Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  She hadn’t sent Ed any sort of Christmas message. And now she wondered if she should have done. He must be feeling dreadful, banged up with all the other inmates, institutional jollity forced upon them in the guise of soggy sprouts and paper hats. But then, she reminded herself, he was the reason she was stuck in exile. If it wasn’t for Fitch and his kindness, she’d be on her own with nothing but her radio for company.

  She turned away from the window sharply. She wasn’t going to waste any more time feeling sympathy for Ed, especially when he had so adroitly turned the tables on her. Instead, she was going to enjoy the day with her new friends. She ran down to the kitchen, made herself a pot of tea, then packed up a basket with the things she had been going to take up to Gussie as an offering: local cheeses wrapped up in greaseproof paper, smoked trout, a huge pork pie and some jars of chutney, and a bag of handmade chocolates. She scooped up the clockwork snails she had bought as stocking fillers for Gussie’s four children and wrapped them in some white tissue paper, tying them with a length of velvet ribbon. They might provide a bit of light relief later in the afternoon.

  Then she ran back upstairs to have a hot bath. She put on a short cream wool kilt and a cream cashmere sweater. She blow-dried her hair properly and realised it had grown quite a bit. She put her pale butter-scotch suede boots in the top of her basket of goodies and slipped on the wellingtons she had finally managed to acquire as they were a total necessity in Withybrook, then headed out of the door to pick her way carefully down the road among the snowflakes.

  Catkin sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed, staring at her BlackBerry.

  She had phoned every mainline train station, every cab firm, and had even, in a moment of madness, contemplated a helicopter, but the bottom line was there was no way out of London. And now, if she wasn’t going to spend the day alone in her flat with whatever was available in the corner shop, she was going to have to take Martin Galt up on his invitation.

  He had been at yesterday’s party: Christmas drinks thrown by the producer of Hello, England, a typical media free-for-all with drink flowing like the Thames and the odd canapé which everyone ignored. She had panicked when she’d seen him, but he had been more than friendly. Obviously Sebastian’s appalling behaviour hadn’t prejudiced him against her.

  ‘Why haven’t you been in touch?’ he chided.

  ‘Why haven’t you?’ she countered bravely, then wished she hadn’t been so bold, because he was a man who loved a challenge and she’d seen a glint of more than just amusement in his eye.

  ‘If you’re still stuck here tomorrow,’ he’d murmured, ‘I’ve got a table at Claridge’s. There’s a few of us going. Inge’s up in Scotland - I’m not even going to try to get there.’

  She’d nodded politely, certain at the time that by morning the snow would have melted and she would be on her way back down to Withybrook, but as she had made her way home, dizzy with too much cheap Sauvignon Blanc, more snow had fallen, sealing her fate.

  Claridge’s it was.

  She phoned Sebastian.

  ‘Happy Christmas, darling,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I’m so sorry. There’s absolutely no way I’m going to get down.’

  ‘What are you going to do, then?’ he asked.

  ‘Um - there’s a gang of us going to Claridge’s.’

  ‘Very nice,’ he replied mildly. ‘I’ve been asked to lunch in the village. With Fitch - the stonemason? Penny and Charlotte will be there.’

  ‘All the losers, you mean?’ The words came out before she could stop herself, a little bit of her cross that he didn’t sound as bereft as he might have done.

  ‘Well, all the ones that aren’t as lucky as we are,’ replied Sebastian drily. ‘Who are you going with?’

  She named a few people that he may or may not have heard of. ‘Oh, and Martin Galt,’ she added, as if the name was of no consequence.

  Sebastian’s response was quite robust. ‘That tit?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Rather you than me.’

  ‘It’s either that or sit in the flat with Pot Noodles.’ Catkin felt the need to defend her decision. ‘Anyway, have a lovely day. I’ll try to call you later.’

  She rang off, then dialled Martin’s number.

  ‘Martin, it’s Catkin Turner. Merry Christmas. And if your invitation still stands, I’d love to come to lunch . . .’

  Two hundred miles down the road, Sebastian chucked the phone back on its cradle, unsettled. Catkin wasn’t the sort of girl to let a bit of snow stop her. She obviously had better fish to fry, like that slimy Armani-clad producer. She couldn’t take a day off networking, not even on Christmas Day, he thought gloomily. He couldn’t help noticing how casually she’d slipped Martin’s name into the conversation, as if Sebastian wouldn’t notice. He hoped she’d be careful. He trusted Catkin - at least he thought he did - but he didn’t trust Martin one bit.

  Well, he wasn’t going to let it spoil his day. He went looking for some wrapping paper - he’d drawn each of them a little picture of Withybrook the night before. They could chuck them in the bin if they wanted, but he couldn’t turn up empty-handed.

  Fitch got up early on Christmas morning to put the turkey in the Aga. He’d collected it from Penny’s house the night before, lugging it home and leaving it on the work top to come up to room temperature overnight, making sure it was safely out of Dido’s reach. He hadn’t cooked Christmas dinner before - they had always gone up to Hayley’s parents’ - but he reasoned it was no harder than a roast, which he was used to doing. He cobbled together a stuffing by defrosting some sausages and squeezing out the insides, then mixing the sausage meat up with onions and some dried apricots and pecan nuts he found in the cupboard. Not exactly Gordon Ramsay, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

  He had tried to make the house as festive as possible for when Jade and Amber got back. There was a tree with twinkling lights, and paper-chains, and Christmas cards perched on every available surface. He wanted it to feel atmospheric for their return, so they didn’t feel cheated of a traditional English Christmas. Though they probably wouldn’t, he thought glumly. He personally couldn’t think of anything worse than Christmas in a Dubai hotel, but no doubt they were having the time of their lives with Kirk’s bottomless wallet to pander to their every whim.

  Fitch tried not to wonder what they might be doing as he peeled the potatoes. Hayley had promised that she would get them to phone at some point during the day, but he was more than used to her not keeping her word. He knew the girls would want to speak to him, but Hayley was quite capable of fobbing them off by saying the phone wasn’t working. Though no doubt Kirk’s state-of-the-art phone would be able to get through to the moon if he so desired it. He imagined that Hayley would be making full use of the hotel children’s club so she could lounge about by the pool or in the spa. Or in the bedroom. He hoped she and Kirk weren’t demonstrating their affection for each other too openly. He shuddered as he imagined the man’s hands straying over Hayley’s fulsome breasts. Please let them have the decency to keep it to the privacy of their own room, he prayed.

  Penny was the first guest to arrive, pink-cheeked from the cold and looking stunning in a short red sweater dress that showed off her long legs and rangy figure. It felt strange welcoming her into the house as a visitor. Fitch had been to the surgery with the girls on a number of occasions, so he knew Penny quite well, but he still felt slightly awkward, and he could see she felt a little on edge. She was so warm and reassuring in the surgery, but today she was out of her comfort zone.

  ‘This is so weird,’ she said, putting down a big box on his work surface. ‘I’ve never spent Christmas without the children . . .’

  ‘Nor me,’ agreed Fitch, and they shared a rueful smile, neither one wanting to admit quite how much it hurt.

  ‘Bill won’t be at all prepared,’ she went on. ‘He won’t have crackers, or chipolatas, or stuff for their stockings . . .’

  She felt tears sting her eyes.
Tom and Megan might pretend to be all grown-up and not care, but they were still children at heart.

  ‘Hey,’ said Fitch. ‘They’ll survive, you know. And it’s not like it’s your fault. You didn’t make it snow.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Penny, but she still couldn’t help thinking of her children trying to have fun with Bill and his po-faced girlfriend, whose nose would be right out of joint.

  Luckily Sebastian arrived at that point with a half-case of vintage champagne, and by the time Charlotte arrived five minutes later, the first cork had already been popped. And actually, because they only had themselves to please and it had been an impromptu arrangement, there were none of the usual tensions and expectations and crises that Christmas heralded. Everyone mucked in. Penny laid the table, while Charlotte prepared canapés with her smoked trout. Sebastian lit a roaring fire and kept everyone’s glasses topped up, then rifled through Fitch’s music collection before putting on the Beach Boys.

  ‘It’s happy music. I defy you not to be happy while the Beach Boys are on,’ he explained, defending his choice, and after a while everyone had to admit it was strangely appropriate as it lifted their mood and made them dance around the kitchen. By two o’clock, when the turkey was dragged ceremoniously from the Aga to a round of applause, they had all drunk the best part of a bottle of champagne each and had forgotten their woes.

  As dusk fell, the uproariousness of lunch subsided into a sleepy, post-prandial slump. Resplendent in their gold crowns, they all took up a position in front of the telly, dozing off in the warmth of the fire, the girls clutching Baileys, the boys Remy Martin.

  Sebastian watched Charlotte hungrily from across the room as her lashes fell onto her cheek and Fitch gently removed the glass from her hand. He wanted to observe her at close quarters, drink in her every nuance, commit every little detail to memory. He watched as she fell against Fitch’s broad shoulder and snuggled instinctively into his arm. Were they sleeping together? Sebastian wondered. And if so, was he jealous? Surprisingly not. He just hoped that if they were, Fitch would be careful with her. She was so fragile. It wouldn’t take much for her to crumble, Sebastian knew.

  She was the antithesis of Catkin. Tough, calculating Catkin, who despite her promises hadn’t called him back, and when he’d called her BlackBerry had gone straight to voicemail. Was she really too busy hobnobbing and brown-nosing to bother? Was she, even now, bubbling and sparkling for the hideous Martin Galt? His heart gave a little lurch. He had always felt safe in the knowledge that he was the most important person in Catkin’s life. But perhaps not. He remembered the look she had given Martin Galt when he had walked in on them, open invitation in her eyes. Maybe she was more than capable of sleeping with another man to further her career, and he’d been a fool not to realise it.

  He let his imagination run on. He pictured Martin and Catkin alone at a table for two in Claridge’s - not part of a big party, as she’d claimed. The empty glasses, the meaningful glances, the walk upstairs to the room the slimy bastard had already booked . . .

  Sebastian took another swig of Remy and realised that he was in danger of becoming maudlin. So when Penny stretched and yawned and declared it was time she went, Sebastian jumped to his feet and offered to walk her home. They said their farewells quietly to Fitch, not wanting to wake Charlotte who was still tucked under his arm, Dido on her other side resting her chin on her lap.

  They stepped out into the stillness of the high street. Penny stumbled on the icy pavement and Sebastian put out a hand to steady her, then slipped his arm into hers. It was a gentlemanly gesture, reminiscent of another age.

  ‘Don’t want you falling and breaking an ankle. I know for a fact the local doctor’s completely sozzled,’ he joked.

  They walked up the street arm in arm, like a Regency couple taking a promenade. She swayed against him every now and then. He slid an arm round her waist, and she felt her pulse quicken as his fingers stroked her hip gently. They arrived at her cottage and stood under the street lamp, bathed in its golden glow as snowflakes drifted lazily past them. It was like being in a snow-globe, thought Penny dreamily, as Sebastian tilted up her chin with his forefinger and kissed her. She had longed for this moment so many times, since the first time he had kissed her in the very same place.

  ‘Come in with me,’ she murmured. ‘Keep me warm.’

  This time, he didn’t demur. She led him by the hand up the garden path, fumbled for a moment with the lock, then drew him inside the door. Dropping her coat to the floor, she led him up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Never in a million years had she guessed that Christmas Day would make her dream come true. This was the best present ever. The man she had fantasised about all this time, in her bed. Little did he know how many times she had rehearsed this moment, lying between the sheets, bringing herself to the brink of ecstasy again and again, whispering his name in the dark. And now it was going to happen for real.

  He was taking off his clothes, stumbling slightly in the gloom - she had only switched on the bedside lamp, not wanting him to view her imperfections. She slid out of her dress, letting it fall symbolically on top of his pile, and stood before him in her underwear.

  He groped for her, feeling for her breasts. They fell back onto the bed. She wanted to kiss him, but he was eager to get on with the job in hand, pulling at her knickers. Never mind, she thought. He was obviously overcome with desire and couldn’t wait. They could have a quick, frenzied fuck to get it out of their system, then spend the rest of the night exploring each other’s bodies at leisure.

  He rolled on top of her, pushing her legs apart with his knee, insinuating himself into the optimum position as he entered her.

  ‘Hey,’ she whispered. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  But he was in no mood to slow down. Suddenly he gave a small, guttural groan and slumped on top of her. She lay for a moment feeling the rapid beat of his heart on her chest. She felt filled with desolation and disappointment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. It was like going to bed with some randy, selfish teenager who had no idea that sex was a two-way street. She shifted uncomfortably under him, and realised he had gone to sleep. She suddenly felt angry: with Sebastian, for being so inconsiderate; with Bill, for leaving her so vulnerable, and with herself, for being a silly, obsessive middle-aged woman with a crush on a boy who didn’t have the means to satisfy her.

  She prodded his back. ‘You’d better go.’

  But he showed no signs of waking. He was out for the count. She managed to push him off her. He rolled onto his back and carried on sleeping, oblivious. Once she would have given anything to have him lying naked next to her. She would have lain there, feasting hers eyes on his body, that mouth whose lips she craved, that lean torso. Now, she just wanted to get away.

  She left the room and slipped into her daughter’s bed. She savoured the smell of innocence in Megan’s room - the freshly laundered sheets she’d changed as soon as the children had left for Bill’s, the J-Lo perfume she had bought her just before Christmas to wear to the school disco, the strawberry-scented candles that lined her window sill. God, thought Penny, as she lay there willing sleep to come. What wouldn’t she give to have her time all over again, so she could do it right?

  It was nearly midnight when Charlotte woke. She looked up, blinking, into Fitch’s kind face smiling down at her.

  ‘What’s the time?’ she murmured sleepily.

  ‘Nearly twelve.’

  She rubbed her eyes, then leaned back. His arm was still around her - he had sat still for the past two hours so as not to disturb her. She leaned her head on his shoulder and gave a contented little sigh, then slipped a hand around his waist.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely day,’ she said dreamily.

  They sat curled up together for what felt like a lifetime. Then Fitch lifted a hand to stroke her blonde curls gently, and she nuzzled against him, enjoying the contact. She turned her face to look at him, eyes wide with anticipation, and he bent his head
to kiss her. Just one gentle, tiny kiss that could, at a push, be interpreted as a gesture of affection between friends. Their eyes locked in the moments that followed, uncertainty hanging in the air, and then she raised her face and kissed him again, only this time it wasn’t the kiss of mere friends.

  He tasted of brandy and Terry’s Chocolate Orange. Quite, quite delicious.

  She felt his large hands circling her ribcage as he pulled her towards him. She put up her hands and twisted her fingers in his hair. It was surprisingly silky. His mouth was brushing her ear, and she shivered in delight. She tipped back her head, and as his lips traced their way over her throat she felt the pulse in her neck double, triple in time. Then they were kissing again, slow, slow, languorous, deliberate kisses that made her melt. She pulled him into her, wanting to feel the weight of a man’s body on her, revelling in his masculinity. It seemed only natural that they should roll off the sofa and onto the rug in front of the fire. He slid his hands under the softness of her sweater, and she relished the warmth of his fingertips, shivering as they danced lightly over the surface of her skin.