly Golightly to a T. Chloë scanned the rest of the dance floor. There was a very masculine Nell Gwynn, a couple of Madonnas, a chubby Mata Hari, half a dozen Cleopatras—three of each sex—and a riot of other amusingly costumed guests. Yet where, among all these people, was James? Chloë couldn’t see him, so she decided to go down and have a thorough look. No sooner had she reached the bottom of the stairs than she was cornered by Jean.
“Chloë! Long time no see!” She was tipsy already.
“Yes,” said Chloë, feeling at once that she was to blame. Despite working in the same building, she’d not been in to see her old boss in weeks. Although she knew it was advisable to keep on the good side of a woman as influential as Jean, she’d hardly had a moment to spare. Also, since Patsy had warned her of Jean’s mounting suspicions all those months ago, she was concerned that Jean would jump at the chance to delve. James had told her that Jean knew, and was furious with them both. Rather than face her, Chloë had opted for her default response to matters emotional: avoidance. She said none of this, but simply muttered, “I’ve been swept off my feet.”
“So I gather. Whenever I’ve caught sight of you, you’ve been awfully preoccupied.”
Was Chloë being paranoid, or could she detect an underlying jibe? “Well, you know what it’s like, launching a new magazine—never enough hours in the day.”
“Not with a life as full as yours, I imagine.” Now she was in no doubt: this was barbed. Especially as Jean then drained her glass and added, “Love the outfit—how very risqué.” Her eyes were fixed pointedly on Chloë’s exposed bosom, as if to say, And unseemly. Chloë scanned the venue for an excuse to talk to someone else. She had witnessed Jean’s tendency to vent spleen when tipsy before. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Patsy giggling with the three Marilyns. How she longed to join them at the bar! Yet Jean was on a roll. “I wanted to congratulate you on not one but two impressive achievements.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“First the magazine. I must say, it’s marvelous.” Jean swayed slightly, then took hold of Chloë’s arm to steady herself. “Goddamn marvelous. No, I mean that. It’s very different, thought-provoking, great fun. I love it.”
Chloë blushed. “Thank you.”
“You’ve achieved everything you set out to do, and I’d like to congratulate you on a job well done.” Jean clinked Chloë’s glass.
“I’m glad you like it.”
“And the other thing,” here Jean leaned close, dropped her voice, and spoke with thinly veiled sarcasm, “is that I want to congratulate you on breaking up what, until you came along, was one very happy little family.”
Shit. I knew it, thought Chloë. I just knew it. What on earth am I supposed to say to that? There was no time to answer, however, because Jean hadn’t finished.
“I gather Jamie’s had to move out of the family home—away from Maggie and Nathan. I also understand that you’re still seeing him. Though at least I hear he’s had the sense not to move in with you immediately. Well, I hope that’s what you wanted. Driving a father away from his son, a husband away from his wife. I hope you’re satisfied.”
Still Chloë couldn’t respond. She experienced the same stomach-churning guilt that she’d had on occasion when talking to Rob about James. Only this time her guilt was more pronounced, as it had been when she’d spoken to Sam at Christmas. Her old boss and her brother: their moral judgment was more formidable, less compromising. It weighed on her hard. Her shame was compounded because she had not had the courage to shift the status quo. She’d neither finished the relationship, nor tried to move it along; she’d been paralyzed. I’ve had so much on my mind, she protested inwardly. It’s such a bad time to deal with something so difficult and potentially painful.
“Maggie told you?” she asked, finally.
“Who else but Maggie?”
“Oh.” This was the first time Maggie had been mentioned directly by Jean in this context. It sounded strange, hearing her name, coming from a friend; someone who actually knew this woman, doubtless had heard her side of the story. It made Maggie seem more real, less remote, and exacerbated Chloë’s discomfort. “Jean, I’m not sure this is the right place to talk about this.”
“I’m sure it’s not. But where is? Indeed, there are plenty of people who would consider it quite inappropriate to mention it, but I’m not one of them, I’m afraid. You know me; I have to speak my mind. And I’m not sure if you realize, Chloë—sometimes you can be quite naive—but I’ve done a fair amount of listening to Maggie over the last few months—a lot of picking up the pieces. She’s been to hell and back, you realize.”
“I know,” said Chloë, stifling a desire to scream. So have I.
“I also don’t know if you’re aware of quite what a woman she is, how remarkable.”
“Hm.” Though surely, thought Chloë desperately, if she was that remarkable, James would never have been attracted to anyone else, would he? He wouldn’t have walked out on someone truly right for him?
Then, like a spear plunging directly into Chloë’s heart, it came: “I
think Jamie wants her back, you know.”
At once Chloë began to shake. She felt her world with James, her vision of the future crumbling. “Does he?”
“Yes, I do think so.” Jean seemed determined to put Chloë straight. “Maggie tells me that he phones and hints heavily at moving back in all the time.”
“But, but…” Chloë was horribly confused. “He’s the one who walked out! He could just go back—if that’s what he wants?”
A waiter, dapper in his white dinner jacket, was hovering with a tray of freshly filled glasses, oblivious to the shattering dialogue close at hand. Jean reached for another drink and Chloë, keen to take the edge off all these harsh words, followed suit. In the background she thought she caught a glimpse of James, glancing in her direction and rapidly looking away.
“So that’s what Jamie told you, is it? That he walked out on her?”
“Yes.”
Jean sighed. “Sometimes I wonder about him, I really do. He surprises me. Seems to be telling you each a different story. I wouldn’t have put him down as so duplicitous, but I suppose I shouldn’t be amazed at things people say when they’re caught in the middle like that.” She shook her head. “I guess I’ve not heard his side of it, and I probably never will. But if that’s what he told you, it’s not true. Maggie found out about the two of you—otherwise I’m not sure he ever would have told her. When she found out, she made him promise not to see you anymore, and to try to work things through with her, and he didn’t stick to that promise. When she discovered he was still seeing you regardless, she told him to leave.”
Chloë’s mind was racing, trying to work it out. I honestly believed James was the one who chose to go, not the other way around, she thought. I understood it was a positive decision, albeit one made in anger. She could hear Rob’s voice: “This only underlines how unsure James is about what he’s doing. He’ll probably go back to Maggie eventually—if she’ll have him. He’ll never commit to you, didn’t I say?”
Seeing Chloë look so crestfallen, Jean appeared to appreciate there were perhaps slightly extenuating circumstances. “How ironic,” she said, scanning Chloë’s ensemble once again, less critically this time. “Pandora, eh?”