He looked up from his food and met my eyes, and instantly I hit on the problem. His gaze was impersonal, unemotional, and it was the way he had come to look more and more in recent years. I couldn’t actually recall the last time he looked at me with any sort of emotion in his eyes. I had mistaken it for an evenness of temper and far preferable to the disdain I sometimes caught in the eyes of my friends’ partners, but maybe it was worse. Love and hate were at least in the same ball park. Indifference was something else altogether.
Even happy or exciting events in my life failed to raise anything but the barest traces of interest. Jack had read snatches of the original book when I insisted, but he always looked like I was trying to torture him by making him read a book about cake, which he had little interest in, apart from eating it on occasion. When I discussed the publishing deal, he smiled absently, in his mind already making the journey to his desk and the call of his most serious relationship: work. Though he never said it, I knew he thought his working was more important than being physically present in family life. It was his way of providing for us, showing that he loved us by allowing us to be comfortable, in a way he could no longer express verbally. Slowly, so slowly, I hadn’t really noticed it; he was turning into his father. How long before he started slipping silently from rooms?
What about my feelings? It wasn’t that I didn’t desire him; it was that I was afraid to be open with my desire because I was pretty sure he didn’t desire me. I loved him, but it was tinged with nausea, that slightly queasy feeling in the bottom of my stomach that was the awareness that it wasn’t returned equally. Not that he was looking for something else; I really think he just didn’t want anyone with any passion. Sports provided a safe outlet for any of his more uncomfortable emotions, allowing the rest of his life safe passage.
This was the way of life I’d willingly conformed to, and in exchange, I received a comfortable existence, protected from any hardship that money could avert, and the freedom to pursue my own interests. With any relationship, there is a trade-off: you can marry a prince and live in a castle, but don’t count on keeping your kids if your marriage ends. I married into old money, and in exchange, I had to put up with Edwina and the necessity of sending my children off to boarding school when I’d rather have kept them home. I understood, but it made me sad to be loved from a distance now. The man I married had become a stranger.
But at the same time, I knew myself, and even though I craved intimacy, I could recognize another part of me that was terrified of the vulnerability it demanded. That part needed the space an emotionally absent husband could provide. If things went wrong, which I had always been slightly afraid was going to happen, I would lose any place I might have had in this world. Now I was actively courting it, which was madness, but in a way, it would almost be a relief. I’d been waiting so long for something to disrupt our marriage that it would almost be a blessing to be able to stop anticipating it.
I was lucky in so many ways with my lot in life. It was a deal that almost everyone would make, and I had no right to feel dissatisfied now. Sex was great, but you spent far more time doing other things after the first few years, so it couldn’t be that important. Maybe I needed this fling to get it out of my system so I could return and keep going without breaking down into a screaming heap when I hit forty. This was an early mid-life crisis, I decided. Was there really a need to break up our family over it? If I was careful, could I get away with it? It was an interesting thought. I felt an excruciating amount of guilt, but intellectually, I knew that I was doing it to myself. If I gave myself this one free pass, maybe I could ride this guilt until the end, trading it off against the irritations of married life, thereby assuaging any of the self-destructive impulses I occasionally felt to end my marriage, a desire that sometimes called to me like a siren-song.
By dessert, I had concluded my internal negotiation and given myself a free pass, just this once. It was unlikely that there was any further chance to sleep with Anders, given that there was only one night after tonight. After this, we would go back to London and our lives as they were and carry on until we were dead. A ripple of despair lapped at my heart. It was a depressing thought, that this week would be my farewell to sex and intimacy for the rest of my life.
I was making coffee in the kitchen the next morning when Anders came in behind me.
“This reminds me of two nights ago. If only there weren’t so many people here…” he said. Just hearing his voice, low, gravelly and slightly accented, created a lick of lust in my stomach.
“I’m pretty sure we could clear the room if we tried a re-enactment,” I said jokingly.
“Did you have a nice dinner last night?” His words were unexceptional, but there was more behind them. I snuck a glance at him, and his face was more intense than the situation required.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Am I going to get to see you alone again?”
“No, I can’t. We leave tomorrow morning. It’s just not possible,” I said with regret. I had already given it some thought.
“We may never get to see each other again. Let’s say goodbye properly,” he urged. “Pretend you feel sick and come in after lunch. I’ll wait for you in my room.”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Jack may come in with me.”
“Please.”
“Okay, I’ll try. If he comes with me, then I won’t be able to.”
“All right, but try to get away.”
“Anders, can you hurry Katie up with the coffee?” Michael called from the common room.
“Coming!” I sang out, hurrying away. The sick nervous feeling churning my stomach from the fear of getting caught might not make a lie out of my claiming to be sick, and I started setting the groundwork for my excuse right then.
I hated pretending to be selfless by encouraging Jack to keep skiing without me, claiming I was just going to lie down for a while. In case he came back early, I told him that if I felt a bit better I might go for a hot chocolate later, which would explain my absence if he came looking. The only thing I had to worry about was someone seeing me coming out of Anders’ room, but I could get him to check the coast was clear first. This was the last time, so if I didn’t get caught now, then I would get away with it.
Anders must have heard the front door open because when I came through the common room, he was leaning against the door to his room, wearing jeans and an old T-shirt that draped softly over his chest, hinting at the muscles underneath. He looked behind me to check I was alone before opening up his arms.
I walked slowly over to him, wanting to savor every moment of what would be our last time together. Our eyes locked together, and I started undoing my parka and then unzipping my ski top. There was nothing underneath, and I heard his intake of breath and saw the desire fire up in his eyes. I reached him, and he silently bent and, sweeping one hand under my knees, lifted me into his arms and carried me into his room, kicking the door closed behind us.
Chapter Twelve
WE LEFT EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, in the usual rush of departure. I didn’t see Anders again, for which I was half-happy, half-sad. Happy to avoid the awkwardness of having Jack there and disappointed that I didn’t see him one last time, brief and unsatisfying though it would have been. We made our plane in plenty of time, and only a couple of hours later, we were in the back of a black car, driving through the gray bleakness of London, heading back to our house and the real world.
The holiday break was now officially over, and I recommenced the promotional trail for my second cookbook, The Gospel According to Saint Kate, in the lead up to Valentine’s Day, which was fun but exhausting. I had now been deemed successful enough to have been upgraded to a more senior publicist, who accompanied me to all the events. I was not the easiest of clients, having such an ambiguous relationship with the media, but Lindsay took it all in stride. She was a tall, lanky American with wide green eyes and long, deep ruby-red hair, which she tossed around and played with like a sma
ll pet. The cost of maintaining her quite astonishing mane probably cost the same as a pet too. We got on well, even though she scared me a little. She was spectacularly efficient at her job, which involved setting up publicity events, not only the usual appearances at premieres, ballet, opera, and movies, cooking demonstrations, and book signings, but also spreads in magazines and media interviews.
Today’s event was a morning show interview and “cooking” demonstration, though most of the actual cooking had been taken care of beforehand. Though I’d done them before, there was more pressure with this one, given it was on the same network I was currently in negotiations with. Interviews could become quite boring after a while as I’m not one of those people who find themselves endlessly fascinating, and it just feels like you’re repeating yourself constantly. It’s really hard to keep it fresh and interesting when you’ve already been asked the same question, albeit worded slightly differently, twenty times before.
It’s part of the job, though, and I did it willingly, which didn’t stop it being a bit like the movie Groundhog Day. I did the cooking demonstration, smiling in all the right places, chatting with the hosts in heavily scripted exchanges, until it felt like the pancake makeup on my face was going to crack or melt from the heat of the lights and my tension. I tried not to think about how heavily my performance today was going to be scrutinized, but it was hard. After the show wrapped, they gave us a recording, and we went back to Lindsay’s office to review it. Miraculously, I looked relaxed and happy, a far cry from the automated robot I felt like underneath the heavy makeup. It was amazing how something that felt so unnatural in the flesh looked normal on the television.
Bats and I recommenced our exercise sessions.
“How are things?” she asked as we cut through the path at the back of St. Luke’s Gardens. Bats wasn’t even puffing, unlike me who sounded like an asthmatic pug.
“Hmm…Career-wise, everything is going amazeballs. The second book is selling well, and the talks for the television show are slowly progressing, though nothing is signed yet.” It would be a lot more work, but with the boys away at boarding school, there was nothing preventing me from taking on a bigger workload.
“How are things with Jack?”
“Not as good.” My relationship with my husband was going nowhere. As the weeks passed since our ski trip, the subtle attempts I’d been making to revive our intimacy had failed. “I try cooking nice meals at home with candles, which we eat in silence. I ask him questions, and he gives me one word answers. I can’t even have a conversation with him about the weather at the moment! I’ve arranged dinners out at restaurants, which he comes to, but it’s the same. He never says no, but he doesn’t participate. If only he said no, then it would bring the matter to a head, but instead, he agrees to any suggestion, leaving me nothing to work with. At night, we rarely go to bed at the same time. If I am in bed, he’ll stay up until I fall asleep; if he goes in before me, he’ll be sleeping no matter how quickly I get in there after him. I’m beyond frustrated.”
Bats nodded sympathetically.
“Have you tried talking to him directly?” she asked.
“That never works too well for us. If I try to confront stuff head on, he runs for the hills. I have to approach things gently, or he just shuts down.”
“It sounds like you don’t have many other options.”
“I know. I could leave it and sweep it under the rug with the other stuff, but I think we’re starting to run out of room under there. I think I need this to get worked out.”
“You can do it!” she yelled, raising imaginary pompoms. “Yes, you can!”
“Why are you shouting slogans at me?” I looked around, but the park was fortunately empty.
“I’m your cheerleader, and you are my relationship guinea pig. If you can’t do it, no one can. Go, Katie!” She winked and picked up speed.
“You’re an idiot!” I laughed, racing after her. “You know I only hang out with you because you make me look sane.”
She poked her tongue out at me and ran faster, the skinny bitch.
After a week of mulling it over, I finally tried a direct conversation with Jack.
“Have you noticed that we don’t talk much anymore?” I tried to make my voice even and non-confrontational. It was after dinner, and we were sitting in the casual sitting room, reading our books, so I thought it would be the best time to have a potentially difficult conversation.
“No,” he said shortly. “We’re talking now.” He didn’t take his eyes off the page, but I could see his body tense.
“I mean that we don’t talk about anything more than the basics, and I can’t remember the last time we had sex.”
He huffed and looked pained.
“Look, I’m really tired and work is stressful. With the credit crunch, I’m not even sure I’ll have a job in the morning. Five thousand people are getting laid off worldwide, with two thousand going from London alone. My team is barely meeting targets, so there’s a good chance some of us are going to go. I just want to relax when I get home and not have to deal with this rubbish. You’re just being needy. We’re fine; there’s no need to get worked up about it. I don’t feel like having sex when I’m stressed and tired.” Thoroughly put out, he got up and walked off.
I got up to follow him, to make him listen, but forced myself to stop. The more I confronted him, the more tightly closed off he would become. I shut the door and let out a frustrated growl. I stalked about the room, trying to control the impulse to smash something. When my cell phone rang, I snatched it up, hoping for a distraction that would stop me from doing something I would regret.
Ironic, really.
Chapter Thirteen
“HELLO!” I BARKED, not caring for a moment how it would make the person on the other end feel. I was almost hoping it was a telemarketer on whom I could anonymously vent some of my frustration.
“Hi! It’s Anders.”
The unexpectedness of his calling stopped me instantly, and I struggled to respond with the conventional greetings. We had exchanged numbers but had made no plans to actually speak again. After a pause, he went on.
“How are you?” His deep and slightly accented voice took me straight back to the ski lodge, lying on his bed, one hand clutching the sheets, the other in my mouth to stop from screaming my orgasm, his head moving between my thighs.
“Fine, good.” I finally found my voice. “How are you?”
“Great! Uh, I’m going to be in London in two weeks. Are you free for lunch?”
“Oh!” I breathed, strongly ambivalent. Part of me leaped in anticipation, delighted at the possibility, but another equally strong part that dealt with survival felt fear at his coming. If I met up with him in my home city, it wasn’t just a holiday fling—it was an affair. This was where I lived and people knew me, and the risks of being discovered skyrocketed. I had escaped detection once, but this was reckless.
“Sure,” I said, seemingly on automatic. I hadn’t finished thinking it through! Why had I said that? I mentally slapped myself on the head.
“I’m staying at the Mayfair. Come up to the Amarillo suite. There’s a dining room in the suite so we can order some lunch and eat in privacy.”
“That sounds nice,” I said noncommittally.
“I’ll leave a key with the concierge for you so you can get up to the suite without having to show ID. I’ll make up a name and text it to you. I’m booked in under a different name myself.”
“That is very…sensible.” The media in this country were nuts, and it made sense not to use our real names, just in case. “What day?”
“Whenever you’re free.” Damn that meant I couldn’t say I was busy, but I didn’t really want to say no, even though I definitely should. Still, lunch in his room was unlikely to be seen by anyone I knew and was the safest possible option.
“How about Tuesday?”
“Tuesday is perfect. See you then.” He hung up after we said goodbye. The conversation was
far from romantic, so either he did just want to catch up for lunch on a purely platonic basis or he was simply after sex. I wasn’t sure how I felt about either of those options.
Without thinking it through too much, I started preparing for seeing him like I would for a major event. I ate more oily fish for a good complexion, cut out treats, and worked out a little harder at the gym and with Bats. Two days out, I went to the beautician for some waxing, even going a bit further than I usually did on the intimate areas. I gave way too much thought, though, to what I was going to wear, wanting to look spectacular without, of course, looking as if I had tried. I had a facial and got my nails done.
By the time I left the house in a red and cream printed Celine shift dress with pale leather heels, matching belt, and my cream Chanel jacket, I was as buffed and polished as I got. Hopefully the statement the outfit made was dressy but not overdone. Considering I was going to lunch with a man who probably wouldn’t notice anyway, I should just have worn jeans, but fashion was like armor, and it gave me the confidence, knowing I looked good, to meet him with the minimum of nerves. Great plan, but the nerves grew the closer I got to the hotel, and the further up my esophagus the butterflies flew until I felt I was about to vomit winged insects. Sheer determination that I wouldn’t damage the Chanel kept everything down. You don’t have to do this, I reminded myself. Walk away and tell him you don’t want to see him again. I couldn’t imagine him being too upset. Or I could just have lunch and decline anything further. There was no pressure on me to do anything. It was just lunch with an acquaintance. I really wanted to see him, so I took a deep breath, blew it out, and then walked into the lobby and looked around for the concierge.
Saint Kate of the Cupcake: The Dangers of Lust and Baking Page 11