Leaving the sandwich uneaten, Paul had dragged Stella into the staffroom, locked the door behind them, and demanded to know if she intended to go back to her ex or not.
Stella was stunned. And clearly horrified. ‘No,’ she’d told him sincerely, ‘not in a million years. Not if he was the last man on earth. Not if someone paid me a billion pounds. No. No. No.’
And Paul had believed her. He had also shown his true feelings by asking the question. Once the shock had worn off, Stella had given him a very knowing look.
‘There’s someone else I care about,’ she’d said softly. ‘Someone very special.’ And Paul had felt his insides do somersaults. He loved this woman. He believed she cared for him too. If John Dean really wasn’t a threat then there was nothing standing in their way…
But now this! Not four hours later she had been cosying up to her ex like they were the only two people in the world. After everything she’d said. Paul simply couldn’t believe she had lied to him like that. What on earth was she up to?
Chapter 22
Milton Keynes could be quite a depressing place at night. Especially when you were driving around it aimlessly, trying to figure out what was going on in the head of the woman you were in love with. Perhaps it was the fact that there never seemed to be much traffic – a boon when you were trying to get from A to B in a hurry but creating a strangely isolated atmosphere at other times.
Paul wouldn’t live anywhere else, though. He’d watched this city grow, literally, from a sprawl of random housing estates to a vibrant, desirable place to be. And from an estate agent’s point of view it was like nowhere else on earth. It was his friend, comforting him with its long, wide dual carriageways and parks and lakes around every corner.
Usually it comforted him, that was. Tonight he couldn’t find the comfort anywhere: not at Willen Lake, where he went running most mornings, not from the top of the H5, with the whole of the city spread out below him like neon artwork. Not even driving past the mirrored train station; seeing his car reflected again and again usually made him at least smile. After hours of driving and thinking and driving some more, Paul turned onto the V4 and headed for Crownhill.
He’d been considering all that had happened to Stella in the last two months. And he came to the conclusion that he couldn’t blame her for being a bit confused. He knew better than anyone how much she had loved John Dean – he’d been the one to help her put her life back together after the bastard dumped her.
He also knew that having a child together gave two people a certain bond, one that couldn’t be easily ignored. What woman wouldn’t at least give some consideration to taking her daughter’s father back? Paul wondered what Sharon would do if circumstances were different and he had pursued her the way John Dean was pursuing Stella. Wouldn’t she think about it seriously, giving Hannah unfettered access to her real father? Paul liked to think maybe she would, and this went some way to helping him understand Stella’s dilemma.
But the one thing he couldn’t get over was the sense of betrayal. The fact was, she’d lied to him. He had asked her outright and Stella had told him a categorical no. She wasn’t interested. She wouldn’t go back to John Dean if he was the last man on earth.
So he’d asked her out to dinner, a proper date he thought, candlelit restaurant, sharing each other’s food. But she was busy, she said. Lipsy had asked her to go shopping for maternity clothes. How could he argue with that? And how, he thought now as he turned into Chaplin Grove and parked his car across from her house, how could she use her own daughter as an excuse to fob him off while she went to meet the man she’d just denounced? It was beyond Paul’s comprehension. He needed answers and he was determined to get them.
Paul studied Stella’s house for signs of life. There was a light on in an upstairs window but he wasn’t sure if it was hers or Lipsy’s. The rest of the houses in the close were in darkness, even though it was only a little after eleven o’clock. He caught some movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to get a better view. There was someone creeping out of Joshua’s house – a woman. So, he definitely wasn’t gay then. Paul had had his doubts.
Not only was there a woman creeping out of Joshua’s house in the middle of the night but she was also half-naked – the top half to be exact. Strategically placed hands were doing nothing to hide the fact that she was clad only in a bra and jeans. Was this a date gone horribly wrong? Paul tried not to laugh. It was cruel, but the way his own love life had been going lately he found the idea that he wasn’t the only one strangely comforting.
As the woman made her way gingerly down Joshua’s path Paul slumped in his seat, hoping she wouldn’t see him as she passed – he didn’t want to compound her embarrassment. But she didn’t turn his way. Instead she did a quick sidestep to the left and promptly ran up Stella’s own, identical path. Paul strained his eyes in the darkness to see who she was. Too tall to be Bonnie. Too big to be Lipsy. It was only when she opened her own front door and the light from her own recently decorated hallway spilled out into the night that he saw her face clearly. Perfectly clearly. Stella gave a last furtive glance across the close then shut her front door behind her.
***
Tuesday 31st July, 11.25pm
I can’t believe that this tiny seahorse-baby is making me feel so crap. I hope it’s not this vindictive when it grows up. I’m knackered, nobody understands how knackered. Rob keeps wanting to go here and do this or nip off there and see such and such and I keep telling him – I’m knackered, babe. It’s as much as I can do to get dressed in the morning. Some days I don’t even manage that!
Rob’s been such a pain in the arse since the barbeque on Sunday. Just because I had a little teeny-weeny drink of lager. You’d think I’d taken a baseball bat to my own stomach the way he carried on. And mum didn’t help, getting leathered like that – Rob obviously thought she was some kind of alcoholic and that it runs in the family. I’m telling you – if he doesn’t back off soon …
Lipsy threw her pen across the room and watched it bounce harmlessly off her new Ikea wardrobe. It seemed like every time she wrote in her diary these days she ended up working herself into a frenzy. Gone were the days when it had been a fun thing to do, a slice of a life which had felt like it was going somewhere. Now she just moaned about sickness and feeling fat and her bloody boyfriend.
Calm Blue Ocean, she recited to herself. Calm Blue Ocean. She’d seen it in a film, someone using this mantra to keep themselves calm. As much as she moaned about being pregnant she didn’t want anything to go wrong with the baby so she knew she had to try and stay calm. Which, with her current problems, was not easy.
As if to prove her case the front door slammed, making the whole house shake. Nice one, Mum. Burning it down wasn’t enough, now you want to knock it down. Could the house take any more abuse? Lipsy ran to the top of the stairs in time to hear someone banging on the door. Her mother was standing in the hallway, a horrified expression on her face.
‘Mum! Why are you only wearing your bra?’
Her mum glared up at her and shook her head mutely, pointing at the door and making throat cutting gestures across her neck.
‘What? Who is it?’
‘Paul,’ she hissed.
Lipsy slowly made her way downstairs, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
‘I thought you were going over to Joshua’s?’ she said when she reached the bottom, lowering her voice when her mum shushed her. ‘You said he had a business proposition for you or something. Where’s your blouse? Did Paul do that? And why’s he banging on the door? Let him in.’ But when Lipsy moved towards the door, her mother grabbed her arm and wrenched her back.
‘Don’t let him in,’ she pleaded.
‘Has he hurt you? If he’s hurt you…’
Lots of head shaking.
‘But you are avoiding him?’
Nodding now.
‘Why?’ Lipsy thought for a moment then clamped her hands to her head.
> ‘Mum! For goodness sake. Please tell me you didn’t come out of Joshua’s dressed like that.’ More nodding, some crying. ‘I don’t even want to know why! And Paul saw you? And now he’s very angry?’ That much was pretty obvious from the banging and shouting outside. ‘You have to let him in, Mum. He’s not going away. Wait there.’
Lipsy ran upstairs, huffing with the effort. She grabbed a jumper from the pile on her mum’s bed and raced back down. ‘Here. Put this on first. Honestly, Mum, I’m really not up to this. I am pregnant you know.’
While her mother shrugged herself into the jumper, Lipsy opened the door. Paul stood in front of her, his arm raised to strike again. He dropped it as soon as he saw Lipsy.
‘God, Lipsy. I’m sorry. I didn’t wake you, did I?’
This was so stupid that Lipsy almost laughed. He must have woken the whole of Crownhill by now. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course not. Come in.’ She moved aside to give him access to her mortified mother. Then she stood back to watch.
‘Paul!’ Her mum stepped forward, holding out her hands as if to ward off the inevitable. ‘Paul, I can explain. It’s not what you think …’
Now why, thought Lipsy, do people always say that? In soaps and films when caught in a compromising position, people always say, ‘It’s not what you think,’ instead of just explaining what the hell it actually is. And Lipsy was at least as curious as Paul to hear the explanation of why her mother had gone out to see their neighbour fully dressed and come home two hours later minus half her clothes. This should be good.
Paul clearly had other ideas. He ploughed straight in. ‘It never is, is it, Stella? It’s never what it looks like with you. Can’t you just come out and admit the truth? Even your own daughter doesn’t know what the hell’s going on.’ Don’t bring me into it, thought Lipsy. ‘One minute you’re flirting with me, the next minute you’re getting back with her dad, and the next you’re having it off with your neighbour!’
My dad? Lipsy looked at her mother quizzically. Surely not. Please, God, not that.
But Paul hadn’t finished yet, and so far her mother hadn’t even looked up from the floor let alone had a chance to speak. ‘I’m more than disappointed with you, Stella. I’m disgusted.’
Her mum flinched. Lipsy said, ‘Hey, come on. No need for that.’
‘Really?’ he rounded on Lipsy, then seemed to think better of it. ‘You think what you like. And you,’ he turned again to her mother, ‘you can do what the hell you want. You always do anyway.’
Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him, tyres squealing into the night. Lipsy crouched by her mum who was slumped in a heap on the bare floor and stroked her head, lost for words.
When her mother finally looked up she forced a smile. ‘Men, eh?’ she said, then she covered her face with her hands again and started to cry.
Chapter 23
This is clearly going to be a week of waking up and regretting what happened the night before. For the second time in four days I wake with a banging head and an overwhelming sense of foreboding.
This time the head is caused not by excessive alcohol but by excessive crying. No one ever tells you that crying all night will have such a detrimental effect on your health – not to mention your looks – but it does. My skull is throbbing, my eyes have swollen into slits, my face is blotchy and – horror of horrors – there are at least four freshly broken veins on my cheeks. Damn that Paul Not-So-Smart and his jumping to conclusions. If only he’d bothered to listen to my explanation.
If only he’d picked another night to spy on me.
It was all so innocent. Joshua phoned me yesterday and said he wanted to talk to me about a “business proposition”. Maybe that does sound a bit ominous but this is Joshua, remember. He’s as harmless as a money spider. So I go round there after dinner, taking with me a bottle of red wine that was left over from the decorating party. I was glad of the opportunity to see him alone anyway, wanting to thank him for all his help with the house and to apologise again for my ex’s crappy behaviour.
I was right not to worry. Joshua had no ulterior motives: only wanted to tell me that he’d heard I was planning a dive into the world of property and could put me in touch with his brother who is some hot-shot developer in London. For advice. He also said he’d be interested in going into the business with me if I was looking for a partner. He fancies himself as project manager. I have to say, I can’t think of anyone more organised than Joshua and he probably would be very useful. Plus, he has the added bonus of being seriously loaded.
But I told him I’d have to discuss it with my father, who was already on board as my partner, and by the way did he know that my father was in prison at the moment? For some reason this seemed to unsettle him. He jumped up off his immaculate white sofa in shock, jolting me and spilling red wine everywhere.
Now, any normal person would have mopped it up a bit, said never mind, and then got back to drinking the stuff. Not Joshua, the one-man cleaning machine. Before I knew it he had his entire armoury of cleaning fluids out of the cupboard, was soaking the carpet with a combination of chemicals usually used to make small bombs, and scrubbing at the sofa like it was made of gold. He also insisted on washing my blouse there and then. I protested – who wants to end up topless on a Tuesday night for no good reason? – but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d already removed his own stained shirt, revealing a six-pack that made my eyes go wide. Shame he so obviously wasn’t interested in me. Apart from the OCD he really could have been perfect in lots of ways.
I banished these terrible thoughts immediately, loyal to my perfect Paul, and shed my own top, which was whisked away and in the washing machine in a flash – the well maintained, not-about-to-burn-his-house-down washing machine, obviously. After a short, uncomfortable silence we agreed to continue the discussion another time and I left discreetly, to spare both of our blushes.
And the rest you know. You, of course, wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like my Paul did. Anyone who knows me would have thought, ‘There must be some completely rational and innocent explanation for this, no matter how it looks. One that doesn’t involve exchanging bodily fluids with her admittedly very handsome neighbour.’
Paul Smart thought the worst of me, and the way I’m feeling this morning I figure this just about sums him up. It is with a heavy heart I dial the number for Smart Homes.
Just to make matters worse, Loretta answers the phone. ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘it’s Stella.’ I can actually feel her scowl. ‘Is Paul there?’ I ask politely.
‘Yes.’ This is all I get.
‘Well, can I speak to him?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stella. Sorry.’ She wasn’t sorry at all, the bitch. She was loving it.
‘Why?’ I’m still calm.
‘He seems to be in a bit of a bad mood today. You wouldn’t have any idea why, would you?’ There is something in her voice that tells me she knows more about what’s going on than I do.
‘No. But I think maybe you do. Is there something you’d like to get off your chest, Loretta? Oh, sorry,’ I add, because I too can be a bitch sometimes, ‘you haven’t really got a chest to get anything off, have you?’
This gets her where it hurts. ‘At least I don’t go flaunting it to anything in trousers like you,’ she says. ‘Paul knows all about you, Stella. He knows about your little get together with another man on Monday night. Not so very clever then, were you?’
Monday night? What is she talking about?
Then I remember. Monday after work was when I met up with John Dean to tell him ‘Thanks but no thanks’ and ‘Goodbye’. It went better than expected – he listened and took me seriously instead of making a big joke out of it and carrying on like before. Actually, he had been quite upset. Not devastated, I couldn’t hope for that much, but disappointed – hurt even. I think he’d liked the idea of getting back together with me, moving into my little house, playing happy families with me and Lipsy and the new baby.
And that, it seems, is what Loretta saw. God knows how she presented it to Paul – not well, I imagine.
No wonder he was so ready to believe the worst of me.
‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask her now. I can tell she is checking the office before she answers, making sure no one can hear her.
‘Because you need to learn that you can’t have everything.’ I can picture her face, her red nose and her screwed up mouth. She hates me, I’ve always known this. I’ve just never really known why.
‘That’s stupid, Loretta. I know I can’t. Why do you even think that way?’
She’s on a roll now – I don’t think she even heard me. ‘Flouncing in and out of here, day in, day out. All the blokes eating out of the palm of your hand, you loving every minute of it.’ Flouncing? I’m not sure I know how to flounce. ‘And Paul, you treat him like dirt, only bothering with him when you need something, using him like some stand-in boyfriend.’
‘Maybe that’s what it looks like to you but that’s not how it –’
Ignoring me, she carries on, ‘You’re not good enough to lick his boots and now he sees through you completely, just like I always have.’
It’s the way she’s talking about Paul that gives it away. I’d thought it was just a harmless crush, but judging by the amount of venom coming my way, I’d say she more than fancies him. It seems Loretta is in love with my Paul, and is willing to do anything to discredit me.
Can't Live Without Page 20