The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  “Champagne?”

  “That would be great,” Jazz said. He was supremely confident and relaxed. “Let me open it.”

  Jazz twisted the wire and then, expertly, eased the cork from the bottle.

  “I’ll pour,” Chantal said, and her hand trembled as she let the champagne froth out into their glasses. Christ, she should have taken some Valium or something to help her chill out. Or drunk half of this bottle before Jazz had arrived. “This is the first time I’ve done this,” she admitted. No good pretending to know the etiquette of these things when she didn’t have a clue. “I’m hoping you’ll lead the way.”

  She turned to see that he’d taken off his jacket and was loosening his tie. He took the glass of champagne from her and chinked it against hers. His eyes glinted with mischief, promise and even desire. Chantal took a deep breath. That was something she hadn’t expected to see. She smiled to herself. This could well turn out to be a lot of fun.

  “I want you to enjoy yourself,” Jazz said. “Just leave everything to me.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  IT WAS SEVEN O’CLOCK THE following evening before Chantal returned home. After her assignation with Jazz she’d gone straight into the London office of Style USA and had chatted to the editor about some ideas for future articles. She’d taken a long lunch at Oscars with one of the other journalists from the magazine to catch up on office gossip—who was sleeping with whom, who wished they were sleeping with whom, who was about to be fired, who didn’t realize they were about to be fired. Chantal couldn’t help but smile to herself. If only her colleagues knew her dark secret.

  After her lunch, she’d gone along to Chocolate Heaven and had indulged in some green tea and a bar of Clive’s wonderful Samana Penisula chocolate made with rare cocoa beans from the Dominican Republic. This was one of Lucy’s favorite chocolates, but then her friend had a lot of favorites when it came to chocolate. It was a shame that none of the other girls were here today, but Chantal wasn’t able to linger long enough to text them for a get-together. Besides, if she saw them today, she knew that she’d have to tell them all about her wild night with Jazz. The glow on her cheeks was a dead giveaway that something—or someone—had tickled her fancy. Sometimes those quaint British sayings fitted the situation so well. Feeling strangely happy, Chantal had then commandeered one of the sofas in Chocolate Heaven and spent some time talking on her cell phone to a handful of home owners about the potential of future articles while she enjoyed the rich, spicy taste of the chocolate and the gentle ache of her body.

  She’d felt more alive than she’d done in years. The tips of her fingers, the hair on her head all zinged with an energy that she hadn’t realized was missing. She was fabulously and fully sexually sated. Jazz had stayed with her for three hours. Three long, luxurious hours where he’d pleasured her—to use an old-fashioned word—time after time. And what she’d paid for was good old-fashioned romancing. That had taken her by surprise. All of Jazz’s attention had been entirely focused on her body her desires. He’d managed to push buttons that she didn’t even know she had. How many women could say that they got the same service from their husbands? He’d been the ultimate professional, the perfect gentleman. It was hard to see this arrangement as a fairly sleazy business contract. Jazz had seemed to enjoy himself too; either that or the man was a damn fine actor. She closed her eyes and a stream of sexy images washed over her. His attaché case had contained a range of potions, lotions and toys to set the scene for a very naughty evening. He’d drizzled chilled champagne all over her body and had lapped it up with his hot tongue. The thought of it made her shiver with delight.

  Chantal sighed contentedly as she walked through the front door and dropped her overnight case in the hall. Ted, she hoped, would be back from the office soon. Tonight’s supper would be a quick pasta dish, so they didn’t eat too late. She’d brought home a small box of Clive’s milk- and white-chocolate brownies, which were sublime, for her husband. They were a type of peace offering, she supposed, and a pang of guilt nipped at her conscience.

  “Hi.” Her husband made her jump as he popped his head out from the kitchen door.

  “You’re home early,” she said.

  “I couldn’t take any more at the office,” he said. “They had their pound of flesh today.”

  She unbuttoned her jacket. “I could have come home earlier too, if I’d known,” she said. “You should have called. I’ve just been hanging out at Chocolate Heaven, fixing up some features.” Chantal held up the box of brownies.

  Ted smacked his lips appreciatively. “How did your assignment go?”

  “Great.” She nodded too vigorously. Suddenly the glossy varnish of her tryst cracked and peeled away. It made her feel sick to think where she’d been last night and what she’d been doing. How could she pay someone to have sex with her? How could she do that to this man standing in front of her? She should confront this issue with him and find out what was at the root of their problem. Normal, red-blooded males didn’t just stop having sex with their wives for no reason. Booking appointments with prostitutes wasn’t the solution.

  For years, Chantal had wondered whether her husband, too, was having affairs, but she was sure that he wouldn’t have the time even if the inclination was there. He was either at the office, eating dinner or asleep. The corporate treadmill he was on at Grenfell Martin simply didn’t allow time for the pleasure of a mistress. She was sure of it.

  Chantal went over and kissed Ted on the cheek, hoping that, for once, he wouldn’t flinch away from her. He didn’t exactly flinch, but neither did he respond. There was no reciprocal kiss, no hug, no stroking of her cheek. Instead, he turned back into the kitchen. “I’ve started to make a salad for supper,” he said. “Hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” she replied, noting that a weariness had crept back into her tone. “I’m just going to throw some pasta in a sauce. Give me five minutes to freshen up.”

  “There’s a message in the study for you,” her husband said over his shoulder, as he picked up a red pepper and continued slicing. “Some guy phoned last night while you were away. He said he’d got some information that you might find useful.”

  Chantal stole a piece of red pepper from the chopping board and nibbled at it as she started to make her way upstairs. “Yeah?”

  “You met him at the hotel in the Lake District, apparently.”

  Chantal’s blood turned to ice. It could only be one person. And he’d called her here, at home. Her heart started to pound in her chest. He must have gotten her number from her cell phone which was in the handbag he’d stolen. She wondered if she could speak and if her voice would sound normal. “Did he leave a name?” It sounded strained to Chantal’s ears.

  Ted mused for a moment. “No,” he replied. “Just a number.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Not much.” Her husband’s expression gave nothing away. “He said it would be to your advantage to call him as soon as you could. Wanna do it now while I make supper?”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow,” she said, as nonchalantly as she could manage. “It can’t be that urgent.” But she had a feeling that it was.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  JACOB TEXTS ME TO SAY that he had a great time and would I like to see him again on Friday. This time he has tickets for a charity event in aid of breast cancer. I text him back to say that I’d love to go. It means that I have to wait four whole days before I can see him again. Still, I have my high-powered job at Jesmond & Sons bookshop for the militarily inclined to keep me occupied until then.

  This morning I’ve brought in a carrier bag full of cleaning products. I have lemon-scented Cif, Mr. Muscle, Mr. Sheen, Windolene, Spring Fresh Bleach and a new packet of J Cloths. If I’ve nothing else to do then I might as well give the bookshop a bit of a spring-clean. Now I’m sitting having my first tea break of the day and enjoying a mint chocolate Aero while I contemplate where I should make my start. I’m also thinking
about Jacob and how much I enjoyed his company, although because I’m at work I am, of course, thinking about him less than the job in hand.

  “We have got a cleaner,” Mr. Jesmond Junior assures me as he eyes my bag of household products suspiciously. “Mrs. Franklin comes in once a fortnight, regular as clockwork. You don’t have to worry yourself with this.”

  It’s nowhere near enough and, looking at the state of the place, I think she must curl up in the corner and go to sleep while she’s here. “I’d like to do it,” I say brightly. “It will help me to get my bearings too.”

  “I have to go out today,” he tells me with a worried frown. “Will you be able to manage on your own?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I answer.

  “What if we have a sudden rush?”

  If a coach party arrives wanting armfuls of books on military history then I’ll fly into a blind panic. But I think I’m pretty safe. “Everything will be shipshape by the time you return.”

  The voice goes down to a whisper. “Hospital.” And again, Mr. Jesmond points to a part of his blue polyester trousers that I’d rather not look at.

  An hour later and we’ve had another cup of tea and I’ve shared my Twix with Mr. Jesmond, but I still haven’t launched into spring-clean mode. I’m just working myself up to it. Mr. Jesmond takes his hat and his coat from the stand, fusses about as he prepares to leave. “You will manage?” he asks for about the twentieth time.

  “No problemo,” I reply for the twentieth time. “You won’t know this place when you get back.”

  I ignore the look of terror on his face and sigh with relief when he closes the door behind him. Sinking back into my chair, I wonder whether I should phone Crush—a quick, friendly call, just to see how he’s getting on without me—but then I think that he might be getting on very well without me. Tracy Whateverhernameis might be a fabulously efficient personal assistant, excellent at typing, filing things, getting coffee and other personal assistant…style duties. I bet she doesn’t have a great stash of chocolate like me though. I turn away from the phone, thinking if Crush was missing me, he could have called. I gave him my mobile number and what have I heard from him? Not a sausage.

  The clock is ticking loudly in the silence, so with an unenthusiastic puff I haul out my hoard of cleaning products. Turning myself into Kim and Aggie from How Clean Is Your House? seemed like a good idea when viewed from a distance. Now the moment of truth is upon me, my initial verve appears to have deserted me. Still, better to do this than have another day of sitting at the desk twiddling my thumbs.

  I’ve brought rubber gloves and an old apron specifically for the purpose and, as my first step, I don those. There’s a line of bookshelves down the center of the shop, laid out widthways, one after the other, so I decide to work my way from the front to the back. I’ll try to dust and polish all the bookshelves today so that Mr. Jesmond can see I’ve made an impression, and then tomorrow I’ll turn my attention to the kitchen, loo and I’ll possibly even venture into the stockroom—even though there seem to be intermittent scrabbling sounds coming from its depths.

  I get a bowl of hot water from the manky kitchen and dampen a J Cloth. There’s a tall stepladder on wheels which Mr. Jesmond must use to reach the top shelves and I pull it to the front of the first big set of bookshelves, preparing to clean the first section. Weapons and Warfare. Climbing up the ladder, I grab armfuls of books and bring them down to put them on the desk, trying to leave them in some semblance of order so that I don’t have to do too much sorting out of the titles when I put them back. Clearly, Mr. Jesmond has his system and I have mine. The books are thick with years of undisturbed dust and, whatever else Mrs. Franklin does, it doesn’t involve brandishing a duster in anger. Before I’ve unloaded even half of the shelves, the air is thick with black particles and my eyes are itching and my nose is running. Wiping the shelves with my damp J Cloth, I hope to stem the toxic cloud of dust mites. Then I dry the surfaces and give them a polish with Mr. Sheen. That looks much better. There are actually beautiful mahogany shelves under all the grime. I stand and admire my handiwork. It’s nice to get stuck in and do some physical labor—every now and again.

  I decide to take all the books off the first shelf at once rather than do it in sections as was my original plan. I could accidentally knock dust onto my newly cleaned area if I do it piecemeal, and then I’d have to do it all over again—turning it into a Sisyphean toil. I’m sure that was the name of the guy who was forced to push the boulder uphill for all eternity by some other bloke (who’s probably now working for the management at Targa), but my knowledge of Greek mythology is distinctly shaky.

  The next half hour is spent bringing down more piles of books and stacking them up on the desk, which is almost completely obliterated. I do hope that the coach party doesn’t arrive now—ha, ha! All these steps must be good for my thighs; all this humping of books, good for my biceps. Before long, I’m going to need some more chocolate to recuperate.

  Another half an hour and the bookshelf is empty. All the books are heaped on the desk and on the floor in front of it. I’m feeling a lot of empathy with Sisyphus. The only place I haven’t thoroughly cleaned is the very top of the bookshelf. I hitch up my apron, take my damp cloth and climb to the top of the steps again. It’s a bit of a stretch to reach the top and I’m hanging onto the ladder while I lean out. Then my mobile phone rings. It’s buried amid the mountain of books on the desk and I’m sorely tempted to leave it chirping away. But then I realize that it could be Jacob or it could be Crush and I try to dive for the phone before it switches to voicemail. Hurtling down the stepladder as fast as my little legs will carry me, I dash across the floor dodging the piles of books and lurch for my phone, which I manage to grab with one hand just as it cuts off

  In my haste, I somehow knock into one of the stacks of books, which then knocks into another and then another, then the pile of books knocks into the stepladder, which sways alarmingly. Dropping my phone, I make a lunge at the stepladder to stop it from toppling over. I fail miserably and watch as it hits the first bookshelf, that too starts to wobble, and I make a grab for that to try and keep it upright. It teeters and totters, slipping from my grasp. The sides are so nice and shiny where I’ve just polished them and I simply can’t get a grip on anything. The weight of the shelf clearly reaches its maximum topple allowance and it groans as it leans over and knocks into the next shelf, scattering books and dust to the four corners of the shop. That bookshelf, in turn, topples and groans and I hear myself groaning as I lunge forward again as that one too clatters into the shelf behind it. On and on it goes until all six of the towering bookshelves are upended, lying drunkenly on the floor like a Saturday-night binge drinker. Books lie splayed out, pages open, like dogs do when they want to show off their undercarriages. Dust as thick as smoke fills the air. The clock’s ticking loudly in the ensuing quiet.

  I walk back to the desk, climbing over the detritus of damaged books until I get to my phone once again, huffing to myself as I look at the Missed Message display. Punching the buttons, I bring up the message. There’s a voicemail from Marcus. I can’t even bear to listen to it now. Then my fingers hover over the keys. Maybe I will. Lucy, he says. I’m missing you desperately How often have I longed to hear these words? I know that you said you were seeing someone else, but please call me. Please. How am I supposed to respond to that?

  There’s another groan from the back of the shop and something else that shouldn’t, crashes to the ground. This is all Marcus’s fault.

  While I’m still in my catatonic daze my phone buzzes. There’s a text. This time, it’s from Chantal. SERIOUS CHOCOLATE EMERGENCY! MEET ME AT NOON. Staring at the wreckage around me I think that I might very well have my own serious chocolate emergency to contend with.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “THE GUY FROM THE HOTEL called me,” Chantal explains. “At home. Ted took the call.”

  We all gasp collectively. Chantal’s robber is phoning he
r. Ohmigod. Our friend is pale faced and looks strained. There’s a tremor in her voice.

  “I guess he got the number from my cell phone when he stole it.”

  “Bloody hell, Chantal.” That’s my useful contribution.

  She stirs her coffee and then lifts the cup to her lips. Her hand is shaking and she puts the coffee back on the table. Chocolate Heaven is always busy at lunchtime, but we’ve somehow managed to bag the sofas and have got them all to ourselves. I think Clive should put a RESERVED sign on this corner just for us, but we’ve yet to get him to agree. We’ve all managed to get here within half an hour of receiving Chantal’s frantic text and we’re all in a cozy, conspiratorial huddle with a heap of chocolate muffins between us. Except the subject matter isn’t quite so cozy, it seems.

  “Did he tell Ted who he was?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “He just left a number and said we’d met at the hotel in the Lake District.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “The inherent threat was there though, Lucy. I feel as if it was his warning to me that he could just as easily have spun Ted some line about what had happened. I was lucky.”

  “Couldn’t you just tell your husband everything? Honesty is often the best policy,” Autumn suggests.

  “Not in this case,” Chantal says flatly. “How could I fess this up to Ted? He’d divorce me.”

  We all exchange worried glances.

  “Did you call him yet?” Nadia wants to know as she wipes away a hot chocolate froth moustache.

  “I rang him this morning,” Chantal says. “It was horrendous. He sounded so flaky, I wondered how I’d even considered letting him come near me, without even …” She tails off, but we all know exactly what she means.