He finds the number he is looking for. The house has a doorbell not an entry buzzer and when he rings it Cassandra herself opens the door. She is wearing a black trouser suit, high black boots and a bright white shirt. Gareth is flustered to see her.
“Oh hello, I didn’t expect that you would open the door!”
“Well I did,” she smiles. “Come on in. Rupert who does our PR and marketing in Toronto is already here and the London team should be here any minute. Coffee?”
The entire ground floor of the property is one large, light, open space with floor to ceiling windows. It has oak floorboards, a boardroom table big enough to sit 12 people, and a small fitted galley kitchen along one wall with shiny chrome kitchen appliances and a shiny chrome worktop. At the far end of the room is an informal seating area, with two large wheat-coloured sofas, some woollen throws, bookshelves and a small television. On a nest of coffee table next to the sofas Gareth spots a paperback, an empty cup and plate, a tube of Crabtree & Evelyn La Source hand cream.
Cassandra sees him looking.
“We use this place for meetings when we are in London but there are bedrooms upstairs so we stay here too. It’s really very comfortable. We bought it ten years ago for what seemed like a fortune at the time but it has turned out to be one of our better investments. Rupert will be down now, he’s just getting dressed.”
So there it is. Gareth need not have worried. Cassandra has a bloke, he’s called Rupert, he does PR and marketing for Perfect in Toronto, and she wasn’t flirting with him after all. He feels relief that he is not, after all, going to have to resist temptation. And a disappointment so strong he can taste it in his mouth, like apple seeds when you chew them. Cyanide and marzipan.
“I’m glad you’re here a little early as I have a favour to ask of you,” Cassandra says as she pours him a coffee from the cafétière already set up at one end of the table. “Would you mind wearing one of our shirts?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not saying your shirt isn’t a decent shirt, it’s just that our shirts are better and I like Perfect’s team to be wearing Perfect’s product.” She hands him a large white box tied with black ribbon and stamped with the Perfect logo. Inside there are three shirts – white, blue and pale pink.
“Collar size 16. Was I right?”
Gareth nods.
“I thought so. I can tell a collar size from ten paces. Hurry up then, pop into the downstairs bathroom and change before the others get here.”
As Gareth had suspected and Adrian Matthews had long known, the shirts you wear without ties are not the same as the shirts you used to wear with ties, before ties became unnecessary. He chooses the white and checks himself out in the small mirror above the sink. He looks pretty good. The shirt is far more fitted than his normal ones but he must have lost weight during his morning runs and he is pleased to note that the faint hint of man boob he’d had a few months ago has subsided.
“Look at you!” says a man who must be Rupert as Gareth emerges from the toilet.
“Erm, thank you. And thank you to Perfect. This shirt is way better than mine.”
Rupert claps his hands. “Love a duck!” he says in a terrible attempt at a Cockney accent. “I do hope we can come up with a better marketing campaign than that! Buy Perfect shirts. They’re way better than yours.”
Gareth feels something shift inside his chest, a lightening. On reflection, maybe Rupert is not Cassandra’s bloke after all.
The rest of the day is one long round of meetings. PR, marketing, media buyers talking social media campaigns, managed media spend and air time. After a sandwich lunch they meet with buyers from Liberty, John Lewis, and Selfridges. Gareth listens to the pitches, helps with the negotiations, drafts the heads of terms that follow. Cassandra has given him no previous inkling of how she negotiates but he soon works out that she gets what she wants by burying in a long list of demands the thing she really wants. The trick is working out what she is burying and after a while Gareth works out that it’s the item she identifies in discussions as “not material.” She reluctantly concedes things she never really wanted which makes people feel like they have secured a great deal and hurry to sign off quickly, before she changes her mind.
He starts to play along with her strategy. When she starts to give in on something she doesn’t want, he starts interjecting.
“I really can’t advise you to accept this amendment, Ms Taylor,” he says in his best lawyer’s voice. “It is normal commercial practice to include this sort of requirement. Frankly, striking it out puts you in a compromised position.”
She instantly twigs what he is doing and plays along too.
“I thank you for your advice Mr Maddox but I choose to ignore it. This is an important deal for us and if compromise is what it takes to make it happen, we’ll do it.”
When the last meeting finishes it is after 7pm.
“Right, good to meet you Gareth, it was fun to watch you work, but if you’ll excuse me I’m out of here.” Rupert grabs his jacket. “I’m meeting someone in a bar in Soho. I don’t know his name because I haven’t met him yet but I just know when I do he’s going to be gorgeous. Don’t wait up!”
“I won’t,” Cassandra calls after him but Rupert has already slammed the door behind him.
“Charming! Fancy a quick drink? Just to the pub round the corner. Only one because I’ve got a dinner engagement later. I’m parched after such a long day.”
Gareth doesn’t really hesitate. It’s been an exhilarating day watching Cassandra Taylor in top speed action. “Just the one then.”
“I’m honoured.”
“So you should be. It’s Tuesday. I normally play squash Tuesday evenings.”
They step out of the mews house into a warm July evening that is still sunny. Other residents of Bathurst Mews are home from work and sitting in their garden chairs, suit jackets discarded, bottles of beer in hand. People nod and smile and Gareth and Cassandra nod and smile back.
“Do you know all your neighbours?” he says under his breath.
“Not a soul,” she whispers back.
The pub is packed with people, some of whom spill out onto the street to smoke and drink. The sunshine has brought a jaunty feel to the evening, like it’s a bank holiday. It is an old fashioned London boozer gussied up a bit for a younger crowd. There’s the original long, high, dark mahogany bar with stools, and the original shelves along the back wall lined with optics but the wooden floors have been stripped, the tables and chairs are modern and white and the price list is on an oversized blackboard and lists things as costing 13.5 or 8.5 rather than £13.50 or £8.50. Gareth and Cassandra fight their way to the bar.
“What will you have?” he asks before she can ask him.
“I’ll have a Molson if they have it, otherwise any sort of lager. A pint. Those people are leaving right there, I’ll go grab their table.”
They don’t have Molson and so Gareth gets them both a pint of Peroni.
“Well it’s not Canadian beer but it’s good and cold so will do,” says Cassandra, taking a big gulp. “Actually, not bad, thank you.”
They are both thirsty after a long day and they drink quickly.
“You were good today,” Cassandra congratulates him. “I like the way you understand the sort of person you are dealing with very quickly and change the way you talk to people to get the best out of them.”
“I do?”
“Yes you do. Your Welsh accent went up three notches at least when you were talking to the buyer from John Lewis who also had a strong regional accent I couldn’t place.”
“The Geordie?”
“He was called Jordy? I thought he said his name was Jonathan?”
“He did. He was from Newcastle, in the north east of England. People from there are referred to as Geordies.”
“Why?”
“I don’t really know. Something to do with King George I think. I know my accent gets stronger when I speak to Valleys peo
ple. Didn’t know I did it with Geordies too.”
“Conversely, when you were talking with Hugo from Liberty you had no accent whatsoever and used a lot of really long words.”
“He was their in-house lawyer. He understood those long words!”
“As I said, you matched how you spoke to the person you were speaking to.”
“That makes me sound shallow.”
“It’s not shallow. It’s a skill. All the best negotiators do it. And you’re one of the best negotiators I’ve seen in action.”
“Flattery won’t get you a lower bill, you know.”
“Worth a try though! So you said when we met in Cardiff that you and your wife had been having children for years. How many children do you actually have?”
“Four.”
“Four! More than one wife? Or are you Catholic too?”
“One wife only, and not Catholic, no, although you are not the first person to ask that. They just sort of came along. “
“What flavour?”
“Flavour? Oh, three girls and a boy.”
“The boy the last?”
“You got it. Jake – he’s just turned one and I’ve got the bags under my eyes to prove it. But I would have been happy with another girl, they’re great and every one is different. I’ve got a stroppy goth, a tomboy footballer and a soft toy fanatic who wants blonde hair down to her bum.”
“They sound fun.”
“They are. Rachel and I are very lucky.”
“Is that your wife’s name, Rachel?”
“Yes. She’s a lawyer too.”
“Family arguments must be a whole new ball game in your house!”
“It’s never dull, shall we say. Do you have children yourself Cassandra?”
She sighs. “No. Lots of long distance travel for work and long-term relationships don’t go together very well. Children didn’t come my way and I’m having to come to terms with the fact it’s probably too late.”
She looks down at her glass which is empty, as is his.
“Shall I get us another? One more for the road, as you Brits say?” she asks
He really doesn’t want to go. He wants to stay here in this pub near Hyde Park on a summer July evening with a woman he finds fascinating and who is now looking sad. He wants to have another pint of Peroni with her. And then go on somewhere else, somewhere where there is live music playing where they can sit together at a small round table and drink red wine and talk till the sun comes up again.
“I really need to go, I’m sorry Cassandra. Got to catch my train.”
“OK, no worries. Another time. I just need to go to the bathroom quickly. Will you wait for me?”
“Of course. I’ll be outside.”
It’s growing dark outside now and it’s cooler, quieter, the air a soft blue. Gareth leans on a wall to wait for Cassandra. He feels like a teenager, awkward and needy and excited. Then her face suddenly swings in front of his. He can smell her perfume, see her chest rise and fall as she breathes.
“You know, I thought Rupert was your other half when I arrived this morning,” he confesses.
“I know you did. I did that on purpose, to see how you reacted.”
“And how did I react?”
“Exactly as I hoped you would.”
And she leans in and kisses him. Her mouth is open and her lips are soft and with a speed he has not experienced in a while his cock jumps immediately to attention. He could kiss like this all night. But he’s not going to.
He breaks away from the kiss, puts his hand on her shoulder, eases her away gently.
“Good night Cassandra. I’ve got to go.”
“Don’t go. Stay for just one more drink. If you do, I’ll cancel my dinner engagement tonight. Which is with the charming Adrian Matthews, by the way.”
“Don’t go for dinner with Adrian, please.”
“Why not? It’s just a business dinner.”
“Tell him something cropped up and you can’t make it.”
“It felt to me like something already cropped up,” she smiles and drops her eyes to look at his crotch. “Stay for just one more and I promise I won’t go out for dinner with Adrian Matthews.”
“I can’t Cassandra. I really can’t.”
The smile drops from her face. “Suit yourself”, she says, briskly. “He’s taking me to the Shard. Wants to show me the London skyline. Breathtaking apparently.”
Gareth hesitates for a second but she dismisses him with a wave of her hand.
“It’s OK, run along home now. There’s a good boy.”
He texts Rachel from the train.
Sorry not been in touch, hectic day, only now on train, will be late, don’t wait up, love you 5.
She texts straight back.
Us 5 love you too x x
Gareth resolves on the journey home not to do any more work for Perfect. He will make some excuse and allocate another lawyer from Maddox Legal to take over from him. Cassandra Taylor stirs feelings in him he’d forgotten. He loves Rachel and he fancies her too and there is no way he is going to put what they have at risk for anything or anyone.
It is at this point that he realises he is going home wearing a brand new Perfect shirt and that the shirt he left home wearing has been left behind at Bathurst Mews.
Chapter 12
When the girls were younger, Rachel found evenings when Gareth was away very difficult. Juggling their various after school activities such as swimming and gymnastics and piano lessons with only one car and driver available. Cooking a decent meal containing at least three of their five a day and then getting them to eat it before bath time. Three lots of story time. By the end of the night she was stressed and grumpy and so were the girls.
Whenever she announced that she was going to be working late and that Gareth was going to be in charge the girls cheered. Evenings on his own never fazed Gareth. He just told the girls they were skipping their after school activities just for this one evening and then took them to Burger King for tea. Not a single one of their five a day but no clearing up either. Back at home, he’d wash their faces with a flannel and they’d all pile into Gareth and Rachel’s bed together where he told them made up stories featuring the three of them as princesses, even Eloise who was long past the princess stage. The princesses drove around Wales in a stretch limo visiting castles and beaches where they met all sorts of characters from history. Often when Rachel came home she’d find all the lights on downstairs, no food in the fridge and her family fast asleep in the one bed.
These days Rachel’s standards have slipped. She is hosting Book Club tonight and with Gareth at a meeting in London none of her children is going anywhere after school. She needs all hands on deck to tidy up the house before the Book Club girls arrive.
“How come this house is always such a mess?” Rachel mutters to herself. She is on her hands and knees washing the floor of the downstairs loo. “Does Mrs Morris even clean this toilet floor?”
“No,” answers Nora, who is cleaning the sink.
“What do you mean, no?”
“No, she doesn’t clean the toilet floor. She says she’s too old to go down on her hands and knees for anyone anymore, thank you very much.”
Rachel’s cleaner, Mrs Morris has been cleaning and babysitting for the family since they first moved to Penarth. She is an entirely useless cleaner with an over fondness for bleach. Many of the family’s clothes are decorated with white blobs and streaks thanks to Mrs Morris’ habit of putting bleach soaked cleaning cloths into the laundry basket. Rachel is engaged in a number of long running battles with her, none of which she ever wins. These include Mrs Morris’ insistence on emptying the entire contents of the bathroom bins into the recycling even though Rachel has repeatedly pointed out that a single empty toilet roll in there does not denote that all the other contents such as dental floss and wet wipes are recyclable, her habit of hiding away any socks for which she cannot find matching companions but forgetting where she put them so that th
e pairs are never reunited and her mistaken belief that cream cleaner squirted down the toilet and left to solidify is every bit as good as a scrub. Rachel has a theory that Mrs Morris does her job badly on purpose so that Rachel will do the work herself and save Mrs Morris the hassle. She should really get rid of Mrs Morris and get another cleaner but Gareth won’t let her. He says Mrs Morris is old and needs the money.
“So, Mrs Morris won’t go down on her hands and knees but she expects me to do it?”
“No,” replies Nora, who is fond of Mrs Morris and likes to follow her round while she cleans and is therefore the most reliable source of information as to what exactly Mrs Morris actually does. “She thinks Daddy should do it. He’s the one who pisses on the floor, she says.”
“Don’t use that word Nora!”
“I didn’t use it. Mrs Morris did.”
“That’s semantics.”
“Is that a swear word too?”
“Just go get a clean towel out of the airing cupboard please – a good one please, right from the bottom of the pile.” Mrs Morris doesn’t believe in circulating the family’s stock of towels either. The towels on the top of the pile are always grey and hard, whereas at the bottom of the pile soft, snowy white towels can be found.
When she’s finished the toilet, Rachel tackles the surfaces in the hall and kitchen. Hair brushes, bobbles, loose change, make up bags, junk mail, letters from school: it all gets swept into shopping bags and stashed in the cupboard under the stairs. This is a classic clearing up device of Rachel’s. The house looks tidier but the trouble is no one can ever find anything afterwards.
“Girls, put all the bags you’ve dumped in the hallway into your rooms please. Nora – all these Beanie Boos on the kitchen table, tidy them away please. Eloise – I’ve bought pizza for tea, put it in the oven please and when it’s ready you can all eat it on your laps in the living room.
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