by Shari Low
By nine o’clock, after a terse phone call from Graham complaining that he’d had to leave work to collect Oscar from chess club (welcome to my world, she wanted to say), then another one asking if she’d sorted out the travel arrangements for Gstaad (she had), three calls to Oscar, checking he had everything he needed for the next day at school, a room service club sandwich, Marina had cracked open the minibar wine and poured a much-deserved glass.
This would be worth it. It would. When Annabelle had been accepted to the school, when she’d then used that training to go on to a glittering career on the stage, it would all be worth it. She would be the best, and Marina would support and encourage her every pirouette of the way.
The phone rang at five minutes past nine and Geraldine Holten’s plummy vowels assaulted her ears. ‘Marina, darling, the girls are fast asleep. They practised for a couple of hours and then just conked out. Do you want me to wake Annabelle? She looks so settled.’
Marina could feel her teeth grinding together with annoyance. Bloody typical. If she woke Annabelle now, who knows when she’d get back to sleep. She’d been outmanoeuvered by a twelve year old and a rival mother and it stung. ‘No, that’s fine, Geraldine, let her sleep. Send her along in the morning when she wakes up.’
‘Yes, I think that’s best. Goodnight, dear.’
Marina had disconnected the call and tossed her phone on the bed with a furious sigh and a discontentment that wouldn’t budge, especially after another call from Graham to remind her to order flowers for his mother’s birthday. What was she – a mother and wife, or a personal assistant and skivvy?
It was just after 10 p.m. when she’d switched off some trash TV programme starring a lot of tanned people with very big white teeth and decided to pour another glass of wine, only to find that she’d somehow managed to empty the half-bottle in the minibar. Call room service or break the monotony by going down to the bar and picking one up herself?
Pulling a black cashmere cardigan over her jeans and white T-shirt, she’d slipped on her Prada trainers and headed downstairs to the opulent lounge on the ground floor. She’d come here with Graham once, before the kids, when they were still in the giddy stages of love. They’d drank champagne, then headed upstairs and made love until it was daylight outside.
A shiver of something had passed through her as she climbed on to an ivory leather bar stool. Sadness? Regret? Loss? Maybe all of the above. Sure, she had security and comfort now, but at what cost? When had her life become one long list of mundane tasks and organisation for other people? When had she become the type of person who would feel her blood pressure rising about a twelve year old’s low grade or the fact that non-organic bread was delivered by mistake? When had she made everyone else the priority? When had her life stopped mattering?
The barman, the kind of twenty-five year old, square jawed, attractive guy who probably modelled part-time and was called something like… she peered at his name badge… yep, Zac, gave her a warm, well-practised, tip-earning smile.
She was about to ask for a bottle to go, when she’d had a sudden feeling of independence. How long was it since she’d sat in a bar and been a grown-up? Since she’d actually been in her own world and not stressing about everyone else’s? It felt… wonderfully liberating.
‘A large glass of Merlot, please.’
He’d delivered it with the kind of smile that belonged on the trash TV programme she’d been watching twenty minutes ago. Wow, he was gorgeous. And damn, what was that stirring in her lower regions that hadn’t been stirred or shaken in a long, long time?
The bar was quiet, just a few people scattered around on the plush red velvet sofas, some obviously work colleagues in groups, and two other tables occupied by the kind of couples who look far too into each other to be picking up socks and discussing wedding anniversaries.
Another feeling of freedom had flushed to the outside of her skin. A thrill. A decadence. There she was, across from a gorgeous man, in a beautiful room, and not a soul knew who she was.
One glass had turned to two, then three. Zac’s brilliant white smile came closer to her face as he chatted to her. Marina found herself leaning in, and not because she was struggling to hear him.
They’d talked, they’d flirted and the whole time, cells of her body that had lain dormant for way too long, pinged back to life in such numbers that they formed some kind of rebellion, storming down a path that Marina, the wife, the mother, the organiser, the supporter, hadn’t been down in way too long. It transpired that she was right about the part-time modelling and wrong about the age – at twenty-eight, he was only seven years younger than her.
It was way past midnight when Marina had realised they were the only people left in the room. It was immediately sobering. This poor guy must have been humouring her because she was a paying customer, when really he wanted to finish up for the night.
‘Shit, I’m sorry. You must be desperate to get out of here.’
‘I am,’ he said.
Bugger. She’d definitely outstayed her welcome, even if it had been fun while it lasted.
That’s when it happened. She’d realised he was still staring at her, a gorgeous, sexy grin on his face.
‘But only because I have a room upstairs. They provide them for the bar staff when they’re going from a late shift to an early shift.’
He didn’t say it, but there was no mistaking the question written across his beautiful face. No. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t. Wouldn’t…
Something Zoe had said at Christmas came back to her, a glib comment about Marina being the least likely of them all to pick up a stranger in a bar. That was enough to stage the final charge of the rebellion.
She’d picked up her glass, and the cashmere cardigan that had been discarded over the back of her bar chair, and said – oh, the mortification of the memory – ‘I think I’d like to see that.’
Now, twenty hours later, only the sound of her tyres crunching to a halt outside Gino’s restaurant stopped the replay of the previous night. Thank God. If it had kept going, she’d have relived going up to his room, feeling the most delicious thrill as he undressed her, and then many hours of the kind of ferocious, intoxicating, orgasmic sex that had been stuck somewhere in her distant memory. She’d also have relived a frantic return to her room that morning, a guilt-soaked shower, the return of Annabelle – clearly shocked that her mother didn’t even chide her for the obvious stunt of manipulation the night before – and then a whole day spent in an emotional pendulum that swung between shock and panic, with just a brief pause at happiness when Annabelle was awarded a place at the school for the following year.
Right now, unbelievably, given that it had been their focus for years, that was the least important thing on her mind.
Yvie was so busy chatting to Carlo, she didn’t even register her until she slipped into the seat across from her and stretched across Yvie’s bowl of penne to give her a hug. Carlo went off in search of a Diet Coke, pretending not to be shocked that she wasn’t ordering her usual Merlot.
‘You rescued me!’ Yvie exclaimed, her beaming expression warm as ever. She really was one of those people who radiated happiness. Marina felt a tug of jealousy – how great it would be to feel that carefree and content. ‘Verity stood me up – twice actually – and I was facing a night of looking like Nobby No Mates, comfort-eating my pasta.’
Marina took a deep breath, completely unaccustomed to a situation which – for once – she had absolutely no control over.
‘Actually, I need you to rescue me,’ she said, watching as Yvie’s face remodelled to reflect her confusion. Marina couldn’t recall when she’d ever asked any of her siblings for anything.
Yvie put her fork down. ‘Really? Okay, shoot. You know I’ll do whatever you need.’
‘Erm. So. Well…’ The words were stuck in her windpipe until she performed the exasperated, panicked equivalent of a self-Heimlich and blurted them out.
‘I need you to get me the
morning-after pill.’
11
The Four Sisters – Present Day: Sunday, 2 p.m.
It is like one of those scenes in a sci-fi movie where some galactic evil force has attacked the good guys’ spaceship with a super-weapon that freezes them in time. All three of my sisters are absolutely still, staring at me, jaws dropped, eyes wide with questions.
As always, it is Marina who lays her sushi on the coffee table and cuts to the point first.
‘What the hell are you talking about? Is this some kind of joke?’
Right now, there is nothing I am wishing for more. ‘The room that Ned was… was…’ Come on, say it, I tell myself. ‘… Shagging someone else in, was paid for with a credit card in the name of Ms Dalton. I don’t understand. The obvious explanation is that…’ I stop. Unable to say it again. We don’t get on all the time. We have our differences. God knows, we drive each other nuts sometimes. But I honestly can’t believe that one of them would do this to me. My brain, however, is zipping ahead of me, coming up with odds, and probabilities, and suggestions and, eeeew, get that mental image out of my mind.
The fact remains that there are only four options for a credit card in that name and one of them is mine. And I know exactly where my credit card was that night, and it was nowhere near the room in which my husband was energetically abandoning the concept of monogamy.
If this were a dodgy Hollywood detective show, they’d look at who had the strongest motive. That one is easy. One of my sisters definitely comes up as suspect number one on that list. Although, I just wish I’d known that from the start, instead of finding out when the damage was already done…
12
Zoe – Easter Sunday. Three months after meeting Ned
‘Good morning, gorgeous,’ Ned murmured, as his body wrapped around Zoe’s, his hand settling on her naked stomach, warm from the heat of her thick white duvet. ‘You look deep in thought there. Hope it’s about me.’
She was glad the blackout blinds were keeping her face in shadow, so he wouldn’t see the glimmer of panic, before she made a quick recovery with, ‘Nope, I was thinking about Brad Pitt. He’s been calling me three times a day. Won’t take the hint.’
Ned nuzzled sleepily into the concave of her neck. ‘I don’t blame him.’
Holding her breath, Zoe stayed perfectly still, hoping he’d go back to sleep. He’d got into a routine of staying over at her flat after they’d been out at the weekends and he liked to make love when they woke up in the morning. It was usually Zoe’s favourite part of the day, but not today.
Today, on Easter Sunday, her mind was consumed with Tom. They’d been supposed to fly out this morning on a two week all-inclusive break to Mauritius, a holiday that was booked last November, a month before his ex, Chrissie, came back and reclaimed his heart. Instead, they’d cancelled the trip, and he was probably curled up in bed with her right now, making love and…
No. She blocked the thought. The last thing she needed in her life was a mental image of Tom being naked with someone who wasn’t her.
It wasn’t just the holiday or Tom’s body she missed. It was still everything. His laugh, his voice, his touch. And it was made all the harder by the fact that she saw him every single day at work. They were friends. They genuinely were. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t give anything for things to be different.
Things with Ned were going well, but he wasn’t Tom. She just hoped this was like a seesaw – at some point the balance shifted and the ache of losing one person was superseded by growing feelings for someone else.
She gave herself a mental shake. Enough of this. Self-pity and moping weren’t in her nature. Time to stop wallowing and start enjoying the day. Later she was having lunch with her family. But right now she had a wildly attractive man lying next to her and it was time to appreciate that. Her hand hadn’t even made it to Ned’s gorgeous tight buttocks when she heard her front door opening and closing, followed by, ‘It’s me. If you’re doing something indecent, stop it right now because it’ll scar me for life if I see it.’
Zoe immediately slipped several notches up the happiness scale at the sound of her sister’s voice. Clambering out of bed, she pulled her black silk robe from the back of the door and wandered into the kitchen.
‘There should be some kind of punishment for looking that good in the morning,’ Yvie commented, through a disapproving purse of the lips. ‘I wake up looking like someone has rearranged my face and set off some kind of explosion in my hair during the night.’
Zoe hugged her, laughing. ‘No, you don’t. You’re permanently gorgeous.’ She pulled back. ‘Hey, what’s with the scrubs? I thought you had today off? Do NOT leave me with Marina and Verity. I don’t have the emotional reserves to survive a whole afternoon of judgement.’
Yvie flipped open a clear carton containing a ‘tear and share’ cinnamon roll and broke a chunk off. ‘I hear ya, sista. I’m eating my feelings and it’s not even ten o’clock.’ She returned to Zoe’s question. ‘And I’ll be there, but I just have to nip into work for a few hours first. They called to say they’re short-staffed and need help. I’ll be at the hotel for the kick-off at two, so you just have to get through pre-lunch small talk and you’ll be fine.’
The last words were shouted over the noise of Zoe’s Dolce Gusto machine as it delivered a large cup of fuel. She handed it to Yvie, then brewed another for herself.
‘Anyway, I just wanted to drop these off, because I’ll be coming straight from the hospital and don’t trust myself not to crack them open to get me through the shift,’ she said, pointing to a large box of Easter eggs on the counter top. Every year, they took it in turn to buy an egg for everyone in the family and this year the task had fallen to Yvie.
She took a large swig of her latte and then laid it down on the black granite worktop.
‘Right, I’d better be going. I’ll see you lat—’ The word drifted off, as Yvie’s eyes swivelled to land on Ned, who was walking into the room wearing just a pair of white Calvin Klein’s.
Zoe watched in astonishment as her sister visibly squirmed with embarrassment.
‘Jesus, what’s up with you? You’re a woman that gives people bed baths!’ Zoe teased her.
‘I’m only unflappable with the over-seventy age group,’ Yvie quipped, recovering. ‘Anyway, better go.’ She grabbed another chunk of cake for the road. ‘Hi, Ned,’ she murmured as she passed him.
Zoe padded behind her, across the gloss oak floor towards the door. ‘Listen, just one thing. Any idea why Verity is being completely weird with me just now? It’s like she’s permanently pissed off with me and I’ve no idea what I’ve done.’
‘Nope,’ Yvie replied, but it was way too quick and Zoe could have spotted the fib with her eyes shut.
‘Yvie?’ she asked, in a sing-song, I-know-you’re-lying tone.
‘I’m saying nothing. Sort it out yourself.’
‘So there is something!’ Zoe said, triumphantly.
Eyes wide, Yvie popped another chunk of cinnamon roll in her mouth to deter further speech, gave Zoe a wave and bolted out of the door.
Back in the kitchen, Ned came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. ‘What was all that about?’ Each word was punctuated by kisses that worked their way along the line of her shoulder.
‘I’m trying to get Yvie to spill why Verity is pissed off with me. There’s definitely something going on. Is she okay with you in school? Has she said anything?’
His hair, already going in sixteen different directions, flopped over his forehead as he shook his head. ‘Not a thing. But then, she was never exactly chatty.’
Zoe twisted around so that she was facing him, chest to chest. ‘This is very true. But given that you have the emotional perception of, say, what’s left of that cinnamon roll, do you think you’d have noticed if she was off with you?’
Ned lifted her up so she was sitting on the worktop, narrowly missing squashing said cinnamon roll. ‘Fair point and the an
swer is probably no, I wouldn’t have noticed. The only thing that was strange though was…’ He paused, and Zoe could almost see the cogs of his brain turning. ‘She told me a whole load of nonsense about the type of guys you’d been with in the past.’
That got Zoe’s attention. ‘Like what?’
‘Well, she said that you only went for guys who were loaded, who flew first class, drove flash cars. She said that was the kind of stuff that you needed. Weird. Didn’t you say the guy before Tom was a…’
‘Plumber,’ she confirmed, almost absent-mindedly as she focussed on the real issue here. What the hell was going on with Verity? Why would she say stuff like that? They’d had their squabbles over the years, but surely sabotaging relationships took things to a whole new level? This didn’t make sense at all.
Only the delicious feeling of Ned’s hands wandering up inside her robe made her lose her train of thought.
‘Can I distract you with meaningless sex instead of discussing this further?’ he asked.
In the choice between pondering over a problem or enjoying the moment, there was no contest. She’d worry about the Verity issue later. Right now, she would return her boyfriend’s kisses and succumb to the absolutely blissful feelings that his hands were delivering. ‘Absolutely. You should definitely play to your strengths.’
For the next hour, all thoughts of Verity and Tom were banished by the kind of Sunday morning encounter that burns off calories while naked. It was followed up with a bath for two, and then an hour spent reluctantly getting ready to face the world. At exactly two o’clock, with Ned now carrying the large box of Easter eggs, they walked through the sliding doors of the Kemp Hotel.
The Kemp Hotel Group was Zoe’s favourite client. A chain of five luxury hotels in Glasgow, Manchester, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and – randomly – Ibiza, owned by Roger Kemp, a lifelong hotelier who had learned his craft in the elite corridors of London’s Dorchester and Savoy, and the George V in Paris. Working class Glaswegian by birth, Roger had returned to his home city at the age of thirty and in the last ten years had built up a chain of hotels that were technologically advanced, hip, trendy and uber-cool – all brand messages that were enhanced on TV, radio and in the press, by his marketing team at The B Agency.