by Adams, PJ
She remembered the Angry Cans pictures on the wall.
Ronnie went on: “He doesn’t do that kind of thing. He doesn’t allow himself to get drawn in. He doesn’t fall in love.”
She glanced sharply at Ray, but he was chatting with the driver.
“Don’t you go hurting him, you hear?”
Then Ronnie released her, stepped back and turned to hold the car door for her.
§
He doesn’t do that kind of thing. He doesn’t allow himself to get drawn in. He doesn’t fall in love.
Was that Ronnie’s spin on things, or had Ray confided something in his old friend?
She sat in the back of the car as it inched through the city traffic, her head a jumble of thoughts, late for work and not caring at all.
6
Nobody raised an eyebrow when she finally reached her desk at almost 9.30. They’d always been good like that at Hamilton and Chambers. She’d been fast-tracked there since joining three years before, a rising star and someone they trusted with difficult cases, going in and straight-talking failing businesses, reshaping and refocusing them until they were fit for purpose. As long as she delivered and didn’t miss appointments, nobody minded what hours she kept or whether she was working in the office or in the Costa across the road.
She busied herself with emails and then turned to a report she was redrafting for a presentation later that week. She felt good, she realized. On top of things. Full of the afterglow from her night with Ray.
A couple of days ago she’d set the wallpaper of her computer to an old Angry Cans poster photo: the one of them standing looking moody on top of a high wall that Ronnie had put up in their room last night. Studying that image now was like looking at something far removed from the Ray Sandler she had come to know. Her Ray Sandler.
She returned to the report, briefly distracted from the sharp focus she had found.
Some time later, her phone buzzed with a message from Ray – ‘RS’, as she’d put him in her Contacts. He’d already texted her a couple of times that morning. The first message had come through while she was still in the car:
Hey gorgeous. Let me know all ok? Head still spinning with you. Rxx
The second had come later:
All good at work? No trouble for being late? My bad ;) Rxx
This new message was different, though:
Hey there. Just heard from Mo. Press sniffing around. Couple of them got into the Roxette gig. Bastards. Wish they’d just leave me be.
Emily’s first reaction was to panic. Press sniffing around? Around what? Around her and Ray? Was this thing blowing up in their faces already?
She re-read the message and saw that it was all about the music, the gig. She called him from the office, and he answered on the first ring.
“Hey,” she said. “So what’s the panic? Isn’t it good that the press are interested?”
Silence, then he said, “I just... They’ve put me through the ringer before. I know it goes with the territory, but I just... It sounds dumb to say I don’t like the limelight, doesn’t it? But I don’t. And here they are, sneaking around, writing about stuff that’s not ready to be publicized yet.”
A pause, then: “Saying it out loud makes it sound pretty feeble, doesn’t it?”
She could hear him lifting himself as he spoke. That insecurity thing again, the unexpected vulnerability.
“Did they like the gig?” she asked.
“They did,” he said, hesitantly.
“And did they like the new stuff?”
He laughed now. “Yes, yes. They liked the new stuff.”
“And are you getting worked up about something that’s really pretty damned good?”
“Okay, okay,” he said. “You can stop now. You’ve made your point. It’s just...”
“‘Just’?”
“We’re going to have to be careful, Emily. We’re going to have to be discreet.”
“I know. We are.”
And that tackled her own insecurity: he wasn’t backing away, they were going to have to be careful, that was all. Because they were clearly going to continue with this thing.
§
“And you’ve heard nothing from Thom today?” asked Marcia.
She’d texted Marcia earlier and arranged to meet for lunch. There was so much spinning around inside her head, and Marcia was her person, the one who would listen without judging, the one who would understand. Now they were sitting in a booth in a bar near Emily’s office. Marcia was looking glamorous and skinny as ever, her black hair bobbed and shaped around her face.
“No. Just those two odd texts yesterday evening, and then his message to you. I’m going to have to face him later, though, and I really don’t know how I’m going to handle that.” Her husband. Thom. He would read everything on her face the instant she walked through the door. The excitement. The guilt. The deceit.
“Do you even have to go back?”
She hadn’t thought of that.
“It’s my home.”
“You’re going to have to deal with that some time.” Marcia was talking about Emily’s marriage as if it was over. Which it was. They just hadn’t put that out in the open yet, her and Thom.
Emily took a long sip from her glass of wine. Chardonnay, chosen because it would remind her of the Pouilly-Fuissé Ray had ordered at L’Auberge. “That doesn’t make it any easier, though.”
Marcia waggled her head from side to side. “Fair point,” she said. “Better now than in three years’ time, though. That’s what I say, anyway.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So anyhow,” she said. “What’s the goss’? Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Emily opened her mouth to speak, then stopped herself. She didn’t want to devalue this thing with Ray. Turn it into an item of gossip, a round of bragging over wine and a Caesar salad.
“Did he really take you to L’Auberge?”
Emily nodded. “He did.”
“And how was it? Not that this is like getting blood out of a stone or anything.”
“It was... unexpected.”
Marcia studied her closely, as if sensing something different about her. She reached out and put her hand on Emily’s. “You’re not... you’re not falling in love, are you?”
Emily narrowed her eyes and gave her friend a hard look, but said nothing.
“You are!”
“I don’t know what I am,” said Emily, finally. “At times I think it’s just a big adventure and before I know it’ll just be a memory. And at other times I think... well, I don’t know what I think. But there are moments. Lke when he just held me this morning. He wouldn’t let me get into the car until he’d held me like that. It wasn’t a sex thing, it was something else. Something more. And then when Ronnie took me aside and told me Ray doesn’t do things like this, that he doesn’t go falling in love–”
“‘Ronnie’? Who’s Ronnie?”
“Oh, a friend of Ray’s. We stayed at his place last night.” Then she leaned forward, finally giving into the urge to share. “Lionel Ronson. He was such a sweetie, you wouldn’t believe it!”
It took a lot to take the wind out of Marcia’s sails, but mention of Lionel Ronson was enough. After a second or two with her mouth sagging open, she took a breath and said, “You’re telling me you stayed at Lionel Ronson’s place last night? You’re kidding me.”
Emily smiled and said nothing.
“You’re making me do that thing again,” went on Marcia. “You’re forcing me to reassess you. You really are not who I thought you were, Emily Rivers. And I like it. So what was his place like? What was he like. God, my mother’s going to be so jealous. Lionel Ronson.”
Emily felt herself starting to relax, Marcia’s fun mood infectious. She told her friend about Ronnie’s mansion, and about his almost paternal relationship with Ray. She told her about the meal at L’Auberge, and about Ray sitting down at that piano and playing for her.
“Did Ronson play?”
The two broke down into fits of giggles. Such a surreal conversation to have over lunch!
Later, over coffee when Emily really should have been getting back to the office, she got serious again. “I spoke to him again this morning. Ray. He was panicking about a couple of journalists who’d sneaked into his gig at the Roxette and written nice reviews. I know, right? He seems very edgy, though. Very changeable. I worry that it’s me that’s making him like that. I worry that it’s all going to blow up, or that one of us will reach the conclusion that this thing just can’t be made to work. Everything’s happened so quickly: a mad rush, without pause for thought. It’s exciting, but it sure is scary.”
“You say all that as if it’s a bad thing. You say it as if you expect your Aunty Marcia to give you the sensible advice that you should shy away from anything that’s dangerous and exciting, but really, how long have you known me? You either live life or you turn into that waste of space husband of yours and resent it. This thing with Ray: I’ve never seen you like this, Emily, and it sure is lovely to see.”
“You say ‘this thing with Ray’... I don’t even know what this thing is.”
“And you say that as if it matters.” Marcia leaned forward and held Emily’s hand again. “Really, Emily. You worry too much. Take it. Seize it. It’s your right to have a life. Don’t let Thom, or anyone else, or even you, take that away from you.”
7
Thom met her at the station, and that was a sure sign that something was up. Thom never met her at the station. In fact, Emily couldn’t remember the last time her husband had gone out of his way to meet her at all.
She saw him as she stepped off her train. A glance beyond the bustling mass of commuters on the platform, through the chain-link fence to the car park and there he was, standing by her parked car. He must have come here by cab, or bus, she thought, or maybe an earlier train if he’d been in the city for some reason. Whatever. He was here, waiting. Leaning with his ass against the driver’s door, his hands deep in the pockets of that ugly corduroy jacket he so liked.
He was watching for her, so she looked away and lost herself in the flow towards the exit.
This was it.
Was he going to confront her? Trap her with difficult questions?
There came a point when she had to acknowledge his presence. He was blocking the driver-side door, after all.
“Hey,” she said. She never said that in greeting. That was a Ray thing.
He nodded, something odd in his expression. He knew.
She wondered how this was going to go. She didn’t want to hurt him. She just wanted it over with.
“Emily,” he said. “It’s your Aunt Helen. She had a heart attack. Bill called, but he only had the house number. I’ve been trying to let you know.”
Helen.
He hadn’t said it, but it was clear this wasn’t just a murmur with a bit of recovery time in hospital kind of heart attack. Aunt Helen. She could only have been in her early fifties, if that. And... “Kayleigh. Oh my God: Kayleigh.”
Her cousin was getting married in ten days.
“It’s still going ahead,” said Thom. “She’s determined, that one. You know Kayleigh.”
And he stood there, awkwardly, as if he didn’t know what to do. Take Emily into his arms or step aside so she could get in? Instead, he turned, opened the door and climbed in behind the wheel of Emily’s car. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”
§
She knew the questions would come, even in circumstances like these.
She’d called Kayleigh, then her Uncle Bill. She’d called her mother. She would quite readily have worked her way through her entire contacts list if it would put off the questions.
“So where were you? I tried to track you down.”
She looked across at him. How could a slim man like Thom still manage to take over an entire sofa like that? She looked down at her plate, the microwave chicken tikka masala barely disturbed. “Oh, you know. Girls’ night with Marcia.”
Keep calm. Keep it simple.
And every time she closed her eyes she saw Ray’s face. Looking at her from the bed, that smile slowly spreading. Or looking up at her, his face down there.
She was blushing. She was sure she must be blushing.
“I tried to find you. Tried to let you know.” His voice was tight, controlled.
“You could have called me today.”
“I’d given up by then. It didn’t seem right, me not knowing where you were. Pissed me off.”
He was angry. Why was he angry? He had plenty of reason to be, of course, but she was sure now that he didn’t know it.
“When Bill called and I didn’t know, I looked a right fool.”
So that’s what this was about! Thom’s feelings of inadequacy. He hated that Emily had a high-flying job. Hated that she was successful when he wasn’t. Thom worked in the back office in a local supermarket, a job that was always going to be a temporary thing while he was working on his novel, but which had lasted seven years now. Without Emily’s job they wouldn’t have this place, or the two cars, and somehow that was something to hold against her.
She bit back on any of the half dozen or so responses that were vying to escape.
Slow and measured, she said, “I work hard. Just like you do.” She remembered what Marcia had said. “I have a right to live my life. You can’t hold that against me.”
He glowered at her. How had they reached this point?
“You’ve got nothing to be angry about,” she said in a steady voice. Oh, but you have!
“I’ve got everything to be angry about,” he said.
For a moment she thought, This is it. He knows. He really does know.
Then he continued. “Everything. This. I don’t even know what this is, any more. I don’t even know who you are any more. All this skulking around and avoiding me all of a sudden. You don’t tell me where you are. You don’t answer my calls.”
She could see the tendons in his neck tightening, his jaw clenching, his whole body poised. Then, in a flash, he swung his arm back hard against the sofa. He’d never been a violent man before but in that instant she knew he could be.
On the sofa, some of the leftover rice had spilled from Thom’s plate. With the tikka masala sauce it was going to stain.
“That feel better?” she asked.
He dipped his head, gave a grunt of a laugh, and said, “Yeah. Sorry. I just don’t like being like this. You know?”
She nodded.
“Poor Kayleigh, eh?” he said.
“I know. I can’t believe they’re going ahead with the wedding.”
“It’s all that weight she’s lost to get into the dress,” said Thom. “She’s never going to keep that off if they delay.”
There was a slight pause, then he met Emily’s look and they both laughed, a sudden release of tension.
“Are we okay?” There was a pleading look in his eyes now.
Emily nodded. “We’re okay,” she said. She didn’t know what else to do right then.
Later, she caught him looking at her strangely. Had he picked something up? Something different about her. Some primitive biological thing that allowed him to detect that another male had been on his territory.
“Poor Kayleigh, eh?” he said again.
She looked at him, and nodded, and she knew what was on his mind. They’d fought – albeit a faltering, stilted kind of fight – and now... good God, but was he hoping for make-up sex?
That’s when she knew for sure.
It was over.
There was nothing left in this relationship.
When a husband looks at his wife like that and her only reaction is horror, it really is over.
“I’m going to bed,” she said, and for a moment she saw a glimmer of hope on his face.
She went upstairs, wiped the make-up from her face, brushed and flossed her teet
h, peed, and washed her hands. Then she went through to the spare room.
Easing the door shut behind her, leaning back against it, she let loose a long, pent-up breath.
Marcia had been right: she was going to have to deal with the end of her marriage at some point. It was going to be messy and painful, but it had to be done.
But more than anything – more guiltily than anything – there was also a strong sense of relief.
She’d got away with it.
Just a few awkward questions, but she’d got away with it.
8
She texted Ray from the guest bed to say that everything was okay, and again in the morning to say she was awake. She felt like a schoolgirl. He replied each time but she knew she must be annoying the Hell out of him, particularly as an international rock star has no need to get out of bed until midday – unless you’re Lionel Ronson, of course, and you get up at the crack of dawn to tend your immaculate gardens.
He texted her at work, late morning.
Can’t stop dreaming about you. Lunch? Rxx
All it took was a text to turn her to mush. It really was feeble.
A short time later a car pulled up in the street outside Hamilton and Chambers. The windows were tinted, concealing the car’s occupants so she didn’t know if Ray would be there or waiting for her at some restaurant.
The door popped open, she climbed in and slotted straight into his embrace.
Of course he was there. How could he not be?
He kissed the top of her head, and then she tilted her face to kiss him properly. He tasted of coffee and smelled of that peppery, slightly citrus, aftershave he favored.
Mo drove them to Ray’s place where the door had barely closed behind them before Ray was on her, all over her, unfastening and freeing her clothes, pulling her down to her knees, both of them kneeling, lying, on the hard, unforgiving floor. He was fast and urgent, and minutes later they sat with their backs against the wall, knees drawn up, laughing at what had just taken place between them.
Ray made an omelet and they talked. About her morning, about L’Auberge and Ronnie, about Thom. That led them on to: “He was waiting for me at the station. He had bad news. My aunt... Helen.” And so they talked about Emily’s family, and Ray very deftly turned the conversation to happy times, fond memories of Helen, Bill and Kayleigh. That thing he did where he was able to draw positives out of the negative, that they were two sides of the same thing.