‘I’d love to, sir,’ she said, placing her champagne flute on the table. ‘Let’s do it.’
By the time they got to the paddock, the wind had dropped and the sun had miraculously come out. Imogen was feeling quite warm now. She slipped her pashmina off her shoulders and enjoyed the heat of the sun on them. They stared at a few horses, admired a few coats, saddles, whatever. It was not really her scene. But it was fabulous. She was with Richard. They always found things to laugh at.
After half an hour, after they’d looked and laughed and seen everything there was to see, they made their way back across the busy concourse, to the lifts.
Imogen suddenly stopped.
‘What’s up?’
‘It’s my friend, Grace! I thought she was in Stratford!’
There was Grace, standing next to a man with dark blond hair and queuing at one of the Pimm’s stands. She was rummaging in a pink clutch bag and smiling at something the man was saying.
‘Grace!’ called out Imogen, releasing Richard’s hand and sidestepping a few feet from him. She’d remembered, just in time.
Grace dropped whatever it was she was getting out of her bag. A pair of sunglasses. The man she was standing with bent to pick them up but she more or less shoved him out of the way, to her left, and grabbed them herself. She then rapidly stepped forward, aligning herself with a group of women in mega-tight dresses who were shrieking and laughing in the queue.
‘Imogen!’
They stepped towards each other in unison, like the couple coming out of the cuckoo clock. Grace was smiling, but looked terrified.
‘I thought you were traipsing round Shakespeare country?’ said Imogen.
Grace laughed. A very high, unnatural-sounding laugh. Was she drunk? She didn’t usually laugh like that when she was drunk.
‘The Stratford rumour was wrong,’ said Grace quickly and stumbling slightly over her words. Maybe she was drunk. ‘It turned out to be Ascot. One of the gang must have heard it wrong.’ Imogen was a bit confused. Grace didn’t look dressed for what she’d thought would be sightseeing round Stratford. She was in a pale pink sheath dress and nude heels. Unless she’d thought it was going to be a theatre thing. Grace liked the theatre. Or perhaps the mystery coach had a stash of fascinators to hand out, for any eventuality. Or perhaps Grace had brought some from work, for everyone on the trip… It was all a bit…strange. She looked…shifty. Would Grace lie about coming to Ascot? And if so, why?
Grace waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the gaggle of hefty women next to her. ‘The gang,’ she said, airily. They looked…up for it. There was a surplus of ugly platform shoes on pasty legs. One girl was straining for release from a sausage-tight lime bodycon dress, her bottom like two puppies fighting in a Lycra sack. She was snorting with laughter and truffling into a bag of popcorn. Wow, Grace was a rose amongst thorns in that little lot. They didn’t look very fit for Taekwondo people.
‘Oh, right. Actually, I thought you were with that bloke, for a minute!’ laughed Imogen.
‘Which bloke?’
‘Him,’ said Imogen, pointing at the dark blond guy, who was now at the front of the queue and relieving a huge jug of Pimm’s from a girl serving.
‘No,’ said Grace, quickly. ‘Who are you down here with?’ Mercifully, Richard had been grabbed by a passing toff and was having his ear bent about something clearly terribly interesting, his back to them.
‘Some awful media finance man,’ Imogen said, pointing faintly his way. ‘You know the sort. Thinks he knows it all. I’ve got a right day of it. I’m having to drink an awful lot of champagne just to get through it!’
‘Is he good-looking?’ asked Grace. ‘He looks just your type, from the back.’
‘God, no! And I’m off my type, as you know. My type are utter no-hopers, remember? Don’t forget the charter, miss!’
‘Ha, yeah.’
‘So where are you then?’
‘Silver Circle, with the riff-raff. How’s the box?’
‘Fabulous, darling.’
‘Of course it is.’
The gaggle of girls were on the move. They had turned and were walking left, towards the Silver Circle.
‘Right, well,’ said Grace. ‘I’ll get back to the hoi polloi, madam. Enjoy!’ And she took off in the direction of the girls, weakly warbling, ‘Wait for me!’ and tottering along in her heels. The guy with the jug of Pimm’s was hovering, a blank expression on his face, as Grace ran past him. He was a good-looking guy, thought Imogen.
She walked over to Richard who was still in deep conversation with the toff, but looked like he was trying to edge away.
‘Well, great to see you,’ Richard was saying, ‘but I have a beautiful woman I must attend to, so if you’ll excuse me…’ He sidled away, leaving the man still talking.
‘I don’t need attending to,’ said Imogen, grinning at him.
‘Of course you don’t. It’s just a bullshit thing men say to get away from each other. How was your friend?’
‘Good. A little odd, actually. I’ve got a feeling she’s here with a man.’
‘So? So are you, lady!’
‘We’re not supposed to be though, are we? I told you about the charter, didn’t I?’
‘Oh the charter,’ he said, with amused sarcasm. ‘Well, charters are meant to be broken.’ And he stared at her for so long she thought she might spontaneously combust, and then, when she couldn’t bear it any longer, leant down and made Grace, Ascot and the world disappear by placing his soft lips gently on hers. It was a kiss that was by description only, chaste. They were surrounded by people, after all. This was not the boardroom. But how it felt… Good God. It was a delicious reminder of the amazing first kiss they’d had, and a promise of everything she hoped was in store for her with this amazing man.
She feared she kept her eyes closed far longer than the kiss and when she finally dragged them open, Richard was grinning at her. She had a very funny feeling at the bottom of her stomach. He was heavenly. Heaven sent. Heaven scent. His cologne mixed ethereally with the blooms of arranged flowers all around them. Ascot was in bloom. And so was she. Sod the bloody charter. She was mentally tearing it up and chucking it out the open window of a speeding car, travelling along Route 66. She’d have to come clean to the girls tomorrow. She had not sworn off men. She could swear Richard was the best man to ever come her way.
They made their way back up to the box. Imogen felt thrilled, happy, excited. So much of the day and night was left to come. All of it with Richard. She was walking steadily on her heels, but inside she was dancing the tango. And fancy bumping into Grace like that! She thought her friend would have been more pleased to see her, had more to say. It was, after all, quite a coincidence.
‘I’m just going to pop to the loo,’ said Imogen, as they came out of the lifts on the third floor. ‘You go on ahead.’
‘Pop to the loo?’ mimicked Richard.
‘Use the bathroom, visit the powder room, whatever. You Americans and your euphemisms. You’re so damned polite! See you in a min,’ she said, and dashed into the toilets.
She got waylaid in the loos, the way slightly drunk, giddily happy women do. She got chatting to a group of women who were at the mirrors doing their make-up, as she tried to squeeze between them to get to the sink to wash her hands. There was a lot of ‘Sorry, love’-ing and giggling and ‘I like your shoes,’ and ‘Ooh your hair looks nice,’ and ‘Ooh, are you in a box too, what number?’ and ‘That’s a lovely dress; you’ve got an amazing figure’ etc. She was in there for a while. It was nice to have a drunken girly chat in the women’s toilets now and again.
On her way back to the box, along the tiered landing, she passed a girl walking in the opposite direction. She was young, late twenties-ish and crying. Really sobbing. Imogen gave her a sympathetic smile. The girl gave a sob and dashed past her to the lifts. Poor love, Imogen thought. Too much booze, probably, and perhaps a row with an equally drunk boyfriend. It happened, even at pos
h Ascot.
She pushed open the heavy door of the box, and went back in.
Chapter Twenty: Frankie
Frankie and Hugh finally decided to go to Paper Mill Lock, in Little Baddow. She’d finally given in. Embarrassed the cat and mouse shenanigans had gone on so long, she’d ended up confessing to him she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend and Hugh had said that was fine, no pressure, but if she changed her mind it was okay with him. In the meantime they’d just have an afternoon out. Imogen and Grace were both out for the day, she reasoned, so why not? And she wouldn’t be seeing Hugh for a 5k meet-up snog-fest tomorrow; it had been cancelled as he had a family christening.
She’d been to Paper Mill Lock with Rob and the kids before. It was lovely. Grassy banks and gorgeous walks along the river, loads of boats to have a nose at and a gorgeous tea room. On a summer’s day there was nowhere nicer and today was a perfect English June day. Blue sky, what weather presenters now called wall-to-wall sunshine, a nice breeze that fanned you but didn’t have you reaching for a cardigan, and one of those rare days that you knew would stay like that all day. There was no chance of it all going to pot by four o’clock when everyone would run shrieking to their cars, their bags over their heads and their toes sodden in their sandals.
Frankie pulled into the car park just as Hugh was expertly reversing a black Volvo into one of the two remaining spaces. She gave him a cheery wave and parked her car next to his.
‘Hey,’ he said, slamming his car door and bounding up to her to give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you doing?’
‘Good, thanks. You?’ She felt all shy. The last time she’d seen this man they’d been snogging enthusiastically behind one of the town’s main supermarkets. It was weird, frankly, seeing him somewhere else. She felt herself going all hot under the collar of her pretty white top.
‘I’m absolutely great. Right! Let’s get going then. What a lovely day.’
They walked to the riverside. It was hot. Frankie was glad she’d worn shorts and sandals. Hugh took her hand and she grinned. This was going to be a perfect afternoon. She wondered how soon they could be kissing again. As they started to stroll past the water, a flotilla of primary-coloured canoes glided past.
‘All right, Hugh?’ called out an uber-sporty looking character with yellow Lycra zipped up to his neck.
Hugh let go of her hand to wave. ‘Hey! Yeah, how you doing, pal?’
‘Good, mate, good. We’re heading down to Maldon.’
‘Good stuff, pal!’
‘See you at the next Canoe Baloe!’ called uber-sports over his shoulder as the flotilla slid out of sight.
‘I’ll be there, pal!’ hollered Hugh, taking Frankie’s hand again.
Hugh was attracting a lot of attention. Mothers with buggies were gawping; men were glancing sideways at him. They could all see it too – he was very good-looking. He was wearing those mountain boot things, some chino shorts, and a white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. His forearms and his calf muscles were equally impressive. Ultra-firm and beautifully hairy. He looked – as they say in Bristol – lush. Frankie felt girlishly pleased to be walking next to him. She could pull a hot guy! She could attract a damn fine-looking man! She’d traded up from Rob and she felt fabulous.
They walked about half a mile down river. Frankie loved peering into all the boats. Houseboats with curtains, hanging baskets and the remains of lunch on tiny tables spied through equally tiny windows; small speed boats with white leather steering wheels; boats that looked rusty and knackered but still exciting; boats called Marion and Sylvia’s Hope and Gone Fishing. Frankie saw a boy who looked like Josh atop a boat and teasing a gambolling dog with a piece of string. It gave her heart a horrible pang. She quickly looked in the small, round window below. A woman was crocheting, a glass of wine at her feet.
A green barge painted with roses was at the lock they were approaching. One man was on the lock and winding some ancient-looking cog mechanism with a gigantic key thing. Another was astride the deck and attempting to throw a lasso of rope over a bollard at the water’s edge. Hugh immediately leapt over and started to help secure the rope. His calves tensed and relaxed in a very enticing way. He tied a very decisive knot.
‘Thanks, mate,’ said the man on the boat.
‘No worries, pal.’
Hugh looked all pleased with himself. He was brushing his hands together in the manner of a job well done. He shrugged faux-modestly and said proudly, ‘You’ll always find me…’
‘In the kitchen at parties?’ offered Frankie.
He looked at her strangely. ‘No, tinkering about on water. I might bring my canoe down for a go next weekend. Do you want to come and watch me?’
‘Oh, maybe.’ She’d have the children. Did she really want them meeting this man yet? She hadn’t even told him about them. Their texts had hardly been in-depth.
‘I could borrow one for you.’
‘I don’t think I’d be able to get my bottom in one.’
‘No, maybe not.’ She looked at him but he didn’t appear to be joking. They fell into step again and carried on walking. ‘So, tell me more about yourself, Frankie.’
Okay. Now was as good a time as any.
‘Well, I’ve got four kids.’
‘Four!’ He spluttered and a polo mint fell out of his mouth and onto the grass next to the narrow path. He left it there. ‘Blimey. But you’re separated… You have alternate weekends off, right?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘No worries then,’ he said, looking all happy, liked he’d solved something.
‘Do you have kids?’
‘Me? God, no. Never been married, never had kids. Hey, let’s have something to eat. They do a champion cream tea.’
They sat at a wooden trestle table, by one of the locks. Frankie watched as Hugh went into the café to order for both of them. She hadn’t even told him what she wanted. And he didn’t seem thrilled about her having children. Oh dear. She wasn’t sure where this was going. He was a great kisser though, really fantastic. Perhaps she could just continue to hook up with him for kissing and he’d never have to meet her kids? It was workable. And at least if it was just casual kissing she’d have nothing much to lie about, to her friends. She felt another clang of guilt on breaking their pact and wondered how they were both getting on today.
She hoped Imogen wasn’t too bored stiff at Ascot, schmoozing with all those people. She hoped Grace was having fun on her day out too, on her magical mystery tour. Frankie wondered about that Michael. He was a bit of all right, wasn’t he? Was Grace hiding something?
Hugh came back with the cream tea. ‘Hugh Trafford always gets his man,’ he said, randomly, as he carefully placed the heavy tray on the table. He sat down, with a smile. ‘Okay, gorgeous,’ he continued, ‘seeing as we’re getting to know each other, let me tell you about the time I ran the Brighton Mile…’
Chapter Twenty-one: Grace
Damn! Grace had been convinced she wouldn’t bump into Imogen! That Imogen would be up in her high-falutin’ box somewhere and wouldn’t deign to come down amongst the masses. What bad luck she had run into her.
Thank God she’d made up that stuff about the mystery tour round at Frankie’s and hadn’t told an outright lie about where she was going. She knew the whole thing had sounded ridiculous, but she also knew it would give her an excuse if – horror of all horrors – she was unlucky enough to see Imogen at Ascot. She could say that stupid thing she’d said, about Stratford-Upon-Avon being just a rumour. Ugh. She wished she’d practised saying it in the mirror – she’d hardly sounded convincing, had she? Had Imogen believed a word of it?
She hoped so. Thank goodness that group of women had been there, for her to pretend to be with, although they’d looked none too pleased she’d started following them. One of them had actually sneered and said ‘Who’s the weirdo?’ before Grace was able to turn back, once the coast was clear. She’d so nearly been rumbled. She so didn’t want to be found out. To hav
e to explain Greg and how she’d met him. Not only a man – but a male escort! She was supposed to be anti-men, not paying one for company. The sisterhood would never ever recover. She’d be thrown out of the coven.
Yet, he was worth it. She and Greg had travelled up by train. They’d laughed about their encounter at the wedding fair. They’d walked into Ascot holding hands and looking like they’d been together for years. When she’d returned to him after pretending to run after those women, he’d laughed.
‘Ashamed to be seen with me?’ he’d said. ‘I got the hint, although I thought I was supposed to have the opposite effect!’
‘Ha. Well, I’m supposed to be single. There was no way I could let Imogen see me with you. But you are gorgeous though, of course you are.’ She stroked his arm reassuringly. ‘Any woman would be proud to be with you.’ She wanted to make him feel better. She felt awful she’d denied his existence.
‘And you are, too,’ he said, pulling her in close to him and thankfully not asking for any further explanation. ‘Any man would be proud to be seen with you. You’re lovely, Grace, and you look stunning today.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, frowning a little. ‘Listen…’ She pulled her face back from his, but not wanting to release her body from his embrace. She liked it too much. ‘…You don’t have to keep saying things like that. You’ve said quite a few nice things to me now. It’s been great for my ego, and all that. But you need to stop.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like you too much. Because I want it to be real. Not fake.’ This was it. She was putting herself out there without a safety net. Next level. The miraculous close shave with Imogen and the champagne she’d already drunk were making her brave.
‘It isn’t fake when I tell you you’re gorgeous and how much I like you. It’s true,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘Is that why you came to see me at the wedding fair?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I really do like you.’
‘But you’re an escort.’
Year of Being Single Page 20