The Year that Changed Everything

by Cathy Kelly

  ‘Yes,’ she squeaked.

  They sat in a small Italian restaurant round the corner and Ginger wished she had stuffed something better in her gym bag than a comfy khaki sweatshirt with a picture of a cat on it, and her equally comfy harem pants which were miles looser on the waist than they used to be. She was never going to be skinny – she didn’t want to be, she’d decided. But she was more toned, felt healthy and working out had given her an appreciation for her body.

  Will was in an equally comfortable T-shirt over which he wore one of those red flannel shirts, open so that Ginger could – if she allowed herself to – look at his beautiful chest defined by the T-shirt.

  ‘Hey Will, nice to see you,’ said a guy coming over to him in chef’s whites.

  ‘Ginger, meet Mario, owner of this den of iniquity,’ said Will. ‘Mario, this is Ginger.’

  ‘Gina Lollobrigida,’ said Mario.

  ‘No, Ginger,’ said Ginger, confused.

  ‘My Da’s Sicilian and he loves the old movie stars. Saw you in the paper last week – liked the bikini, by the way – and said you were a dead ringer for Gina, fifties movie star. If I phone and tell him you’re in, he’ll be round in a flash. He’ll have you sitting on his knee, telling you the dreams he had about her in his youth.’

  ‘I love your father, but don’t phone,’ begged Will. ‘We want a quiet night.’

  Mario raised an eyebrow. ‘You two . . .?’ he asked Will. ‘Because if this is friends, I might ask Ms Gina if she would care to go out with me—’

  ‘Hands off,’ said Will evenly. ‘Not friends.’

  Ginger perked up.

  Will reached across the table and grabbed her hand. ‘We’re on a date, Mario. Skedaddle. Or I’ll load up the weight bar next time you’re in and see how you cope.’

  ‘Gotcha.’ Mario shot a finger at Will, blew a kiss at Ginger and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘Half-Sicilian, half-Belfast, fiery combination,’ said Will, still holding her hand. His large fingers began to stroke the underside of her palm and Ginger found it to be the most erotic thing anyone had ever done to her – and that included her encounter with her fake wedding-date.

  ‘Is this a date?’ she asked, wanting to know before she said the wrong thing. Because it couldn’t be—

  ‘Do you want it to be a date?’ Will kept holding on to her hand.

  Ginger nodded.

  ‘You’re like a wild deer in the forest, Ginger Reilly,’ he said, looking into her amber eyes. ‘You look sassy and tough, but you’re shy, vulnerable. Like you’ve been hurt. I wanted to take it slow but I couldn’t. Now that the article has been done, and the final shoot is over, you keep coming back and I’m afraid that one day, you won’t show up anymore.’

  Ginger could say nothing. She could only breathe. For the first time in her life, she felt seen. Utterly understood by a man who was not a relative.

  ‘I want it to be a date,’ she said, in a breathy tone that was not like her and not fake. It just came out like that. ‘But—’

  ‘But you have no confidence and you aren’t sure?’

  Ginger looked at him across the table.

  ‘How do you know?’ she asked, all artifice gone. No longer sassy Office Ginger. Not don’t-look-at-me Ginger. But just pure Ginger, all her heart and soul spiralling into that one simple question.

  ‘I can see it in you.’

  There was silence. He still held her hand.

  Will sat up a bit straighter. ‘OK, this is my story. I haven’t dated in a while,’ he said. ‘Got my heart broken a few years back, takes a while to get over that, and then I saw a few people. Nothing felt right. I wanted—’

  ‘—a connection?’

  ‘Yes.’ His warm eyes roved over her face, not her body, just her face. Seeing her, drinking her in. ‘Exactly. I’m thirty-four and my mother worries herself sick I’ll never find the right person. She’s an artist: thinks the women who fancy me are all gym bunnies who care about the superficial and she hates that. She and my dad have something special: something deep. I want that.’

  ‘It’s what I want too, but I’ve never had it,’ said Ginger. She’d never been this honest before. Not ever, really. Girlfriend would approve. Be honest. If he can’t accept you as you are, but only as the version of you he likes, then he is not the right man. YOU are good enough.

  She kept going. ‘My heart’s been broken but only by – by me, I guess. By me pretending to be people I wasn’t, trying to fit in. By someone I considered a best friend who humiliated me.’

  ‘Who? Tell me?’ he demanded.

  Ginger shook her head. ‘Not now.’ She smiled. ‘Another time.’

  There would be another time.

  ‘That first day in your office, after you’d been working with that girl, I could see the decency in you. You understood her and her fears. And then you showed me the picture of you when you were . . .’ She didn’t want to use the word fat anymore. It was a horrible word. A word to put people down. She would never use it again. ‘Like me,’ she said instead. ‘A bigger person in this thinner person’s world.’

  ‘I understood that. I try to change that in my gym. It’s part of our ethos: we make the real you stronger.’

  A waiter arrived, apologising for the delay, blaming a sick member of staff, an eclipse, something. They both grinned at him, not listening.

  They let go of each other’s hand just to take the menus.

  Ginger had often wondered what she’d eat if she ever was in a restaurant with a man. How crazy was that? Imagining what to order so as not to look like a crazed foodaholic.

  The gym had great leaflets on good foods. There were no bad foods, just moderation. Exercise. Moving more, being happy.

  ‘Pizza, Hawaiian,’ she said firmly.

  ‘I love Hawaiian,’ said Will delightedly.

  ‘And sweet potato fries.’ Healthier than fries, she knew, and she loved them. ‘Sparkling water.’

  ‘Same,’ he said to the waiter, his eyes on Ginger.

  They ate, and talked as if they’d both been in a desert for years, starved of human company.

  They talked about his family, hers. He loved Aunt Grace, whom he’d met when he’d helped with the endless unopened boxes.

  ‘Should have her own TV show,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, with Esmerelda in it too: they could sell jewellery and add hints on life.’ Ginger giggled. ‘Esmerelda is worried I won’t ever find a man, so she is suggesting women lately. Once I get the ring on my finger, that’s all that matters. Esmerelda has a very clear-cut view on life.’

  ‘She and Grace both look like women who have lived good lives, enjoyed the heck out of it,’ Will said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Ginger looked up to find Will watching her wiping her mouth with her napkin. His eyes were a little glazed as he watched and Ginger realised she was turning him on.

  Right there in the restaurant, she felt herself heat up to about one thousand degrees.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  In the gym car park, they looked at their two cars. ‘I don’t want this evening to end,’ Will said. ‘Would you like to sit in mine and talk before you go home?’

  ‘You mean we’re not going to spend all night together?’ teased Ginger, astonished at her own daring.

  Will groaned. ‘Please, don’t tease me. Let’s do it slowly, go slowly. I would sell my soul to go to yours right now and rip that cat sweatshirt off and hold you but—’ He took a deep breath, steadied himself by leaning both hands against his car. ‘But slow. Right. I’ve tried the fast thing and it doesn’t work.’

  Ginger nodded as if she knew this too, when she really had no idea. She felt jealous of him going fast with anyone.

  They sat in his car, some jeep type thing that was high up.

  ‘Right now I’m sorry I don’t have one of t
hose classic old American cars with the bench front seat,’ he said, turning to face Ginger, and she grinned. She knew exactly what he meant.

  It was slow. Will leaned forward and took Ginger’s face in his two hands, cradling her, and then his mouth was on hers, moving softly. And suddenly, it wasn’t slow at all. He kissed her with intensity and this time, Ginger didn’t even have to think about where to put her hands. She felt safe and sexy, wanted to be holding him, to be held by him. Their tongues melded, her hands strayed to his T-shirt, pulled it up to rub her flat palms over the sculpted beauty of his chest.

  ‘Don’t,’ he moaned.

  ‘I want to touch you.’

  ‘I want to touch you too, but not here, not in my car in the car park.’

  ‘Five more minutes,’ Ginger said, and pulled him back to her.

  This time, his hands slid under her sweatshirt.

  Both their breathing caught as his hands reached her full breasts, his large hands roaming, making Ginger moan at the exquisite sensitivity of it.

  ‘Oh Ginger, not here.’

  Will sat back in his chair, looking seriously rattled, his eyes dark with desire.

  ‘We are doing this properly, in a bed.’

  Sanity reasserted itself. ‘Right. In a bed,’ Ginger agreed. ‘Whose bed and when?’

  Will laughed. ‘Very soon,’ he said. ‘Or I might just explode.’

  The next day, Jodie was stinking out one end of the giant newsroom, the features end, testing nail varnishes.

  ‘Can you not do that somewhere else?’ groaned Fiona.

  ‘How am I supposed to test these damn things otherwise?’ said Jodie.

  She held up one hand with each finger painted a slightly different colour. In front of her on the desk were a gaggle of beautiful little nail varnish pots in various shades.

  ‘I sort of like this one,’ she said, wiggling her index finger in Fiona and Ginger’s directions. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think they all look exactly the same to me,’ said Fiona, ‘and they stink. I’m sure it’s a health hazard.’

  ‘That one’s the cutest,’ said Ginger, pointing to a pearly pink on Jodie’s ring finger.

  ‘Bit of a classic,’ said Jodie, going into beauty-speak.

  From her corner, Fiona grinned. ‘We are not the readers. We know this stuff because we have been sitting beside you for ages.’

  Ginger smiled. It was funny how the three of them had bonded over the fitness articles, even though Ginger felt you couldn’t get three more different women if you tried.

  She and Jodie had gone out to dinner one evening and then Ginger had brought Jodie back to her place for tea where Jodie had gone into blissful admiration over the adorableness of Ginger’s house and been thrilled to meet the guinea pigs. Jodie lived in a tiny rented flat and said she’d have killed to live in a beautiful little house like Ginger.

  Now that she knew Jodie, she could see that the other girl was a lovely twenty-six-year-old woman who’d just started dating a decent guy called Peter. She wasn’t into the club scene like Liza or her friends and she didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with Ginger because she wasn’t interested in those things either. It was comforting being with Jodie, having a friend.

  Ginger went back to working on her article and was in the writing zone when her desk phone rang. It was the managing editor’s personal assistant. Mr Leon, said managing editor, wanted to see her pronto.

  ‘Mr Leon would like to see you at half four, if that is convenient?’ said the assistant in a voice that implied that unless Ginger was having something amputated at that precise time, it had better be convenient.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Ginger anxiously.

  ‘Shit,’ she said, turning to her colleagues.

  ‘What now?’ said Fiona. ‘I have got to have this filed in ten more minutes.’

  ‘I’m being summoned to see Mr Leon in forty-five minutes,’ said Ginger. ‘What do you think I’ve done?’

  ‘Written some bloody good articles, that’s what you have done,’ said Fiona. ‘Sorry, can’t talk, gotta type.’ She swivelled her head back to her computer.

  ‘It’s got to be good,’ said Jodie, pulling her wheelie chair over closer to Ginger’s. ‘Our fitness series has had a huge number of hits on the site and your piece is the most popular, so could he want to see you about that?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Ginger. ‘A couple of months ago I was writing advertorials about peanuts and industrial estates and now this . . .’ She shivered. ‘What if I’m getting the sack?’

  ‘He’s not going to fire you,’ interrupted Fiona. ‘He doesn’t do the firing. Someone from human resources delivers the news and you get a box to clear out your desk. So either he wants hints on working out, or he has some brilliant new thing he wants you to do. Now shut up, you pair. I am going to need earplugs to work soon.’

  Ginger bounced back to her desk an hour later.

  ‘What is it?’ said Jodie, ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Course it’s OK,’ said Fiona, grinning. ‘Tell us, then!’

  Ginger could barely hold it in. ‘The editor says I’ve been writing such brilliant pieces that he wants me to take over a lot more major feature writing. I’m getting a two-year contract and more dosh! Isn’t that amazing?’

  ‘Oh, Ginger,’ sighed Jodie and hugged her friend. ‘I am so pleased for you. You deserve this. You’re a brilliant writer and . . .’

  ‘. . . And that will be one in the eye for Carla Mattheson,’ finished Fiona with glee. ‘That will shut the old cow up.’

  ‘That’s not the point, obviously,’ said Ginger quickly, ‘but . . .’ she paused, ‘. . . it would be nice to have it recognised that I’m not just something to be kicked around.’ And the three of them laughed uproariously.

  There was still chattering and discussing exactly what Ginger’s new role would be, when a sharp cough made them all look up. Carla Mattheson stood close by, elegant and perfect as ever. Long legs encased in a skintight but somehow elegant skirt and a little swishy top that managed to conceal and not conceal at the same time. She looked amazing, Ginger thought with a hint of irritation. And then felt guilty. Carla Mattheson did bring out the worst in her.

  ‘Ginger,’ said Carla, in a sort of husky, come-hither voice she normally reserved for the men she wanted to impress around the building. ‘Can I talk to you for a moment in my office?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Ginger, about to grab her pens, notebook and tablet.

  ‘You won’t need any of that,’ said Carla.

  Ginger followed Carla’s gently swaying hips. How did a person do that? she wondered. Some sort of motorised hip movement that just made everything sway. No wonder all the men were crazy about her.

  In her office, Carla shut the door, that friendly smile still on her face. It was the smile that was making Ginger really nervous. It was the sort of smile that a woman-eating snake gave before she swallowed a person whole, reticulated jaw opening up to gulp them right down.

  ‘So,’ Carla sat elegantly behind her desk and motioned with one perfectly manicured hand for Ginger to sit too. ‘I hear you’ve been promoted. Won’t be working in our little magazine anymore.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger, not even slightly surprised. The editor hadn’t said that he’d told everyone else, but then of course Carla was on the management team and she’d know all about it . . .

  ‘I was all for it,’ Carla said gravely. ‘I really believe in women getting ahead.’

  It was all Ginger could do not to laugh out loud, but as it was she managed to hold it in somehow. She and her friends helped each other. Carla never helped anyone but herself. But if Carla wanted to think denial was a river in Africa, that was fine by Ginger.

  ‘You did a really good job on those gym pieces. Funny and real. The readers really liked them. Great ra
tings and a lot of readers on the internet version of the paper.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ginger carefully. She wasn’t sure where this was going, but there was a hint of danger. As if Carla was already working up her jaw for the whole body-swallowing thing.

  ‘That guy Will Stapleton who runs the gym,’ went on Carla. ‘What a charmer he is. I knew you’d like him. Everyone does, totally gorgeous and sexy, isn’t he?’ She smiled then at Ginger, a smile that said so many things. ‘I put him onto you because I knew he’d take care of you. He’s great with people who need . . .’ Her eyes scanned Ginger’s body. ‘With people who need extra help. And he’s kind, you know. Kind to everyone. Of course, women are always falling in love with him . . .’

  Ginger could only stare at her. All the joy of the previous night vanished.

  ‘He is kind of charming, isn’t he?’ she said, doing her level best to smile. She would not break down in front of this bitch.

  ‘Yes, very charming, and as I told him when I set up that initial meeting with you, it would be so good for his gym to be featured in the paper. After all, people would kill for that sort of PR. Two months of articles in the Sunday News. Who wouldn’t do anything for that?’

  Ginger had no more fight left. She just stared at Carla.

  ‘I rang the gym earlier to check on my free membership and guess what, some guy on the desk said you and Will had been on a date last night? Sweet,’ Carla went on. ‘I’m sure you had a great time with him, but I have my eye on him. So hands off. He’s out of your league. I asked him if he’d come with me to the newspaper awards and, naturally, he said yes. He knows it would be fabulous publicity and think of all the contacts he’d meet. I hear on the grapevine you might be up for one . . .’

  ‘Really? I’ve never been and, no, I hadn’t heard that rumour,’ said Ginger. Somehow, she rose gracefully, smiled, and said, ‘Lots of work to do, Carla. Bye.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Jodie when Ginger raced over to their corner and frantically grabbed her handbag and her phone off the desk.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Ginger. But she knew she was going red, knew she’d cry any minute now and she had to get out of the office before that happened, before anyone else witnessed her pain. Even Jodie and Fiona, her dear friends. She couldn’t let them see how hurt she was. Because Will had used her. Will and Carla had used her. First Liza, and now them.