‘I am.’
‘Are you going to stop being an escort?’ She pulled away from him. Crunch time. She held her breath.
‘I can’t. I need the money.’
‘There’s always McDonald’s.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Have you slept with anyone yet?’
‘No.’
‘Not that woman from the roller-skating?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen her again?’
‘Yes, another date. Lunch.’
‘What about other women? Please. I want to know.’
‘I’ve been out with a few other women. Dinner. Business functions. Family dos when they want to score a point with an ex.’ He winked at her. ‘No sex.’
She ignored the wink. Greg took both of her hands. ‘Do you want to carry on doing this? Seeing me?’
‘Paying you, you mean? Yes, I do. No, I don’t. I don’t know!’ Damn. The power was all his. Again. Someone else’s. Not hers. He had the power to hurt her, after all. By not liking her enough. For not liking her enough to drop the transaction and do this for real. She was the one supposed to be in control.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘Let’s just enjoy today. Forget you’re paying me, we’ll act as though were actually dating, and we’ll see how things go. How about it?’
Her heart leapt. What did that mean? Did that mean he did want to do this for real? Was he giving her hope? It sounded like it! Oh, she was ecstatic, if he really meant it. This was wonderful.
‘I really do like you, Grace.’
He pulled her close to him again, and she believed him.
‘Yes. Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s just enjoy the day.’ She could do that. See how things went. Then think about how they felt tomorrow.
Even though she already knew.
Chapter Twenty-two: Imogen
Imogen went back into the box and Richard was holding court, laughing his loud American laugh and waving his large American hand in the air as though stopping traffic. He was obviously telling some anecdote or other. He was ebullient. Confident. Genial.
She tried to look at him objectively. Tried. But whichever way she looked at him, the truth stared her in the face. He was perfect. If her other men had been pavement lowlifes, then Richard was the top of the Empire State Building. Her New York kind of guy. He had charm. He wasn’t self-obsessed. He was funny. He liked Goodfellas. He knew 90s Britpop bands. And he seemed to really, really like her. A week ago she’d been really frightened by this, now it delighted her.
Oh Lord, what on earth would she tell Frankie and Grace? They’d kill her! How could she be a member of the Year of Being Single club, when she was secretly romancing a not-so-quiet American? How could she be sworn off men if she was secretly swearing an allegiance to Richard? Thank God Grace hadn’t rumbled her. What an amazing coincidence she was there. Actually, thinking about it, she supposed, it wasn’t that unlikely. There were a lot of coach trips to Ascot, and not all roads led to Stratford-on-Avon. Imogen picked up a glass of champagne and savoured the cool bubbles tickling her throat.
Carolyn was in Richard’s circle again. She looked enraptured. Her hatchet face had softened. She was actually laughing, really laughing, her head thrown back. She looked girlish, carefree. She’s as charmed as I am, Imogen thought. Richard really could charm the birds out of the trees.
Was Carolyn a threat to her? No, not in that way. She didn’t think Richard was in any danger of fancying Carolyn – she was only attractive if you liked small axes with short handles. No, in terms of some sort of revenge against her. It still worried her. Imogen doubted Carolyn would just let it go, what she did to her that in the office that day. She could imagine a desire for retribution simmering for ages, before Carolyn struck, like a shoeless praying mantis…
Stop it, thought Imogen, you’re being silly. If Carolyn wanted revenge she would have taken it by now, and so what if her old Boot of an ex-boss liked Richard? Who wouldn’t? The man was a god.
Imogen approached the group. Also enjoying Richard’s story were the horsey couple and a pair of the posh, boozed-up city boys all braying and neighing so loudly they surely belonged down in the paddock. Richard smiled broadly at her as she stepped towards them.
‘Imogen,’ he said. ‘I was just telling these lovely people about my first ride on the Tube.’ He said it as ‘toob’. She loved that. ‘And how I sat for thirty minutes at St Paul’s because there was a handbag on the line at Bank.’ She laughed. He pulled her towards him. She slid her arm around his back, under his jacket. It was warm – she could trace his skin under his shirt with her hand. Carolyn gave her a look that was hard to interpret. Imogen decided it was a mixture of contempt and envy, all bound up in a supercilious smile Cruella De Vil would have been proud of. Sorry, love, thought Imogen. I win.
The balcony was not such a hideous wind tunnel now the weather had brightened, so they all ventured outside to watch the next race. Richard had put a bet on for her, a horse called Avoid The Traffic. She had an urge to shout out, ‘Move your bloomin arse!’ like Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. It was quite exciting.
After the race finished, and her horse had come a respectable third, Imogen and Richard stood for a while, feeling the sun on their faces. It was glorious now.
She leaned into him. Richard gave her a pair of binoculars and she looked down to the crowds of people below. The Silver Circle. She wondered if she could see Grace and her group of friends. She scanned the hordes. People were laughing, drinking, having a great time. Faces were red from the sun, and booze, and roaring at horses.
There she was! Grace. Laughing and holding a champagne flute in her hand. Tossing the curls that framed her face. Hang on, there was that guy again, the one at the Pimm’s stand. They were standing very close to each other. Very close. There was no gaggle of women nearby. No ‘gang’. Grace and the man looked very much à deux, and it didn’t look much à deux about nothing. He now had his arm round her. He was kissing her cheek. She was still laughing. Well, well, well. Grace, you dark horse, thought Imogen. She was with someone, and very handsome he was, too. Quite an improvement on that bastard, James. Good for her.
Richard stepped closer and put his hand lightly on Imogen’s waist. She smiled up at him. So she and Grace were both at it. She wouldn’t say anything. She couldn’t, could she? She didn’t have a leg to stand on. She almost willed Grace to turn round and catch her in the act, too.
The Single for a Year club looked like it was rapidly disbanding. They hadn’t even managed six months.
After the final race, Imogen presumed they would make their way out of Ascot and home. She thought Richard would call Nigel and tell him where to wait for them. She could get used to this driver business. How nice it was, having someone to just drive you around. She was a rubbish driver, a terrible parker and a perennial ‘scraper’ – of bollards, road signs, whatever. Her car was a scratched mess and she avoided driving it unless she absolutely had to. How wonderful to just glide in and out of a car that was always just waiting where you wanted it.
Richard didn’t call Nigel. ‘There’s a party,’ he said, holding her hand as he led her out of the box. She never wanted to let it go. Her hand felt safe in his.
‘A party? Where?’
‘In one of the car parks. An Owners’ and Trainers’ party. Would you like to go?’
‘I’d love to go!’
Owners, Trainers and Rich Americans, clearly. Exciting. Although to be honest, Imogen was torn between not wanting the day to end, and getting to Richard’s hotel, or wherever he was staying, as soon as possible so she could rip his clothes off. Just the touch of his hand was making her desperate to sleep with him. But, no, it was fine, she could wait, she could party on. Those fabulous shoes may have to come off, though. They were killing her.
They walked through Ascot’s tarmacked open areas in the fading June sun. The Grandstand was scattered with the aftermath of a typically boozy day. There were wandering, puce-faced men carrying battered t
op hats; shrieking women hobbling along the tarmac hanging on to each other, fascinators missing or woefully lopsided; staff members sweeping up litter and collecting empty plastic glasses. Heading through the now virtually empty Silver Circle, they came across a crescent of top-to-toe drunk women snoozing face down in the grass. Discarded empty champagne bottles were littered amongst upended stilettos shoes displaying scratched dirty soles, and hitched dresses revealed cellulite and scarlet knickers. She was pretty sure one of the women was the monstrous girl at the Pimm’s stand, conspicuous in a lime green wiggle dress that was concertinaed up her thighs and showcasing a bum sliced by a black thong. Grace was definitely not with them. Was she already on the coach? Or had she never been with these girls at all? Was she copping off somewhere in the bushes with Handsome Man, then following him home?
Imogen decided to check her phone. Just in case Grace had got separated from this gang of fools and needed to find her.
There was no text from Grace, but one from Frankie. The text said, Ha, well we know what that means ;-) And I’d like to see you try!! Hmm. That was odd. It sounded a bit flirty. Who on earth was that supposed to be for? Was Frankie texting a man?
I don’t think that was meant for me!!!! texted Imogen. She and Richard were almost at the gate. He was being really attentive and she loved it. He was subtly steering away drunk posh city bloke number two who was trying to link arms with her, country dancing style, and breathing into her face. City bloke’s breath stank of beer and burgers and he had a repulsive, boozed-up red nose. Richard extricated his arm and placed it down by his side.
‘There you go, fella,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you falling over and dragging the lady down with you.’
‘Sorry, old chap,’ muttered the bloke. She could see why these idiots were still hanging around. Richard had been fabulous company and had kept them in as much champagne as they wanted, all day long. At least they had ditched Carolyn Boot. Dancing in car parks was hardly her scene. She had said a polite goodbye not long after the last race. Had seemed quite friendly with Imogen. Had shaken her hand and said it had been nice seeing her. But her smile had looked false and painted on and there was a steely glint in her eye Imogen didn’t much like the look of. Oh well, Carolyn could sod off – hopefully she would never have anything to do with her again.
Another text arrived from Frankie.
Ha, no. Soz. To another friend. How’s your day going with your mind-numbing clients?
Mind-numbingly awful, thanks. What u doing?
Not a lot. Just chilling out.
Enjoy.
You too. Spk soon.
Imogen put her phone back in her bag. She and Richard walked through a large metal gate and out into a wide open area that was a mixture of sandy grass and concrete. Flash sports cars and Range Rovers were parked to one side, and in the field beyond, a huge white marquee awaited them. It had reams of twinkling fairy lights strung all round it and as they approached she could see a huge, under-canvas bar where staff dressed in black were shaking stainless steel cocktail shakers. Wow. Top hats and tails and dresses and heels were all converging, heading towards the marquee like it was that mountain in Close Encounters. Thumping music was coming from somewhere. The Black Eyed Peas. This looked fun!
She weaved away from Richard and headed to the bar to get them both a drink. Her treat. Mojitos. But everything was free. She carried them over to Richard, who was leaning against a tree, his jacket slung over one shoulder. She had never been more in lust, more excited, more exhilarated, than on this perfect night.
Before long, shoes were off and she was dancing barefoot in the prickly grass, the evening breeze in her hair, fascinators and pashminas flung to the centre of the circle of people they’d randomly found themselves dancing with. It was a very posh update on dancing round handbags and brilliant fun. Richard was across the circle from her, making some quite impressive shapes.
‘Not bad for a Yankee Doodle!’ she shouted over Pharrell.
‘Thanks, English Rose,’ he called back. ‘Not so bad yourself!’
She was quite a good dancer, she knew. Yes, she was not the youngest there, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was totally fabulous. She felt young. She felt glowing and vibrant and full of life. She felt like life may well last for ever. It would, wouldn’t it? Why wouldn’t it?
The evening was lovely and warm. Heavenly. As the music switched to a Bruno Mars number, with a slower tempo, and the sun went down over a low bank of trees in the distance, Richard took her in his arms and held her in close, by the bottom. She pressed herself further into him. It felt saucy, lovely. She was reminded of the Jilly Cooper book cover for Riders. Recently, the PC brigade had demanded the hand on the jodhpurs be moved upwards, to look a bit less sexual. She wanted the original Riders’ hand on her bottom.
‘Hey, you,’ he said.
‘Hey, you.’
God, she fancied him. His eyes were boring into her brain, relinquishing her of her knickers, stripping her of inhibition, moral protest, underwear, the charter. Oh God, the charter. It was not quite dramatic enough to simply chuck it out of a car window – it was currently on a long scroll, in twirly writing, being held aloft by someone in doublet and hose, whilst a serf lit one corner with a flaming torch… Oh dear. She was a traitor. Her bravado briefly went up in smoke, too. How on earth was she going to break this to the others?
Chapter Twenty-three: Frankie
After they’d eaten – and it had been a champion cream tea – Hugh gathered and piled up all their dishes and put them at the corner of the table, laid their cutlery parallel and straight, mopped up spillages and lined up the condiments.
‘There,’ he said.
‘You’re very tidy.’
‘Hugh Trafford likes a tidy table.’
Ugh, why had he started talking about himself in the third person? That was a bit weird. And he said he didn’t drink – ever – which was even weirder. Adding that to the fact he hated children and didn’t get her jokes – she’d tried to make a crack about a character on Coronation Street and he’d just looked bemused – a cloud of disappointment and despondency began to gather above her head, like in a cartoon. She feared it would unleash a comic bucket of heavy grey raindrops at any moment, all over her head. What had gone wrong?
She was getting to know him better, that’s what. Exactly what she’d been worried about. And she didn’t know if she could be with someone who called everyone ‘pal’. For the first time since they’d split, she missed Rob. He got all her jokes – they were the same as his.
Nevertheless, she let Hugh kiss her again. In the car park when they said goodbye. She may as well make the most of it; she knew she wouldn’t be doing it again.
‘Another date soon?’ he said, as they finally pulled apart.
‘I’ll call you,’ she said.
*
She got home to a cold, empty house and it wasn’t pleasant. She wished her children were here – shrieking, laughing, messing about. Fighting over the remote control. She wondered what Rob had done with them today. Another fabulous trip to London, maybe?
She missed them. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could go on like this, especially as her major distraction had just come to an end. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of white wine. Her phone was on the table and she picked it up. She might just send Rob a little text, see how the children were doing…
Frankie finally stopped texting Rob at half midnight. What the hell had happened? They had had such a laugh. Their humour sparking off each other. It had been almost flirting. Like the old days. Although, of course, in the old days, when they’d met, there had been no mobile phones. Their courtship did not involve texting. It involved drinking, dancing, kebab shops and landline telephone calls. But tonight’s texting reminded her of their old-days’ banter, when it was just them. When they were a new, fresh shiny item, not an old, used, slightly grubby thing that was dragging an inordinate amount of baggage down the stree
t with it.
Her first text had just been asking about the children and making a joke about Josh’s refusal to get his hair cut. He’d replied with something funny about nits, and it had just gone on from there. They’d slipped back into in-jokes, puns, plays on words and film and music references. Teasing each other. Having a laugh. They must have sent about fifty texts each. She scanned over the day’s messages. Actually, it was more like a hundred each. Minus the one she’d sent to Imogen by mistake. Oops.
She had a grin on her face and her cheeks were all flushed. How could they be laughing and bantering so easily? He’d been a lazy slob; she’d hurt him badly. How had they got from that to this easy familiar flirting?
Careful, she thought. At this rate she’d be tempted to get back with him and she wasn’t sure that could ever happen. She enjoyed her nice clean home every other weekend. Her space. Her freedom. The house was less chaotic generally, too, in Rob’s absence, with one less person sabotaging her domestic efforts. Her bed was always smooth and un-rucked when she got in. She had less stuff to pick up, less mess to clear up in the kitchen. The bin was no longer a toppling mess of things not pushed down properly. It had worked, hadn’t it? She shouldn’t let the small matter of missing Rob a bit tonight ruin everything she had achieved.
She sighed.
She couldn’t go back to the crush of husband and mess and chaos every single day, could she?
Chapter Twenty-four: Grace
Greg.
Grace sat on the edge of her bed and stared at the floor.
Greg.
Her head was full of him.
It had all gone wrong. They’d said goodbye at Chelmsford train station again. It was becoming a very unsatisfactory habit. Saying goodbye and going their separate ways. Why? They’d been so relaxed in each other’s company on the way up to Ascot. Things had been great the whole day, especially after that conversation they’d had. How had things gone so wrong on the way home?
It all seemed to change the moment they’d got on the train. They’d been fine on the Tube across London, the same as they’d been all day – happy, chatty, affectionate and easy in each other’s company. They’d sat holding hands and giggling at silly things. But as the Chelmsford train pulled out of Liverpool Street, after a brief spell of reading out her horoscope to her from his phone (Luck and Love were coming. Brilliant), Greg went silent. Attempts from her to continue the wonderful time they’d had were met by him staring out of the window, until she’d stared too…at fields and houses where people with normal relationships were living normal lives. Watching telly, making cups of tea. Going to bed with each other. She knew exactly what was on her mind; she had absolutely no idea what was on his. She’d kept looking at him, wondering what he was thinking. She wished she’d spent some of Gran’s money on a nice luxury taxi all the way home from Ascot. It would have been easy then. She would have just asked the driver to take them back to her house…
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