Thinking of You

by Jill Mansell

  And then it was over. He turned away with an infinitesimal shrug that indicated he’d lost interest. Brought back to earth with a thump, Ginny gave herself a mental telling off. As if someone who looked like a film star was likely to be bowled over by the sight of her, today of all days, with her puffy, post-funeral eyes and tangled hair.

  Dream on, as Jem would say with typical teenage frankness. And quite right too. Oh well, at least she hadn’t made an idiot of herself and tried smiling and batting her eyelashes at him in a come-hither fashion. Relieved on that score, Ginny turned away as the door was opened by another customer coming into the shop. She ducked past them and left, still keen not to bump into Vera, and began heading swiftly in the direction of the car park. That was enough for one day; time to go home now and—

  “I saw you.”

  Like a big salmon, Ginny’s heart almost leaped out of her body. A hand was on her arm and although she hadn’t heard him speak before, she knew at once who it was.

  Who else could a voice like that belong to?

  Whirling round to face him, she felt color flood her cheeks. Crikey, up close he was even more staggeringly attractive. And clearly intelligent too, capable of seeing beyond her own currently less-than-alluring external appearance. Like those scouts from model agencies who could spot a pale lanky girl in the street and instinctively tell that she would scrub up well.

  “I saw you,” he repeated.

  He even smelled fantastic. Whatever that aftershave was, it was her favorite. Breathlessly, Ginny whispered, “I saw you too.”

  His gaze didn’t falter. His hand was still on her arm. “Shall we go?”

  Go? Oh, good grief, was this really happening? It was like one of those arty black-and-white French films where two people meet and say very little to each other but do rather a lot.

  “Go where?” Steady on now, he’s still a complete stranger; you can’t actually go back to his place, tear off his clothes, and leap into bed with a man you’ve only just—

  “Back to the shop.”

  Ginny’s imagination skidded to a halt in midfantasy. (He had a four-poster bed with cream silk drapes that stirred in the breeze drifting in through the open window—because in her fantasy it was a balmy afternoon in August.)

  “Back to the shop?” Perhaps he owned it. Or lived above it. Oh God, he was reaching for her hand; this was so romantic. If only she could stop herself idiotically parroting everything he said.

  “Come on, do yourself a favor and give up. You might be good,” he drawled, “but you’re not that good.”

  What was that supposed to mean? Puzzled, Ginny watched him take hold of her hand, then turn it face up and, one by one, unfurl her fingers.

  Her blood ran cold. The next second she let out a shriek of horror followed by an involuntary high-pitched giggle. “Oh my God, I didn’t even realize! How embarrassing! I can’t believe I just walked out with it in my hand. Thank goodness you noticed! I’ll take it straight back and explain…”

  Ginny’s voice trailed away as she realized that she was attempting to retrieve her hand and this man wasn’t letting it go. Nor was he smiling at her absentmindedness, her careless but innocent mistake.

  In fact he was gripping her wrist quite tightly, making sure she couldn’t escape.

  “Now look,” said Ginny, flustered. “I didn’t do it on purpose!”

  “I despise shoplifters. I hope they prosecute you,” the man said evenly.

  “But I’m not a shoplifter! I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Oh God, I can’t believe you even think that!” Hideously aware that people in the street were starting to take notice, some even slowing down to listen avidly to the exchange, Ginny turned and walked rapidly back to the shop still clutching the jeweled peacock and fighting back tears of shame. Because like a hammer blow it had struck her that while she had been mentally drooling over a man she ridiculously imagined might fancy her, she had completely forgotten about Bellamy.

  That’s how breathtakingly shallow and selfish she was.

  Pushing open the door to the shop, she saw that there were a dozen or so customers wandering around, plus the woman who worked there. Hot on her heels—evidently ready to rugby-tackle her to the ground if she tried to escape—the man ushered her inside and up to the counter. Ginny pushed the jeweled peacock into the woman’s hands and gabbled, mortified, “I’m so sorry; it was a complete accident. I didn’t realize I was still holding it when I left.”

  “Sounds quite convincing, doesn’t she?” The man raised an eyebrow. “But I was watching her. I saw the way she was acting before she made her getaway.”

  Was this like being innocent of murder but finding yourself on death row?

  “Please don’t say that.” The tears were back, pricking her eyelids. Gulping for breath and aware that she was now truly the center of attention, Ginny clutched the edge of the counter. “I’m an honest person. I’ve never broken the law; I just wasn’t concentrating.”

  “Obviously not,” the man interjected. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have got caught.”

  “Oh, will you SHUT UP? I didn’t mean to take it! As soon as I’d realized it was in my hand, I would have brought it back,” Ginny shouted. “It was an accident.” Gazing in desperation at the saleswoman, she pleaded, “You believe me, don’t you? You don’t think I was actually planning to steal it?”

  The woman looked startled. “Well, I…”

  “See that sign?” The man pointed to a sign next to the till announcing that shoplifters would be prosecuted. “It’s there for a reason.”

  Ginny began to feel light-headed. “But I’m not a shoplifter.”

  Gesturing toward the phone on the counter, the man said to the saleswoman, “Go on, call the police.”

  “It was a mistake,” sobbed Ginny. “My dog died yesterday. I only b-buried him this morning.” As she said it, her knees buckled beneath her. The tears flowed freely down her face as the saleswoman hastily dragged a chair out from behind the counter. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… everything’s just getting too much for me.” Sinking onto the chair, Ginny buried her face in her hands and shook her head.

  “She’s in a bit of a state,” the saleswoman murmured anxiously.

  “That’s because she’s been caught red-handed. Now she’s trying every trick in the book to get out of it.”

  “Ah, but what if her dog’s really died? It’s awful when that happens. And she’s looking a bit pale. Are you feeling all right, love?”

  Ginny shook her head, nausea swirling through her body like ectoplasm. “Actually, I’m feeling a bit sick.”

  A large blue bowl with pink and gold daisies hand-painted on the inside was thrust into her hands. The attached price ticket announced that it was £280. Breathing deeply, terrified that she might actually be sick into it, Ginny felt beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

  “She looks terrible.”

  “That’s because she’s guilty.”

  “Hello, love, can you hear me? You shouldn’t be on your own. Is there anyone we can call?

  Pointedly, the man said, “Like the police?”

  It was no good, even being thrown into a police cell and chained to a wall would be better than being gawped at by everyone here in the shop. Shaking her head, Ginny muttered, “No, no one you can call. My daughter’s not here anymore. She’s gone. Just get it over and done with and call the police. Go ahead, arrest me. I don’t care anymore.”

  There was a long silence. It seemed that everyone was holding their breath.

  Finally, the saleswoman said, “I can’t do it to her. Poor thing, how could I have her arrested?”

  “Don’t look at me. It’s your shop.” The man sounded exasperated.

  “Actually, it’s not. The owner’s gone to Penzance for the day and I’m just covering. But we’ve got this back.” The clink of the jeweled peacock’s feet against the glass-topped counter reached Ginny’s ears. “So why don’t we leave it at that?”

  The
man, clearly disappointed, breathed a sigh of resignation and said brusquely, “Fine. I was just trying to help.”

  The door clanged shut behind him. Ginny fumbled for a tissue and wiped her nose. Patting her on the arm, the saleswoman said kindly, “It’s all right, love. Let’s just forget it ever happened, shall we?”

  “It was an accident,” snuffled Ginny.

  “I’m sure it was. You’ve had a rotten time. Are you OK to leave now? You need to take it easy, look after yourself.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Embarrassed and grateful, Ginny rose to her feet and prayed the Terminator wouldn’t be waiting outside. “Thanks.”

  Chapter 4

  “You’ll never guess what I did last week.” Even as she said it, Ginny felt herself begin to blush.

  “Hey, good for you.” Carla, tanned from her fortnight in Sardinia, gave a nod of approval. “Welcome back to the real world and about time too. So where did you meet him?”

  Honestly.

  “I wasn’t doing that,” Ginny protested. “We’re not all sex-crazed strumpets, you know.”

  “Just as well. All the more men for me.” Amused, Carla said, “So tell me what you were doing instead that was so much better than sex.”

  “I didn’t say it was better than sex.” Entirely unbidden, the image of that cream four-poster bed with its hangings billowing in the breeze danced once more through Ginny’s mind, accompanied by the shadowy outline of a tall, half-dressed figure. “It was horrible. I accidentally shoplifted something and got caught by this vile man who didn’t believe I hadn’t meant to do it. Don’t laugh,” she protested as Carla’s mouth began to flicker. “It was one of the worst experiences of my whole life. I was almost arrested.”

  “I hate it when that happens. What were you trying to make off with anyway? Something good?”

  Friends, who needed them? Aiming a fork at Carla’s hand, Ginny said, “I wasn’t trying to make off with anything. It was a miniature jeweled peacock. I didn’t even like it.”

  “Never shoplift stuff you don’t like. What were you thinking of?”

  “That’s just it, I wasn’t thinking. It was after we’d buried Bellamy. And then I’d taken Jem to the station. I thought a spot of shopping might cheer me up.” Ginny pulled a face. “Now I daren’t even go into a shop in case it happens again. At this rate it’s going to be tinned carrots and cornflakes at Christmas.”

  “You need to sort yourself out,” said Carla. “Get your social life back on track, find yourself a new man. I mean it,” she insisted. “Tinned carrots and a suspended sentence isn’t the way forward.”

  “I know, I know.” Ginny had heard all this fifty times before; her manless state was a continuing source of pain and bewilderment to Carla. “But not until after Christmas, OK? Jem’ll be back soon.”

  “There, you see? You’re doing it again. Putting your life on hold until Jem comes home.” Swiveling around on her chair, Carla peered accusingly up at Ginny’s kitchen calendar. “I bet you’ve been crossing off the days until the end of term.”

  “I can’t imagine why I’m your friend. As if I’d do that,” said Ginny.

  As if she’d cross the days off on the kitchen calendar where Jem would see it when she got back; she wasn’t that stupid. She was crossing them off on the other calendar, the secret one hidden under her bed.

  “Anyway, enough about you. Let’s talk some more about me,” said Carla.

  So far they were up to day eight of her eventful holiday in Sardinia. No man had been safe. “Go on then, what happened after Russell went home?”

  “Thank you.” Carla’s eyes danced as she refilled their wine glasses. “I thought you’d never ask. Well…”

  Ginny smiled. Only nineteen more days and Jem would be back. She’d definitely drink to that.

  ***

  It was the week after Christmas and Ginny was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher when Jem bellowed from the living room, “Mum! GET IN HERE!”

  Ginny straightened up. Had a spider just galloped across the carpet?

  “Mum! NOW!”

  In the living room she found Jem no longer draped across the sofa but catapulted bolt upright gazing at the TV screen. It was one of those daytime magazine-style programs and the presenter was talking chirpily about singles clubs. Ginny, her heart sinking, said, “Oh no, I’m not going to one of those, don’t even try to persuade me—oh!”

  The camera had swung round to reveal the person standing next to the presenter.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” groaned Jem. “Tell me you had an affair and he’s not my real father.”

  Ginny, her hands covering her mouth, watched as the female presenter interviewed Gavin about the difference joining a singles club had made to his life. Gavin was beaming with pride and wearing one of his trademark multicolored striped shirts—some might call them jazzy; Ginny called them eye-wateringly loud. In his jolly way he chatted with enthusiasm about the fun they all had together and the great network of friends he’d made since joining the club. Never what you’d call shy, Gavin went on cheerfully, “I mean, I know I’m no Johnny Depp, but all I’m looking for is someone to share my life with, and I know the right woman has to be out there somewhere. That’s not too much for a forty-year-old to ask, is it?”

  “Forty!” Ginny let out a squeak of disbelief because Gavin—the cheek of the man—was forty-three.

  “Uurrrgh, now he’s flirting with the presenter!” Jem buried her face in a cushion. “I can’t watch!”

  Excruciatingly, the presenter and Gavin ended up dancing together before Gavin swept her into a jokey Hollywood embrace. Jem was making sick noises on the sofa. Then that segment of the TV program was over and singles clubs were replaced by a three-minute in-depth discussion on the subject of cystitis.

  “I can’t believe I’m related to him.” Finally daring to uncover her eyes again, Jem wailed, “God, as if it isn’t bad enough having a dad who joins a singles club. But oh no, mine has to go one better and appear on TV to boast about it. Without even having the decency to have his face blurred.” Reaching for her mobile, she punched out her father’s number. “Dad? No, this isn’t Keira Knightley; it’s me. And, yes, of course we’ve just seen it. I can’t believe you didn’t warn us first. What if all my friends were watching? Why do I have to be the one with the embarrassing dad?”

  “It’s his mission in life to make you cringe,” said Ginny.

  Jem, having listened to her father speak, rolled her eyes at Ginny. “He says he’s feeling a bit peckish.”

  “He’s always feeling a bit peckish. That’s why he has to wear big stripy shirts to cover his big fat stomach. Go on then,” Ginny sighed, “tell him to come over.”

  “Hear that?” said Jem into the phone. She broke into a grin. “Dad says you’re a star.”

  “He doesn’t know what we’re eating yet.” Ginny wiped her wet hands on her jeans. “Tell him it’s salad.”

  Chapter 5

  Gavin roared up the drive an hour later in his filthy white mid-life crisis Porsche and they ate dinner together around the kitchen table. Jem’s efforts to shame him, predictably enough, failed to have the desired effect.

  “Where’s the harm in it?” Breezily unrepentant, Gavin helped himself to another mountain of buttery mashed potato. “I’m expanding my social life, making new friends, having fun. I’ve met some smashing girls.”

  Girls being the operative word. Ginny found it hard to believe sometimes that she and Gavin had ever been married. These days he was forever announcing that yet again he had met the most gorgeous creature and that this time she was definitely The One. Needless to say, Gavin was an enthusiastic chatter-upper of the opposite sex but not necessarily a sensible one. The girls invariably turned out to be in their twenties with short skirts, high heels, and white-blond hair extensions. These relationships weren’t what you’d call a meeting of minds. They usually only lasted a few weeks. When Gavin had come round over Christmas he had spent all his time extol
ling the virtues of his latest amour, Marina. And now, ten days later, here he was extolling the virtues of a singles club.

  “What happened to Marina?” Ginny dipped a chunk of bread into the bowl of garlic mayonnaise.

  “Who? Oh, right. Her ex-boyfriend got jealous and kicked up a bit of a fuss. They’re back together now.”

  “And you’re back to square one,” said Ginny. “Aren’t the women at this singles place a bit older than you’re used to?”

  “So? Not a problem. Some of them have cracking daughters.” Gavin was unperturbed. “And don’t give me that look. You should try it yourself.”

  “What? Chatting up fifty-something women, then running off with their daughters?”

  “The club. It’d do you the world of good. Jem’s back at uni next week,” Gavin went on. “You want to be getting out more. Come along with me, and I’ll introduce you to everyone. It’d be fun.”

  “Are you mad? I’m your ex-wife.” Ginny couldn’t believe he was serious. “It’s not normal, you know, to take your ex-wife along to your singles club. Even if I did want to go to one, which I don’t.”

  Gavin shrugged. “You’ve got to move with the times. And think of what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.”

  “Dad, leave it. This is like when you keep trying to persuade me to eat olives just because you love them. Mum’s fine; she’s not desperate like you.”

  “I’m not desperate.” Gavin was outraged at this slur on his character.

  “No, you’re just a bit of a tart.” Reaching over, Jem gave his hand a reassuring pat. “And that’s not a criticism; it’s the truth. But Mum isn’t like that. She’s happy as she is.” Turning to Ginny, she added, “You never get lonely, do you, Mum? You’re not the type.”

  “Um… well…” Caught off guard by what had clearly been a rhetorical question, Ginny wondered if this might perhaps be the moment to confess that sometimes, if she was honest, she did get a bit—