‘What’s wrong?’ she’d asked him, several times.
‘Nothing,’ he’d said. ‘I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.’
And at the taxi rank he’d said, ‘Goodbye.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Grace, panicked.
‘I’m going home.’
‘Oh.’ She wanted to scream. Come on, Greg – ask me to come home with you! Beg to come back to mine! Say you find me irresistible. Say you’re falling in love with me, that you can’t live without me. Say something!
‘So, see you again soon, Grace.’
She could barely respond. All her bravery, from earlier in the day, left her. ‘I hope so,’ she whispered, miserably. And then, as she felt the crush of disappointment descend on her and pictured a depressed night tossing and turning in her bed, for all the wrong reasons, Greg kissed her. It was sudden. His lips weren’t on her, then, suddenly, they were. They were pressed on her. Warm, insistent. The kiss took her breath away. It was amazing. Oh, God, she loved it. This kiss was everything. And when his tongue tangled against hers and probed tantalisingly, she clung on to him for dear life. He was gorgeous. And she realised he was clinging on to her. He liked her! He had to. A man didn’t kiss a woman like this if he didn’t.
But, once it was over, he still didn’t say he wanted to take her home.
He released her and said nothing. He just looked a weird mixture of confused, regretful and resigned. A black cab pitched up and he walked over and got into it. She saw him take his phone out of his pocket and look at it as the taxi pulled away.
And now Grace was sitting on her bed bloody frustrated and bloody angry with herself. She’d fallen for an unattainable man. Fallen for a male escort! It was stupid, ridiculous, self-inflicted and unnecessary. It was devastating. But why had he kissed her like that? That kiss was not fake! She knew it wasn’t. He had bloody well meant that kiss, and so had she.
She was so confused by his behaviour. They could have a relationship. He hadn’t slept with anyone yet. He’d only been on a few dates. He’d only been an escort for five minutes. He could give it up. Surely there was another way for him to raise the money he wanted? Surely there was a middle ground between male escort and McDonald’s?
Perhaps she hadn’t been clear enough. Perhaps she hadn’t made herself fully clear. She’d been pathetic. She had to take more control. Be far more proactive. Force his hand. She knew where he lived; he’d told her. She’d go there in the morning and demand he give up the escorting.
And then they would be together.
Chapter Twenty-five: Imogen
Imogen crashed through the door at 2a.m. Giggling, with Richard. He’d insisted on coming back to hers. She’d been disappointed. He probably had a lovely, sexy hotel room in London with a huge double bed and fifty-five fluffy pillows to romp on. But Richard had said, very convincingly and with a twinkle in his eye she couldn’t possibly say no to, that he wanted to see where she lived, that he wanted to see the whole of her, that he wanted to see her in her natural habitat.
‘Like a chimpanzee?’ she’d enquired.
‘Exactly like a chimpanzee. No,’ he’d said, in that delicious voice of his, as they’d sat in the back of the car, pressed tightly together. (She had to resist the urge to clamber up on his lap.) ‘I just want to get to know you better. I want to see your house, your style. I want it confirmed.’
‘You want what confirmed?’
He leaned towards her and whispered in her ear.
‘That you’re the woman I’m going to fall in love with.’
Her stomach had flipped like a small child on a trampoline and her heart leapt higher than an Olympic high-diver.
‘Okay, Nigel,’ she’d called to the front, unnecessarily – he was probably already heading that way. ‘The only way is Essex. Turn the car around!’
And here they were. Richard the American was in her boxy, suburban hall. She wished, not for the first time, she was in her trendy little flat in Putney. The tiny hall there had uneven bottle green walls and an antique church pew. This hall was smooth and blank and soulless. She hoped he’d managed to clock her stylish prints in their black frames, before she’d quickly switched off the light.
‘Well,’ he said. Her shoes were off again. She felt diddy, standing next to him towering above her. She loved the way that felt.
‘Well, what now?’ she inquired, looking up at him. His face was half in shadow, illuminated only by the dim light from her porch.
‘Do you want to get naked?’ he asked, his voice low and incredibly husky.
‘Yes. Please.’
And he stepped forward, gently grabbed the bottom of her dress with both hands, warm hands grazing her thighs, and slowly, slowly started peeling it up her body. He did it slowly enough that she knew she could stop him at any time. Slowly enough that she thought she couldn’t bear it.
Oh, but she could. As he really, really slowly, centimetre by centimetre, pulled up her dress, it was delicious, languid. She was being peeled like a sexy prawn. It also meant there was lots of grinning, and a bit of giggling, and some oohing and a bit of ooh-er-ing, and a couple of ooh missuses – she loved that he knew that very British brand of sexy talk – until she was there, standing before him in her underwear, and grateful for her fab forethought of highly expensive matching rose-pink silk, with black ribbon. She’d always done good underwear.
‘Don’t leave me this way, American boy,’ she said. ‘Now you.’ And she took off his jacket. Unbuttoned his shirt. Very slowly. Undid his high-quality formalwear trousers. They weren’t from Moss Bros, that was for sure. Imogen wanted him. She had to have him. And the time was now. She held out her hand and led him to her well-made bed. She may not have the fifty-five pillows of a hotel bed, but she had a very springy mattress.
Chapter Twenty-six: Frankie
Across the street, in her bed, her window wide open as it was a hot night, Frankie heard Imogen crash in at God knows what time of the morning. She heard a car pulling away, then the sound of keys thwacking with a metallic jangle against Imogen’s front door. There was giggling and a low rumble. A man’s voice? Really?
Frankie had been awake on and off all night. Her brain was whirring after the date with Hugh and all the texting with Rob, and the slightest noise had disturbed her: the bark of an urban fox, a car going down the street, her friend bringing a man home for a shag… Imogen was back to her old tricks! She must be. Funny, realised Frankie, Imogen had never brought a man back to Chelmsford before. Her stomping grounds were historically hotels, apartments, London town houses and after-hours offices. That definitely sounded like a man’s voice, though. There was definitely something going on.
Frankie turned over in bed and put a pillow over her head.
What the hell was Imogen up to?
It was ten the following morning. Frankie was in her dressing gown and on her way to put something in the outside bin. As she crossed her drive with the bulging black sack, Grace was just coming down her front path. She looked startled when she saw Frankie.
‘How was the magical mystery tour?’ Frankie called across. ‘Did you have a good day?’
‘Yes, brilliant, thanks.’
It didn’t look that brilliant, thought Frankie. She noticed her friend had smudged dark circles under her eyes and a smile that looked contrived, despite her lovely outfit. She looked nice for a Sunday morning.
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Tesco’s.’
‘Oh right. You look nice for it. I hope you’re not going to be flirting with the man on the cheese counter.’
‘Of course not,’ said Grace. ‘See you later.’
‘Yes, see you later,’ said Frankie, feeling dismissed.
Grace got into the car and drove off. Frankie went back to her house and shut the door. There was a smudge on one of the long, narrow panes of glass either side of the door. Kids. She pulled her sleeve over her hand and rubbed it off. Then spotted another one, on the other side. She
was half-heartedly considering going to get the Mr Muscle and a duster when she heard the sound of a car again and peered through the glass. Grace was driving back up the road and there was a man striding down Imogen’s drive. She opened her door again almost as a reflex.
‘Morning!’ called out the man, breezily. It sounded like an American accent. Frankie and Grace, who had parked back outside her house and stepped out onto the pavement just as the man passed her - his hood up - raised eyebrows at each other. The man looked odd. A very smart suit with a grey hooded fleece over the top was a very bizarre fashion statement. Didn’t Imogen have a fleece like that? And he had a white carrier bag with something bulging in it. Frankie could see a circle of grey. Imogen’s door suddenly opened.
‘Gasman!’ she shouted and then slammed the door.
Grace and Frankie raised their eyebrows even higher.
‘I forgot my phone,’ Grace said, with a shrug, and dashed back into her house, leaving the front door wide open.
Frankie was left alone, in her doorway. The man was now swiftly disappearing up the road, his carrier bag banging against his right leg. Where was his van? All she could see was a car that looked a bit like a limo, at the end of the street. Imogen was cheating, wasn’t she? She had to be. Frankie would have to get to the bottom of it.
As she closed the door, she remembered she’d forgotten something, too. She hadn’t packed Alice’s sun-hat in her overnight bag this weekend. Damn. She’d need it. It was a boiling hot day and Rob had told her last night he was taking the children for a picnic at Hylands Park.
They used to go there all the time. Hylands House itself was beautiful – a majestic white stucco neo-classical mansion – and its parkland boasted acres of greenery, a lake and an excellent wooden play area for kids. They used to spend a couple of hours at the play area then walk up to the house, to explore the stable centre, the second-hand bookshop and the artists’ studios. It was one of their favourite places. It meant a lot to them.
Frankie would take Alice’s hat to them.
She parked her car and walked up the gently sloping hill. All around her were families, running dogs, laughter, kites, picnic bags, blankets and sandwiches in tin foil. Frankie scanned the hill for Rob. Ah, there he was, right at the top. She could just make him out, kneeling on a picnic blanket. Alice was a plump bundle next to him. Harry and Josh were playing some kind of fun-looking, two-handed rounders. She couldn’t see Tilly at first, then realised Rob was leaning over her. He was probably on nose-wipe duty.
Frankie had quite a way to walk. She did a kind of slalom, between all the people and blankets. A marauding sausage dog meant she had to round a massive oak tree at the top of the hill and approach Rob and the children from the right. They hadn’t yet seen her.
Rob’s hair looked nice. He’d flicked it up slightly at the front into a less deep Tintin quiff. There was gel in it – that was unusual – and he was wearing a really nice shirt. Blue and white checks. Short-sleeved. She bet he didn’t have any sun cream on. He’d burn. Burn, then go brown, that was his usual style. He was wearing those jeans that Frankie liked, the ones she’d bought him from TK Maxx. He was all scrubbed up, and she was reminded of how he looked on their first date – clean and gelled – and how excited she had been at the sight of him, how she sneaked sideways glances at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. And how much she fancied him, and how she knew she would love him, one day soon.
A lovely scene, so far: pastoral, picturesque. But something was off. There was a picnic blanket joined to Rob’s – its red and white stripes perpendicular to his blue and green ones. On the other blanket was a woman in a stripy Breton top and a pair of cut-off jeans, crouching by a wicker picnic basket. A small boy was lifting up one corner of the blanket with his big toe whilst he stood chattering away.
‘Hi, Mum!’ said Tilly, as Frankie got nearer.
‘Mummy!’ said Alice, reaching up her delectably tubby arms. Frankie stepped towards them and tried to envelope both her daughters in a hug. Alice wrapped her arms round one of Frankie’s legs. Tilly gave her a brief squeeze round the middle then skipped away.
‘Oh hi, Frankie,’ said Rob, shoving a screwed-up tissue in his back pocket. ‘Thanks for bringing the hat. I’ve been trying to keep her in the shade. Couldn’t face the shops in all this heat.’
She’d texted him to say she was coming. He hadn’t told her he wouldn’t be alone. All the fun and near-flirting of last night’s texts disappeared into the ether.
‘That’s okay,’ she said, handing him Alice’s gingham sunhat. ‘Looks like you’re having a nice day.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. Gorgeous weather, eh? We’re all enjoying ourselves.’
‘Hello, boys!’ called out Frankie to her sons.
‘Hiii, Muuum,’ they chorused, not even looking over.
‘Oh, this is Jenny,’ said Rob, and the woman smiled. ‘My neighbour. The one I mentioned? She’s a lone parent, like me. You don’t mind me saying that, do you Jen?’
Jen.
‘No, of course not. I try not to be alone though, too much.’ And Jen gave a shrill laugh and popped a miniature Scotch egg in her mouth.
I bet you don’t, thought Frankie, releasing a now struggling Alice, who wandered off to peer into Rob’s carrier bags. You’re certainly not alone at the moment. And lone parent? That sounded really final. Rob sounded quite proud of it. Pleased.
‘This is Frankie.’ My wife. No, he didn’t say that. She was though, wasn’t she? She was still his wife.
He leant across the blanket’s dividing line and handed Jen’s kid a chocolate Mini Roll. Sharing. Nice.
‘This is Jonathan,’ Rob said.
‘Hello,’ said Frankie. Jonathan gave a shy smile.
‘Do you want to sit down for a bit?’ asked Rob. ‘We’ve got plenty of food. Or is there something you’ve got to do?’
‘Er, no, I’m okay, thanks, Rob. There is something I’ve got to do. I’m on my way there…now.’ There was nothing. There was nowhere. No one. She was going home to an empty house and nothing to do for the rest of the day. But no way was she sitting on a blanket with Rob and Jen, even though her heart had a pang in it the size of a rock at the sight of her children, looking so clean and beautiful and happy and well fed, enjoying the hazy sunshine and a perfect summer’s day in the park. It made her want to cry.
She bet Rob and Jen would mosey on up to the house later, like they always used to: go to the stable centre, get an ice cream. Peer in through the windows of the house at the gorgeous stately rooms inside. Peer into the room that was so special to Frankie and Rob…the room where they’d held their wedding reception, a decade ago. It had been packed full of people. She had looked the best and slimmest she’d ever looked. Rob had looked unbelievably smart. They’d both been so joyous and happy, with so much to look forward to. Perhaps Rob would say nothing about it; there would be no flicker of recognition or nostalgia across his face as he took Jen’s hand and they walked back across the grass down to the lake…
Frankie had a feeling she’d never associated with him before: jealousy. Why was his best, scrubbed-up self coming to the park with this woman?
‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, feeling utterly dejected. The girls were giggling over daisy chains. The boys were now doing a disjointed, laughing haka. She started to walk away.
‘See you,’ said Rob. ‘I’ll bring them back at six tomorrow, shall I?’ There was a non-pupil day this Monday. He was taking the day off and they were staying an extra night. He was rummaging in another Tesco carrier bag. Why didn’t he bring the cool box? Frankie thought. Then she remembered; it was at her house.
‘Bye.’
There was no begging for her to stay. No wailing at the thought of her going. They were used to it, she thought. Used to not seeing her on these weekends with Rob. They didn’t need her. None of them did. Least of all her husband.
As she got to her car she looked back up the hill. She put on her driving glasses, to see them
better. The three boys were haring around. Rob and Jen and Tilly were sitting on Rob’s blanket, Alice on Jen’s lap. Jen was passing Rob something. He was leaning towards her and it looked like he was laughing.
Anyone near them walking a dog, or flying a kite, or screwing up the last piece of tin foil from their last cheese and pickle sandwich, would think they were a family.
Chapter Twenty-seven: Grace
Grace was excited, jittery. So jittery she’d forgotten her phone and had to go back for it. She needed it for Google Maps. There had been a strange man on their street, leaving Imogen’s drive. She hadn’t seen his face, but according to Imogen men from the gas company now sported suits and ill-fitting grey hoodies. Very strange. Still, she couldn’t concern herself with that now. She was on a mission. She was on the brink of starting a wonderful new relationship. Farewell James and his cheating bastard heart for good! She’d found someone better. Someone better-looking, nicer…someone who would be faithful to her and treat her right. She couldn’t wait to get to Greg. She would put away her purse, he would put away his escort plans and they’d start the rest of their lives.
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