Still Thinking of You

by Adele Parks

  ‘I’d better go and find Rich,’ she said, as she eased herself out of her seat and away from Lloyd.

  Lloyd barely noticed her leave as he muttered, ‘It makes you think.’

  56. Rich and the Barman

  Fuck, fuck, fuck. It couldn’t be worse. It couldn’t be more horrible. Or rather he couldn’t be worse. He couldn’t be more horrible. Rich was drenched in regret and self-loathing.

  Had he been in the least bit sympathetic towards Ted? He wasn’t sure. He’d tried to listen to what Ted had been saying, but it was hard to take in, and Rich had problems of his own. He hoped he’d said the right things. He thought Ted appreciated the hug and back slapping, and he did seem interested when Rich had suggested a career change. Rich couldn’t believe that Ted hadn’t considered management consultancy, for instance. A bit of fraud was a positive attribute in that field, given the right spin. Rich thought that maybe he had been of some practical help. He hoped so, but he wasn’t certain. It was at moments like that when Rich wished he were a woman. He tried to imagine what Tash would say. Women generally, and Tash in particular, always knew how to comfort. What to say. What to do and how much touching was acceptable. Still, that was the only moment he’d ever swap places. The childbirth thing, the hostage-to-hormones bit and the lower salaries didn’t attract in the slightest.

  Ted would be all right. Surely.

  This morning had been excruciating. Tash had woken up feeling fretful and frisky by turn. Normally he’d welcome the opportunity to exploit fully the frisky feeling, but today he’d leapt out of bed as though it were a pit of venomous spiders. He dashed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him, but he couldn’t bring himself to shave because he didn’t want to look in the mirror. Rich had hung about in the shower until his skin resembled that white stuff girls ate. What was it? Cottage cheese. Eventually Tash had taken the hint and gone down to breakfast alone. He’d only emerged when he heard Ted hammering at the door. He’d rather never eat again than face breakfast with Tash (who knew nothing) and Jase (who knew something) and, oh, hell on earth, Jayne herself… who knew everything.

  What in God’s name had he been thinking of? The answer, of course, was not much. Jayne was there, Jayne was clearly willing and Jayne was hot. Tash – in that moment – was none of those things.

  Jayne was there. That was the thing. She was there, grinding her tiny, little body next to his and edging her arse into his crotch as she did a provocative rendition of Nelly’s ‘It’s getting hot in here’. She was ready and present, and Tash was in bed in their hotel room, sulking.

  Jayne was willing. He knew that. She always had been. In his experience, plain or fat girls were often way better at sex than stunners. They were grateful and wanted to pull back the disadvantage, so to speak. Good-looking girls always thought they were doing you a favour by simply lying back and thinking of England. Lots of good-looking girls didn’t like to work up a sweat, as it ruined their hair and anything involving a bit of bending ran the risk of breaking a nail. Jayne was no longer plain Jane, she was a beauty now, but as she didn’t believe it in her heart she still offered it up with enthusiasm. Even changing the spelling of her name from ‘Jane’ to ‘Jayne’ had done nothing to help, nothing at all, except infuriate her parents. It was almost too good to be true, a cutie with an ugly-girl mentality. He remembered that she slipped, flipped, slid around, under, over, in front and behind him. She was game for anything, any time and anywhere. It had always been easy.

  Almost too much so.

  But he couldn’t wriggle out of it by saying Tash was unwilling or that she was the type of girl that lay back and thought of England. Under normal circumstances she was very keen and very accomplished. They’d had a great sex life back home and on this holiday, too. Some of their best. He wasn’t saying that Tash was losing her edge or her eagerness. Tash was hot, scalding, but last night, for a brief and fatal moment in time, she’d grown distinctly tepid. Instead of whipping her tongue over his cock, she whipped him with her grievances over Mia. It was no fun.

  And…

  And Jayne was hot. She was indefinably dirty. There was something about her. Something base and animal and overpowering that compelled him to go back and back and back over the years. She roused him, almost goaded him into doing things that he knew would be better left undone.

  Like the kiss.

  It wasn’t the same as the night in the cinema foyer. She hadn’t kissed him and caught him unaware. He’d lurched at her. The responsibility, the initiative and the blame all rested squarely with him. He’d wanted to kiss her lips – hard. He’d wanted to bite them, to have them, to have her. He’d tasted blood and wanted more. She’d immediately put her hand on his crotch and, of course, he was erect. Of course, for fuck’s sake, he was only flesh and blood. She’d grinned, that crazy, sexy, wild grin, and kissed him back. The kissing was vigorous, intense, almost frightening. Fucking horny. They fell against the corridor wall and she brought her leg up and around him, hooking him like a fish. His hands moved swiftly from cupping her face to cupping her tits, and then to her firm little arse. His fingers had stretched under her. At that point she’d broken away and panted an invite for him to join her in her room.

  Her timing was out of kilter. It was just her poor timing that saved him. He hadn’t drunk quite enough. He wasn’t absolutely devoid of his senses. He wasn’t entirely immersed in careless lust. One more drink, a few more moments grabbing her arse, and he’d have been hers.

  He hated that.

  He’d backed away from her and staggered along the corridor. He hadn’t dared look back. She’d called his name, and he’d made a gesture which was supposed to indicate that she should shut up, go to bed, go away.

  Ideally, disappear altogether.

  What had he done? He had opened Pandora’s box. Prior to that kiss, it had been just possible that he could have got away without this situation blowing up in his face. He could have faced Tash with his not-quite-white conscience and said, ‘OK, I hold my hands up, there’s history.’ He could have, given the right opportunity, explained to her that that was all Jayne was, history. Only now she wasn’t. Now she was very present.

  He didn’t want her. Not in the cold light of day. Not when sober. She was a mistake.

  But was she an irreparable one?

  Rich thought through his options. Option one, he could hunt out Tash and come clean. He could explain everything, lay it all out for her and throw himself at her feet, begging for mercy, understanding and forgiveness. The problem was that he couldn’t visualize the scenario. When he tried to, he kept seeing visions of Tash kneeing him in the bollocks and bringing him down to her feet before he got a chance to willingly prostrate himself there.

  Option two, he could track down Jayne and explain to her, firmly and fairly, that last night was a drunken mistake. He wouldn’t have to tell her that he was beginning to think that every episode with her had been a mistake – he didn’t need to be unnecessarily cruel. He could ask for her mercy, understanding and silence. He could brush the whole incident under the carpet. Again, it was hard to sincerely believe in this scenario. He was plagued with memories of Jayne’s whispered innuendos and threats. Her perpetual insistence that she would not allow him to marry Tash.

  As far as he could see it, his final option was to find a quiet bar and hide there until Friday. He wouldn’t see or speak to anyone between now and then. Not even Tash. He’d just be unavailable. And he wouldn’t enter into any discussion as to why he was unavailable, not with anybody. Then on their wedding day he’d dash up a slope with Tash and marry her quickly. Whatever happened after that, it was too late; she was stuck with him.

  Scarily, option three seemed the most viable and appealing.

  Rich pulled on his clothes, boots and jacket, and went in search of a bar that was open this early in the morning. He found one as far away from the hotel as he could manage, up a slope and just past the tourist office. It took an exceptional bar to make an impact
early in the morning, and this was not an exceptional bar. The bar wasn’t particularly trendy, or swish. It was full of chairs, with wooden legs that needed a varnish and plastic seats that were ripped but had been botch-mended with sticky tape. At night time, the twinkling lights around the window and collection of snow globes above the optics may have appeared cute; in the harsh daylight they simply looked tired. Rich didn’t care. As a hide-out, it suited.

  The guy staffing the joint was just taking the stools down off the bar top. They’d been put up there so that the floor could be washed. Rich arrived just as the cigarette butts from the night before were being swept into a dustpan and the floor was being swilled with disinfectant in an effort to erase all traces of spilt beer and an unfortunate circle of vomit. Rich wished he could be swilled in disinfectant, too. The tall, lanky French guy seemed disinterested in Rich’s early morning visit. He carried on with his cleaning. Not that he was fanatical about that either. His approach was languid and did not seem to require him to take his cigarette out of his mouth, despite the fact that he scattered more ash as soon as the floor was clean. Rich watched for a while and wondered if the cigarette was actually a surgical addition.

  ‘I’d like a coffee, please. Black and strong.’ He ordered in English, too fatigued to rustle up his charming French accent.

  ‘Non, you non want coffee.’ The guy tutted and proceeded to pour a Bloody Mary. ‘The bollocks of a dog, as you English say,’ said the bartender as he banged the glass on to the bar.

  ‘The hair of the dog,’ corrected Rich. He then tasted the Bloody Mary, which was very fine. ‘Or the dog’s bollocks,’ he conceded.

  The bartender shrugged, clearly not bothered whether his English idioms were correct or not. He was a goodlooking guy and needed very few words to seduce the English women, who were pleasantly loose. Rich wondered if anything bothered this man. He doubted it. He couldn’t imagine the elegant, slightly stooping French guy of indeterminate age ever becoming concerned about anything, let alone creating a God-awful mess. Rich wished they could swap places. Rich suddenly didn’t want his big flat in Islington, his plasma TV or even his DVD collection, unsurpassable as it was. He would have traded it all in to be this careless French guy who came to Avoriaz for the season, shagged indiscriminately, then disappeared again, leaving neither regrets nor recriminations in his wake.

  Rich sighed. It was not possible. Swapping his life with this stranger was an attractive fantasy, but he was wasting his time dreaming about the scenario. He should be concentrating on the issue at hand and trying to find a solution. That was Rich’s forte, that’s what he was paid a lot of money to do, ‘solution management’. Besides, while he would happily walk away from all his worldly possessions – right now, if he had to, or if it would help – he could not walk away from Tash.

  The thought surprised and horrified him in equal parts.

  He did not want to lose her. He wanted to marry Tash, to have children with Tash, to grow old with Tash. It wasn’t quite so horrific to contemplate saggy flesh, commodes and arthritic limbs if Tash was by his side. This was a remarkable admission, as Rich had been one of the few men of his acquaintance who had become seriously depressed about his mortality when he turned thirty. He had refused to throw a party or join the gang go-kart racing, as they’d arranged. Instead he had ignored the whole event and carried on as though it was any other day. Ageing was his biggest fear. Or it had been.

  Now his biggest fear was losing Tash.

  And this thing that he’d had with Jayne, while lasting more than a decade, was nothing in comparison to all that he felt for Tash. And the incident last night was less than nothing. It was a drunken, meaningless, pointless kiss.

  But it could be the most important kiss of his life if he couldn’t find a way to contain the mistake.

  Rich drained his Bloody Mary and, as if by magic, but in fact as a result of the experience of the bartender, a dark, treacle-like coffee appeared from nowhere. He sipped it gratefully and considered that Avoriaz village wasn’t a big place to hide. He feared he could be found if anyone really wanted to find him. He was hoping, in vain, that no one would.

  57. Rich and Jayne Share a Bloody Mary

  Jayne did want to find Rich.

  ‘Babe, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ she beamed from the doorway. She rushed towards him, pulling off her beanie and letting her hair tumble free, creating the same sensation as a huge wave creates in a surfer’s heart. Rich noticed the previously impassive bartender adjust his expression into one of admiration. Before Jayne had walked in the bar, the bartender had probably pitied Rich, if he thought anything about him at all. Now he admired Rich because this honey called him ‘babe’.

  Rich wanted to shrink.

  ‘Is that a Virgin or a Bloody Mary?’ she asked, sniffing his glass. ‘A Bloody, you bad boy, I’ll have one, too.’ Jayne giggled, then sat down on the bar stool next to Rich’s. He felt overwhelmed by her presence. She shuffled closer and slipped her legs on to the rung on his stool, somehow intertwining her legs with his, as though she were a vine. Jayne ruffled his hair and gave him a peck on the lips.

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, babe, but you look terrible.’ Jayne enjoyed this gentle teasing. It was how boyfriends and girlfriends behaved with one another; they touched and teased with ease. She’d longed for this intimacy.

  Rich climbed off his stool and moved it further away from her, then climbed back on it again. He felt a little ridiculous doing so, particularly when he caught the bartender’s eye, who, from the look on his face, clearly thought any sane man should be moving towards Jayne and not away from her. Rich was embarrassed to be fortifying the French stereotype of the English as repressed and cold, but he didn’t feel he had a choice.

  ‘Jayne, about last night.’

  ‘Wasn’t it wonderful? I had the best time. You did, too, didn’t you? Of course, you did.’

  ‘Well, yes, it was a laugh, but –’

  ‘I respect that you couldn’t, you know,’ Jayne leant into Rich and whispered, ‘fuck me, until after you finished everything with Tash. It is best to keep things clean.’

  ‘About that…’ Rich had the words in his head, all he had to do was say them. That couldn’t be too hard, could it? All he had to say was, ‘I’m not going to finish with Tash.’ But it was the way she said ‘fuck’, it threw him. Not that he wanted to, but somehow she pronounced it as though he wanted to. It was confusing.

  ‘Have you told her? What did she say? I don’t imagine she took it that well, poor girl.’ Jayne had absolutely no sympathy for Tash, not an iota, but she realized confessing as much would make her look callous.

  ‘No. I haven’t told her –’

  ‘Well, you must get on with it. Now would be a good time. What with all this fuss about my brother and Kate, Tash will be able to lick her wounds relatively privately. Did you buy her a flexible plane ticket? Because she’ll want to go home. But we should stay. We could take a sleigh ride tonight. I imagine that will be awfully romantic.’

  ‘It is,’ stuttered Rich.

  He had to stop this. He felt as though he was on that carousel near the kids’ ski school. He was on a beautiful, colourful but entirely false ride, and he was going around and around, but not getting anywhere. He felt dizzy. Stop the world, he wanted to get off. All he had to do was tell her, spell it out. Why couldn’t he find the words?

  In the past, situations such as this had always been much easier to handle. Women generally had more pride and intuition than Jayne had. Rich – like many, many men – would rather walk over hot coals and eat cold lard than actually finish with a girl. He employed a host of cowardly techniques to drop hints if his ardour was cooling. He’d fail to return calls, he’d turn up to dates late or leave early. He’d use the wrong name in bed. In his experience, women who sensed that Rich was about to give them the big heave-ho invariably scrambled to pip him to the post. If they really didn’t take a hint, he could always just disappear. No
t call at all. Not turn up at all. But there wasn’t much chance of ignoring Jayne when they were holed up in the same hotel. For the first time in his life Rich wished he had a bit more experience at being mature about break-ups. He wished he knew a sensitive and sincere, but, most importantly of all, a final way of drawing a line under events with Jayne.

  He wondered what Tash would do in a situation like this. It was a difficult leap of imagination. He couldn’t envisage emotionally mature and perpetually honest Tash landing herself in a similar scenario. But if by some unlikely twist of events she had, Rich knew that Tash would be handling things better than he currently was. Not that he was handling anything at all. He was mute. Mute seemed to be his latest physical manifestation of burying his head in the sand. He wished he could ask Tash’s advice. He needed her.

  Jayne leant across the distance he’d placed between them and draped her arms around his neck. She gazed into his eyes, or, at least, would have done so, if he hadn’t been resolutely staring at his boots.

  ‘What do you want to do today? Should we board? Or would you like to hole up here and just stay cosy?’

  Rich knew that the most difficult moment of his adult life had arrived. Far harder than proposing to Tash – that had been so natural, a doddle. Far harder than pitching for hundreds of thousands of pounds’ worth of business and far harder than consoling Ted this morning. But he had to reach out. And up. He had no choice. He had to become the man that Tash thought he was. He had to be honest. And, as he heard himself tell Jayne that he didn’t love her, never had, that he was sorry that he’d mistreated and misled her – and he could now see he had done just that – as he heard her scream that she would tell Tash everything, destroy their relationship, and even as he heard her sob that she’d see to it that he’d never, ever be happy, he knew that he had done the right thing.

  The bell on the bar door merrily tinkled, a taunting contrast, as Jayne angrily slammed the door behind her. Rich watched as she ran away, yelling obscenities and truths back at him. If Jayne went directly to the hotel and Tash was there, he calculated that he had about ten more minutes to live life as a man that was lucky enough to marry Tash Richardson. It was cruel that, by finally being as honest as Tash wanted him to be, he had lost her. Because he had surely lost her. Not even lost, but thrown her away. He’d held in his hands this amazing, enchanting, fabulous woman, but he hadn’t taken care. Rich wanted to cry, but he didn’t think he deserved any pity. Not even self-pity.