‘No wonder you say it’s keeping you occupied. But don’t get sucked in, will you, Jen? These people have their own lives, and you’re not part of them.’
‘I know,’ Jenna said, though it made her feel sad to realize it.
Thursday evening was cool and rather damp, and Jenna was glad that Harry arrived with the roof of the car up.
‘You’re wearing That Dress!’ he exclaimed as she came out to him.
‘You said best bib and tucker. This is all I have.’
‘I want to be buried with That Dress,’ he said reverently. ‘You look gorgeous.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. It was nice to be appreciated. ‘You get the full warpaint tonight. I pulled my punches at the dinner party.’
‘Probably wise. Poor old Brian Longhurst has a dicky heart.’
They didn’t talk much on the drive in to Belminster. He drove fast, and the engine was noisy, and she was not a good passenger. She spent the journey holding on to the sides of her seat and working the invisible pedals in her footwell at every bend and corner. But despite driving at a mad speed, like all country people, he handled the car skilfully and they had no near misses.
The town seemed lively, with crowds of young people wandering along the streets and going in and out of pubs and coffee shops. Mazo’s was down the end of Mill Street, where there were a number of restaurants. It had a purple fascia with the name scrawled in dull gold, and the windows were obscured with wooden bead curtains over unbleached cotton blinds, so you couldn’t see anything until you went in. Jenna expected it to be empty – she couldn’t believe there were that many people in Belminster interested in cutting-edge cuisine – but when they opened the door, the dimly-lit interior, throbbing with African music, was heaving. A waiter came to meet them with a refusal in his eyes, until Harry gave his name, and then he beamed and led them to a barely adequate table for two in a crowded corner.
‘If this is popularity . . .!’ she shouted to him as they squeezed into their seats.
‘Great, isn’t it?’ he shouted back, his eyes shining. The decor was simple: plain, square, pale wood tables and chairs, aubergine coloured walls with primitive paintings in black and white, and small downlighters in the black-painted ceiling, which entirely failed to give the impression of stars twinkling in the vast night sky of Africa. They had taken the last table, and at every other there were couples and groups of the well-to-do leaning forward and conversing in eager bellows against the music.
The waiter brought them menus and apparently asked what they wanted to drink, though she couldn’t hear what he said. ‘Red wine OK?’ Harry asked her, and she nodded. ‘Yeah, baby!’ he said, when the waiter had gone. ‘Now let’s score some totally ethnic food.’ She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.
The menu was not extensive and the food was entirely unfamiliar to her. ‘The kossa kossa is a speciality,’ he said helpfully. The menu said they were giant spicy shrimps.
‘So nice they named it twice?’ she hazarded.
‘How about one kossa kossa and one fumbwa to start, and we share?’ Yam leaves cooked in peanut paste and smoked salted fish, said the menu.
‘Whatever you say,’ she agreed, taking the path of least resistance. There was a lot of salted fish on the menu, and something called manioc leaves. She thought you wouldn’t have to be a manioc to leave this place. The non-fish main courses were goat stew, Congolese braised chicken, and white bean casserole with pigs’ trotters (she tried imagining it and wished she hadn’t – pale and glutinous, with the pig’s toenails peeping gruesomely out). She chose the chicken for safety’s sake, and Harry went for the goat. The wine came – South African: she supposed the Congo didn’t have any vines – and Harry gave the order, and asked for steamed rice to go with it. It was that or fried yams, apparently.
‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked when the waiter had gone.
‘Seriously?’ she asked.
He looked hurt. ‘You don’t like it.’
She tried to put her feelings into words. ‘Well, that menu – the food was just preserved fish and plantain leaves, gussied up a bit with a few aubergines and chillies and a bit of peanut paste. It’s basic peasant food.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s cool, isn’t it?’
‘Except that the peasants concerned probably couldn’t afford it back in the Congo. I mean, don’t you think it’s a bit distasteful for all us fat, rich people to scarf up a dish that would do a whole family out there – and they’d probably only have it on someone’s birthday?’
He blinked. ‘Blimey, lighten up, Red. We’re not in the Congo now.’
‘I know. That’s kind of my point.’
‘Look, the ingredients came from the market in Wenchester, and our waiter worked in the Golden Jasmine curry house in Church Street until last month. His name’s Desmond and he was born and bred here. It’s a restaurant, not a UNICEF camp. It’s a place for parting lazy people from their cash in return for cooking them dinner. If anyone’s being exploited, it’s us.’
She laughed. ‘All right. Fair comment. I just wish it weren’t so fashionable. I don’t like to think of people being excited by this sort of thing.’
‘Who’s excited?’ he said.
‘I thought you were.’
‘Only by the thought of a date with you.’
‘Aah, you’re so sweet.’
‘I thought I’d never get you if I didn’t impress you with Mazo’s, but if I’d known you were going to go all Bob Geldof on me, I’d have booked us in to the transport caff for sausage and chips.’
‘Sos and chips? Pure heaven!’
‘All right – the lentil bar in Church Street for a veggie burger.’
‘Ah, now you’ve got me. But why did you want to go out with me so much?’ she asked, her vanity wanting feeding.
‘To annoy Caroline, of course,’ he said, straight-faced.
‘Ouch!’ she said.
He grinned. ‘Gotcha! But actually, I seem to have missed my mark, because she’s changed her mind about you.’
‘How do you mean? I thought she hated me for some reason.’
‘So did I, but now she’s actually encouraging me to “get to know you”. She was all smiles and sweet words.’ He shuddered. ‘That you don’t want to see before breakfast.’
‘Is it possible she’s mad?’ Jenna asked. ‘I mean, bonkers, not angry.’
‘Oh, more than possible. I think she’s both, actually. Here’s our starters. One good thing about peasant food – it doesn’t take long to cook.’
In fact, the whole meal was so quick they were finished and out in the street by half past nine. ‘The night is still young,’ Harry said. ‘What would you like to do now? Go out for dinner, perhaps?’
She laughed. ‘It wasn’t that bad. In fact, mostly it was quite tasty.’
‘In a school canteen way. Do you fancy a drink?’
She hesitated. The pubs all looked crowded, with loud conversation and music spilling out of the open doors into the street. ‘The noise in Mazo’s has made my neck ache,’ she said. ‘I’d sooner go somewhere quiet.’
He looked pleased. ‘Right,’ he said, rather too promptly. ‘Back to my place, then.’
‘Oi! I didn’t mean that.’
‘You misjudge me again. I just meant for a quiet drink. And so I can show it off to you. I like showing off my flat, and I don’t get many chances.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘I have very high standards,’ he said loftily. ‘But if you don’t want to see the famous St George’s development in all its glory—’
‘All right, I’ll come – on the strict understanding that there’s no hanky-panky.’
He snorted. ‘Hanky-panky? Hanky-panky? Have we slipped into the 1950s without my noticing?’
‘You’d better hope not,’ she said, ‘or your flat will still be a warehouse.’
The ex-warehouse stood on the edge of a canalized part of the river. The brickwork had been cl
eaned to pristine yellow, the new windows and balconies had been added in smart ironwork, and a new row of trees was struggling to look convincing on the opposite bank, while the non-canalside approach had been expensively landscaped. Everything about it spoke of new, young money, and lots of it.
‘Nice,’ Jenna said politely as Harry tapped a number into the keypad at the security gates and they swung silently open to admit them. It could not have been more of a contrast to Holtby House – but variety was the spice of life, she thought. The lift shot them to the top floor, to a corridor where he unlocked a door on to a staircase leading up to – ‘The penthouse. Nice,’ she said again.
‘Where else?’ he said. ‘Nothing but the best for me.’
He ushered her in, and at that point words failed her. The place was massive, a vast expanse of shiny wood flooring leading to a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the sparkly lights of Belminster and the dark country beyond. There was a terrace, she saw, with flowers and shrubs in pots and a glass windbreak sheltering a table and chairs. Inside there was the minimum of furniture, very modern and expensive. One end of the vast room was a gadgety steel-and-black-marble kitchen; the middle was a sitting area; and the other end sported a top-of-the-market range of entertainment items, including a huge plasma TV, and sound equipment that wouldn’t have disgraced a recording studio.
‘Wow,’ she said at last, since he seemed to be waiting for her response.
‘Thank heavens,’ he said with relief. ‘I was afraid you were going to go with “nice” again.’
‘Oh, you’ve moved way past “nice” here,’ she assured him. ‘How do you afford a place like this? What is it you do?’
‘Property search.’
‘Oh, I’ve read about that. That must be interesting.’ Forgetting she was out of a job, Jenna was automatically thinking how it would be a good subject for a feature. She shook herself. ‘But does it really pay that well? Or are you a drug dealer or gun runner on the side?’
‘None of the above. My dad’s rich,’ he said simply. ‘And given that his business is construction and property development, it wouldn’t look good if his son had anything but the best apartment in St George’s, now, would it?’
She was remembering that day in Belminster. ‘Beale Cartwright? That office I saw you coming out of? I assumed it was a firm of solicitors. Your father owns it?’
‘Most of it. Uncle Ben owns a quarter. Ben Cartwright. He’s no relation, but when we were kids we called him Uncle Ben and it sort of stuck. He’s nice. Dad can be a bit of a tartar, so it’s good to have a soft touch to appeal to.’
‘But if your dad gave you this amazing flat, he must be pretty nice, too.’
‘Well, partly I earned it. Commission, sort of.’
‘Oh, you do the property search thing for the company? I was imagining you searching for rich couples getting out of the Smoke.’ She looked around. ‘Well, if this was commission, I dread to think what the property was like that you found. Must have been a palace, at least.’
He looked embarrassed, and his eyes slid away. ‘It’s not really like that. Doesn’t work that way. Anyway –’ with a burst of what seemed like self-justification – ‘it’s not all roses. I don’t have the penthouse completely to myself.’
‘Don’t tell me Caroline lives here too!’ Jenna said.
‘God, no. But Dad and Uncle Ben have dibs on the place, if they have posh clients they want to put up, or do a favour for. I have to move out and sleep in my old room back home. It’s a nuisance, but . . .’ He shrugged.
‘Poor little rich boy,’ she teased. ‘What about that coffee you promised me?’
‘Oh, bother coffee,’ he said, stepping close. ‘Anyway, as I remember, it was a drink that was discussed.’
‘Was it?’ He was very close now, and her nerve endings were quivering.
‘To the best of my recollection,’ he said, putting his arms round her. And then they were kissing.
Delightful smell of warm, clean man, delightful feeling of strong arms and nice lean body. His lips were warm, his breath sweet, and he kissed really well, not mashing her lips against her teeth or jabbing a tongue like a poker into her tonsils like some. The kiss prolonged itself, and she felt herself melting into it, revelling in the taste of a man after weeks of famine (and it was a long time, anyway, since Patrick had kissed her like this). Their tongues arced against each other and she felt him growing hard against her, felt the automatic response in her body. Then he moved one hand upwards from her hip to cup her breast, and it was like a bucket of cold water. Gently, so as not to offend him, but firmly, she disengaged her mouth and pulled back from him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t do this.’
He looked confused. ‘Oi,’ he protested.
She pushed his hands down and stepped back a pace. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I did say no hanky-panky,’ she reminded him.
‘I thought you were enjoying it. It felt as though you were,’ he said in wounded tones.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I didn’t mean to lead you on. And it was nice. You’re a good kisser. But it’s too soon for me. I’m only just out of a long relationship. It was a bad bust-up and it still smarts.’
He smiled beguilingly. ‘All the more reason. Let me soothe those smarts! I promise I won’t ask for a relationship, just meaningless sex. Good for the health, mental and physical.’
She couldn’t help smiling. ‘When I want a therapist, I promise I’ll come to you first. But at the moment, it would be a really, really bad idea. I’m just not ready. Forgive me?’
He shrugged. ‘Forgive? Of course. I’m disappointed, but – hey, them’s the breaks. So, what can I offer you? How about some champagne?’
‘Do you know, it’s dreadful, but I think I would like some,’ she said. ‘It’s this place – makes me feel as if I’m on the set of Dirty Sexy Money.’
‘Oh my God, I hope you’re not casting me as Jeremy!’ He led the way towards the kitchen end, and opened the brushed-steel door of the massive larder fridge.
‘How come you’ve got champagne here all ready, anyway?’ she asked idly, as he extracted a bottle. Vintage Bollinger, she noticed with a mental whistle. Nothing but the best!
‘I told you, Dad puts his business contacts in here when he wants to sweeten them. There’s always champagne, and—’ He stopped, and reddened.
‘And?’ she prompted.
He slipped off the foil and metal cap with expert movements, opened a cupboard and took out two flutes, and then popped the cork soundlessly in the best style.
‘Very impressive,’ she said, watching the champagne slide into the glass. ‘But what was the “and” you baulked at?’
He handed her a glass and looked at her seriously across the rim. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m like them,’ he said. ‘I know I behave flip, but underneath—’
‘You’re a choir boy,’ she finished for him. ‘I knew that from the first moment I saw you. So what’s the “and”?’
‘A collection of pornographic movies,’ he admitted. She burst out laughing, and he looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d be mad,’ he said.
‘Why should I? It’s not your fault. But it’s so – hackneyed!’
‘Tacky,’ he amended.
‘That too. Tell me, is there also a supply of fruit-flavoured condoms? Or do they have to bring their own?’ She tried to drink while still laughing and the bubbles went up her nose, choking her.
He took the glass away from her while she recovered, then gave it back and said, ‘A toast, then – to nice, normal, innocent friendships.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ she agreed, and they touched glasses. ‘To friendship.’
‘You and me contra mundum,’ he added.
‘Well, if necessary,’ she said.
‘It’s a big, bad world out there. It might well be,’ he said solemnly. ‘And now, if I can’t entertain you any other way, how about a tour of the flat?’
&
nbsp; ‘There’s more?’
‘Bedroom and bathroom, of course. And the second bedroom has been kitted out in a particular way.’
He said it with a sly emphasis, and she cocked her head and said, ‘This I must see. Lead me to the second bedroom.’
It was on the other side of the flat, occupying about two thirds as much space as the huge canal-side room. And it wasn’t set up as a bedroom, but as a gym and games room. Jenna looked round with interest. ‘I thought you were going to show me rubber suits and hanging frames with furry shackles.’
‘Would I? Please, how you malign me!’ He set down his glass on a table just inside the room. ‘Now let’s have some fun,’ he said with relish.
There was a large trampoline; rowing, cross-training and weights machines; a treadmill; and a mechanical horse that reproduced the movements of a bucking bronco. ‘That one’s a lot of fun,’ he said. There was a snooker table at one end, a foosball machine, and along the adjacent wall was a selection of arcade pleasures, including pinball.
‘Now that’s what I call exercise,’ Jenna said. ‘I’m a demon at pinball.’
‘No woman can be a demon at pinball,’ he said provocatively.
‘Right, that does it,’ she said, pretending to roll up her sleeves. ‘You are so busted!’
Seventeen
Jenna woke refreshed and energetic after her evening out with Harry, which she counted to his credit. She didn’t mind that he had made a move on her – she’d have been surprised if he hadn’t – but she respected the way he took the rejection. In fact they had had a lot of fun, playing with his boy’s toys. It was almost like being with a brother. She thought he enjoyed it too – he must have had a lonely childhood, with his mother dying so young, and a string of ‘housekeepers’ to bring him up until he was old enough to be packed off to school. Then when he finally got a sister, it was the Ice Queen.
Harry had told her quite a lot about Caroline in the course of their pinball tournament (she won) and several games of foosball (played to salve his dignity, because he beat her zillions-to-nil every time). As a result she, too, was puzzled as to what Caroline saw in Xander, and was forced to conclude that perhaps she really loved him. Her previous amours had all been rich, powerful and influential men and generally quite a bit older than her (Harry referred to them as ‘uncles’). Searching for a father figure, Jenna supposed. Maybe, then, Xander was a sign that she was growing out of it at last and was ready to engage with the real world.
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