The Chocolate Lovers' Club

by Carole Matthews

  “See you on the track,” he says, as he leaves me and goes to her. “Be sure of it,” I bite back under my breath.

  MINUTES LATER AND I’M STRAPPED into my go-cart, held in by a double harness, bottom perilously close to tarmac. The steering-wheel column is rammed between my knees in a very unladylike manner. Crush is sitting three go-carts ahead of me—being the boss, we have to let him go in the front. Already I can hear Charlotte calling Crush’s name from the pit lane and I want to shout back that nothing’s happened yet, he hasn’t actually done anything! Silly bitch. If she keeps that up, it is seriously going to get on my nerves. Now I regret telling Crush the reason for my deep depression. If he blabs to Charlotte the Harlot then it will be all round Targa’s office before lunchtime tomorrow and I’ll have to leave. Again. At this rate, the only job open to me will be that of hooker-with-a-heart. I’ll have to contact Jacob, Jazz or whatever name he goes by and get some tips off him for setting myself up in business.

  I snap down my black visor and, before I know what’s happening, the red light changes to green and we’re off on our qualifying laps. I haven’t driven for years and yet, within days I find myself in charge of a big, fuck-off van and now this spluttering, puttering piece of machinery. I feel as if I’m driving a high-speed lawn mower. My heart is in my mouth with nerves. I know that we have spent years advancing the cause for our equality, but let me tell you this—girls don’t like doing things such as this. It is an indisputable truth that we like painting our toenails, we like doing our hair, we like having manicures. We do not like racing around in cars, and in that generic term, I include go-carts. It is not in our genetic makeup.

  When we hit the first bend, one of the sales team spins off and I hurtle past him, a gleeful laugh building in my throat. Then I whip past another two go-carts, causing startled glances from the occupants. Before I know it, I’m up behind Mr. Aiden Holby his bumper bar filling my vision. Crush is opening up a gap between us and I flatten my foot to the floor, squeezing every last inch out of the accelerator. There’s no way that arrogant bastard is going to get away from me! We whiz round, the corners coming up with increasing alacrity, the wind rushing past my helmet. A few laps later and the red light comes on and we all putter back into the pits. Miraculously, I’m in second position behind Crush.

  We hang around in the pit lane while the rest of the team completes their qualifying laps. Charlotte the Harlot takes the opportunity to drape herself all over Crush, which he doesn’t seem to object to. I’m sure she keeps glancing pointedly in my direction. Slapper. I’ve had just about enough of this. When I’m ready to pull off my helmet and stomp home, we’re given our grid positions and out we go, back onto the track. This time I’m right behind Crush on the grid at the off and, make no mistake, I have him in my sights. He’s not going to get the better of me this time!

  Crush turns round and blows a kiss to me. And I don’t know quite what happens, but a red mist descends over my eyes, my heart pounds in my chest and very dark thoughts go through my brain. The lights change to green and we’re off again. I’m like an athlete out of the blocks, hot on his heels. He barely makes it into the first bend in front of me. We flash down the straight. If Charlotte the Harlot is shouting encouragement to him, then I don’t hear it—but, let me tell you, he damn well needs it. The nose of my go-cart is away from his rear end. I have a mind to ram him up the backside. I’ve no idea where the other drivers are on the track, other than that they’re way behind us. This is a grudge match between the two of us. We both power slide round the next corner, wheels almost touching. There aren’t sparks flying, but I feel there should be. My arms are aching already as I wrestle with the steering wheel. My jaw is aching too as my teeth are gritted together. Then we hit the next corner and I’m not sure what the sequence of events is, but I think I might have accidentally hit Crush up the bottom because next thing he’s spiraling wildly off the track, spinning over the grass and thumping headlong into the pile of tires that borders the track as a safety barrier.

  I punch the air in triumph, then I look over my shoulder and see that everyone is running toward Crush’s mangled go-cart. Ooo. There’s a man waving a black flag wildly in front of me, which I know from my drivers’ briefing means that I have to come straight off the track due to bad behavior. I pull over into the pit lane and leap out of the cart. To be honest, I’m glad of the excuse to get out and see whether Crush is okay. Snatching off my helmet, I run down to where he is. One of the wheels is clearly bent and the front of the go-cart is staved in. There’s a huddle of people gathered around him—people from work and, more worryingly, marshals from the track with grim looks on their faces.

  “Aiden. Aiden,” Charlotte is crying. In a very dramatic fashion.

  My mouth has gone dry as I elbow my way to the front and I ask frantically “Is he okay?”

  Everyone turns toward me and the bleak expressions on their faces make my heart falter. A path opens and I’m kneeling in the churned-up mud at the side of the go-cart. Crush’s helmet has come off and there’s blood trickling down the side of his face. Tears flood to my eyes. This is my fault. All my fault.

  Charlotte shoves me out of the way giving me a black glare, and grabs at Crush’s hand, which has fallen from the steering wheel and now hangs limply in the grass. She rubs at it furiously. “Aiden,” she says, sounding distraught. “Aiden. Wake up.”

  But, from what I can see, there’s absolutely no sign of life.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  CHANTAL SHOVED OPEN THE DOOR of her new flat with her foot as she balanced her box of groceries on her hip. Then she tottered through to the kitchen and deposited it on her kitchen table, surveying the room with a satisfied smile. The flat wasn’t too bad at all. It was fully furnished with reasonably good taste. Stylish on a budget was the look, but she could live with that. She would have to.

  Today, she’d tried in vain to make it up with Lucy after their tiff over Jazz. As well as phoning her friend dozens and dozens of times, she’d also tried to speak to her husband to apologize again to him. His mobile went unanswered and his assistant refused to put her through to him, citing a continuing meeting which couldn’t be interrupted and which Chantal was sure was mythical. Despite leaving a plethora of messages, neither of them had returned her calls.

  There was nothing in the cupboards or the fridge, so Chantal had stocked up with some of her favorite and most extravagant store-cupboard staples—including truffle-flavored olive oil from the Tuscan hills, a ripe Camembert that Ted would have banned from the house as it smelled like old socks, and a large carton of Clive’s extra-special Chocolate Heaven drinking chocolate. They would all help to provide her with some comfort when she needed it. As no doubt she would. It was going to be strange living alone, after being with Ted for so many years, and she choked back a tear as she thought about it. However, a lot of this was her own making, so there was no way that she was going to get all maudlin over it. She was in a better position than a lot of women in her situation. Her job paid very well, so she was financially stable. If they did decide to divorce then she would get a kick-ass lawyer and take a large slice of her and her husband’s combined wealth. Ted could think again if he thought that he’d get rid of her so easily.

  Still, she hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. Chantal didn’t believe that all was yet lost. There might well be a way to effect a reconciliation between them. Though, at the moment, she couldn’t quite see how when he was even refusing to take her calls.

  She poured herself a large glass of Pinot Grigio even though the bottle hadn’t been chilled and, breaking open a box of champagne truffles that she’d also bought from Chocolate Heaven, she took them both through to the living room. The place was much smaller than her sitting room at home, but it was cozy and comfortable, decorated in shades of rich cream and caramel colors. Flopping back on the sofa, she snuggled into the cushions, curling her feet beneath her. She toyed with the buttons on her cell phone. There was someone els
e she felt she should call too and, before she changed her mind, she punched in the number. The cell only rang twice before it was answered.

  “Hi,” the voice said.

  “Jazz,” she said. Her voice sounded uncertain. She took a deep breath. “Jacob. It’s Chantal.”

  “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again,” he replied flatly.

  She sighed into the phone. “Maybe I shouldn’t be calling,” she told him, “but I wanted to phone and say that I’m sorry. I told Lucy about our …” What should she call it? She settled on, “Our arrangement.”

  She heard Jacob sigh too. “Is she very angry?”

  “I think you could safely say that,” she admitted.

  “So I won’t be hearing from her again?”

  “It seems unlikely,” Chantal said. “She’s not speaking to me at the moment either. I never thought in a million years that our paths would cross in our daily lives. Perhaps that was foolish of me.”

  “It’s never happened before,” Jacob told her.

  “Then just call it bad luck,” Chantal said. “I’m sorry that it messed up your relationship with her. I know that she liked you a lot.”

  “I liked her too.” Even down the phone Chantal could tell that he was miserable. “But it’s one of the hazards of the job,” he continued. “As soon as someone finds out about how I make my living then the relationship inevitably ends. Not many women would put up with it. Sometime soon I need to make a career change.” He laughed, but it lacked real humor.

  “My husband found out about us too,” she said. “He kicked me out.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jacob offered. “I never meant to mess up your marriage either.”

  “Hazards of being a client,” she suggested, and they shared a hollow chuckle.

  “I enjoyed meeting you, Chantal,” he said. “You’re one hell of a woman. I wish all of my clients had been as—”

  She cut him short before he could finish. There was no way she wanted to hear how she compared to his other customers. “Thank you.”

  “I suppose you won’t be calling me again either.”

  “Not as a client. My days of illicit sex are well and truly over. But I’d like to see you as a friend.”

  “I’d like that too.” There was a pause. “Besides, I haven’t taken any bookings since …” His voice tailed off “I’m not sure that I’m cut out for this work anymore. I’m taking some time out to think about things.”

  “I have a lot of contacts,” she said. “If you’re serious about that career change, I could help you out. I might be able to find you something more socially acceptable, but certainly less profitable.”

  Jacob chuckled. He was a genuinely nice guy and she wondered what had drawn him into the life he was living. Perhaps one day he would tell her. “So you’re not working tonight?”

  “No,” Jacob said. “If you want to know the truth, I’m sitting here alone feeling sorry for myself.”

  “I have a bottle of warm white wine open, a wide selection of frozen dinners and some great chocolate,” Chantal stated. “It would make me happy if you’d join me—as a friend.”

  “I’ll be right over,” Jacob said without hesitation.

  It crossed her mind that it would have been nice to be entertaining him in another capacity, but she meant what she said—no more playing with fire for her. Simple friendship could work too. After all, friends were often worth so much more than mere lovers. She gave Jacob her new address and hung up. That wasn’t so painful, Chantal thought as she sank back into the welcome softness of the sofa. If only she could make it up with Ted and with Lucy so easily.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  I HATE HOSPITALS. THE ALL-PERVADING smell of the disinfectant is making me feel even more nauseous than I already am. Aiden was whisked away from the go-cart track by ambulance accompanied by Charlotte the Harlot, and I trailed after him, a quivering mass of anxiety, on the Tube. By the time I got to the Accident and Emergency Department, Crush had already been admitted and there was nothing I could do but sit and wait until I was allowed to see him. Those five hours passed very slowly, I can tell you. If only I hadn’t been so mad, so competitive, so reckless, so … Oh, I don’t know.

  Finally, after downing what feels like thirty-eight cups of vending-machine tea and what’s definitely six Kit Kats from the chocolate-vending machine next to it, a nurse comes to see me and says, “You can go up to see Mr. Holby now.”

  “Thank you.” Relief floods my body. “Is he all right?”

  “He’ll live,” she says brusquely.

  My footsteps are as heavy as my heart as I trudge along, wandering through the maze of corridors trying to find where Crush has been taken. Eventually, I find the right ward and, when I announce my name, I’m buzzed inside. The lights are low as it’s late—way past proper visiting hours—and I’m grateful that they’ve even let me in. Crush’s bed is right by the door. He’s lying prostrate, leg in the air in some sort of sling. His face is pale and his eyes are closed. There’s a mummy-style bandage round his head. My lovely, favorite, favorite boss looks truly terrible.

  Charlotte the Harlot is sitting next to him on a hard plastic chair. When I approach, she looks up at me. That woman does a great line in withering glares and that’s coming from someone who knows.

  “How is he?” I whisper.

  But before she can answer, Crush opens his eyes and stares at me. “Ah,” he says hoarsely. “The Dark Destroyer cometh.”

  So, no “Hi, Gorgeous” this time. I sit down in the only other chair, even though I’m not invited to. “I was worried sick,” I admit.

  “Since when did your competitive streak become two miles wide?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure what happened, but I’m really, really sorry.”

  “You bloody well barged him off the track,” Charlotte informs me needlessly. “That’s what happened.”

  “It was little more than a playful tap,” I protest guiltily.

  Crush smiles. His lips are dry, and if it were me sitting there as his girlfriend, I’d be giving him soothing sips of water. I hardly dare ask the next question. “What’s the diagnosis?”

  “I’ll never be able to play the piano again.”

  “Could you before?”

  “No,” he admits with a tired grin. I smile back at him. Charlotte turns up her death-ray glare. “I’ve got a mild concussion and a busted leg.”

  “Oh, shit,” I say. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  “They’re keeping me in overnight for observation.”

  “I’m really, really sorry,” I say again.

  “Want to sign my plaster cast?” Crush asks. He sounds a bit feeble. “I feel you should be the first.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Good-bye would be a start,” Charlotte intervenes. “Aiden’s very tired. Exhausted.”

  I feel pretty wiped out myself. Crush’s hair is poking out from his bandage at all angles and I want to smooth it down for him. If Charlotte the Harlot is supposed to be his girlfriend, why isn’t she looking after him better than this?

  “Maybe we should do our next team-bonding exercise at a health spa,” I suggest, to add a bit of levity to the occasion. “I know just the place.”

  “You’d probably try to drown me in the Jacuzzi.”

  “If there’s anything you need …” I say.

  “I’m perfectly capable of tending to Aiden’s needs,” Charlotte pipes up.

  I despise her. I despise her with all of my being.

  “Chocolate,” he says. “Bring me chocolate. You owe me.”

  “I will do. I promise.”

  Crush winces with pain. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Charlotte’s death-ray glare is clearly having an effect as I suddenly feel very weak myself. “I’d better be going then,” I say. “I’ll phone tomorrow and see how you are.”

  I stand up and I want to kiss him on the cheek, but if I did that, Charlotte would leap
over the bed and karate chop me. “Bye, then.”

  “Bye,” Crush says quietly.

  “Bye,” Charlotte the Harlot says too enthusiastically. She gives me a sarcastic little wave.

  I can hardly bear to leave my boss like this. But, turning away from him, I head for the door. As I get there, Crush calls weakly, “Lucy …”

  I look back toward him.

  “I would have beaten you,” he says. He’s smiling again and there’s still a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

  “No way,” I tell him, and walk out the door.

  Chapter Sixty

  NADIA WAS SURPRISED THAT THE estate agent’s board had gone up outside her house within an hour of phoning them to put the family home on the market. But now that she’d decided that this was the only way of moving on, then there was no point in wasting time in taking steps to end her marriage. It might be drastic, but it was the only way she could see of putting the brake on her husband, who seemed intent on dragging them deeper and deeper into debt with his blind devotion to gambling. He couldn’t tell her any more clearly that the bright lights and the empty promises of riches mattered more to him than the welfare of his wife and son. This way, if they sold the house quickly, then she might just get some equity back out of it before Toby squandered that too.

  She’d hired a transit van complete with two burly men to help her move. Lucy was coming along for moral support too and, once again, she had to thank her friends from the Chocolate Lovers’ Club for their kindness. The last of the boxes were being loaded into the van and they were nearly ready to leave. Lucy had just called to say that she’d gotten off the Tube and was on her way; five minutes and she’d be here. Thank goodness. All Nadia wanted to do now was get away before Toby came home. She’d decided it was the best idea to move her stuff out while her husband was at work. It seemed less painful that way. How could she possibly have left if Toby had been there watching her taking the small boxes away that represented the dividing up of their life together? If it had to be done, it was much better this way.