* * *
Nick. We’re finished. You know why. Don’t bother coming home because you’ll find you no longer have a key. I’m keeping the house and have closed the joint account. Consider it compensation for the hell you’ve put me through. If you want to fight me for it, I’ll see you in court.
* * *
Needless to say, Nick hadn’t waged war to keep anything. It transpired that the second Mrs Green had paid the lion’s share of the marital home because of Nick not having much in the way of spare dosh after his first divorce. The original Mrs Green had been allowed to keep her marital home because there were two young children, and the house had formed part of her divorce settlement. Afterwards, there had been steep monthly maintenance payments for two daughters, both of whom were in private schools, had ponies, enjoyed ballet lessons, had violin tutors, belonged to a weekly swim club, and outgrew children’s designer clothes faster than you could say Dolce & Gabbana.
Starting again – again again – had initially seen Nick looking very stony-faced, but he’d quickly rallied and got on with his lot. Fortunately, there had been no children with the second Mrs Green, so there were no maintenance payments to make. She’d taken what she wanted at the time of disposing of him. Nick had spent the first few days in the hotel whilst quickly sorting out the next stage of his life – renting a bachelor pad. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed strange when he’d asked me to accompany him on a few viewings, to give an opinion, and simply keep him company. Afterwards, it had seemed perfectly natural to walk across the road to that invitingly cosy restaurant and have dinner together.
When Nick had finally made a decision about which property he wanted and picked up a set of keys from the lettings agent, he’d been overjoyed.
‘I’ve moved on,’ he said, ‘and now I need to move in. The only trouble is, I don’t have any furniture. Fancy coming out with me after work and helping me choose stuff?’
Was he kidding? I didn’t need asking twice! My backside was off my typist’s chair and sitting in the leather bucket seat of his sports car quicker than Lewis Hamilton completing a circuit at Brands Hatch. There was something marvellously couple-like about going shopping for furniture together. I knew it was Nick having a spending spree for his top floor abode for one, but the shop assistants didn’t. It gave me a secret thrill when they bantered with the good-looking man and the young pretty girl standing shyly by his side.
‘Oh no, you’re not going to let him buy a big black leather settee are you, love?’ said the guy in the furniture department. ‘Aren’t you going to march him off to Laura Ashley and choose something twee covered in spriggy stuff?’
It was the same when Nick ordered a sixty-five-inch flat screen TV for the living room.
‘Don’t forget your lovely missus here, Sir,’ said the salesman in Electricals. ‘She’ll want her own wall-mounted telly in the kitchen while she’s cooking your supper. We can’t have you missing Corrie, can we, darlin’?’
We’d all laughed, and I’d inwardly glowed, basking in the assumption that we were an item. After all, what was wrong with pretending and indulging in a little more make-believe, when most of the time I wasn’t in the real world anyway.
When we’d strolled into the bed showroom, I’d salivated at the sight of an elegant four-poster with an overstuffed mattress that looked like something out of ‘The Princess and the Pea’ fairy tale, whereas Nick had headed straight for a black leather sleigh bed practically the size of a football pitch.
‘You’ll need acres of bedding if you buy this one,’ I cautiously advised.
‘I absolutely have to have loads of space in a bed, Hattie,’ he replied. ‘There’s nothing worse than turning over and finding yourself tumbling onto the floor, or flipping the other way and having a nose-to-nose encounter with your bedfellow who, prior to snuggling under the covers, had minty-fresh breath but, at four in the morning, reminds you of your parents’ dog’s halitosis.’
I’d giggled, immediately imagining myself lying by Nick’s side, spooning dead centre in this massive bed, a huge expanse of mattress to the left and right, with a discreet Gold Spot spray on the bedside table to avoid early-morning kisses reminding him of Shep’s breath.
From there we’d chosen bedding, towels, a dinner service, cutlery and by the time we’d strolled towards the pay point I’d nearly linked my arm with his, quite forgetting for a split second that we weren’t really a couple at all. Yet, my heart had piped up, much to my head’s despair. Oh yes, make no mistake about it, my brain was working overtime to penetrate the layers of rose-tinted mist obscuring Nick’s faults. Anybody with an ounce of common sense would have told me I was beyond gullible. I did pause briefly – for all of five seconds – to wonder at the sanity of pursuing this attractive older man with a bad-boy history, but my heart swatted such thoughts away as if they were a dirty black cloud spoiling a golden ray of sunshine. I so badly wanted to feel that heat and refused to think about getting burnt. Yes, I had the hots for my boss, but it wasn’t just that. It was love. It had to be. Why else did I want to not just share this man’s life, but also look after him? I’d certainly never felt this way about anyone before.
Everything was duly delivered to the apartment, and Nick properly moved in. On his first night he asked if I’d like to join him there for dinner to celebrate, and also to say thank you for all my help. It was a Saturday evening, and he said he’d cook. He made a complete hash of it, setting off the smoke alarms and stinking out the open-plan kitchen-come-lounge. He’d gone on to order a takeaway and we’d headed off to the bedroom to escape the fug hanging in the air along with the stench of cremated food. We’d sat companionably on the vast bed together, eating, chatting, laughing, perfectly at ease with one another as we’d tucked into our respective curry dishes. He’d even put a piece of chicken tikka on his fork and held it out to me to try.
‘Taste this, Hattie, it’s absolutely delicious.’
Like you, I’d privately thought as I’d leant forward, opening my mouth. He’d popped the morsel between my lips and I’d closed my eyes in ecstasy. Not so much from the taste of the food – which was sublime – but because, somehow, it had seemed like such an intimate gesture… to feed me. I’d immediately reciprocated, spearing a piece of tender lamb and gently placing it on top of his tongue. He’d rolled his eyes appreciatively and declared it wonderful. And then, quite suddenly, we’d lost our appetites. Nick had gazed at me, and whatever I’d been about to say had gone unsaid. He’d given me the sort of look I’d spent so long hoping – indeed praying – for. The look of love. Well… that’s what my heart had whispered. My brain had said something else, blowing lots of frantic whistles and waving red flags, screaming that it was simply lust on Nick’s part, and that this man wouldn’t know the meaning of love if it was parcelled up and delivered to his flat in a John Lewis van. But I didn’t care. If lust was the only thing on offer, then I’d take it. And I did.
As Nick removed the tray of abandoned curry and set it down on a nearby chest of drawers, I’d felt my body thrill at what was coming next. And when he’d pulled me into his arms and we’d tumbled backwards against the new William Morris bedding, there was nothing on my mind other than finally claiming this man and letting his body blend with mine.
We’d spent the entire weekend in bed. It was only when I’d finally tottered home, sated and drunk with love, that I’d realised I’d overlooked something. Or, more to the point, someone. My boyfriend, Martin.
Twenty-Four
‘Where have you been?’ cried my mother, as I walked in through the front door – all starry-eyed – late on Sunday afternoon. ‘Dad and I have been worried. You didn’t even telephone to say you wouldn’t be home. Not very thoughtful of you, Hattie,’ she added, shaking her head.
‘Sorry,’ I grinned, ‘something came up.’ My mind instantly wandered back to the bedroom and smuttily went over exactly what had come up and what had been ripped off.
Mum paused in wiping up the dishes, p
utting down the tea towel to regard me with rather knowing eyes.
‘What’s going on, Hattie?’ she asked quietly. ‘You usually spend your weekends in something of a mood, mooching around the house, getting under my feet, watching re-runs of Bridget Jones getting in a lather over Daniel Cleaver whilst not knowing what to do about Mr Darcy. Which reminds me, Martin rang, asking if we knew your whereabouts. Why didn’t you answer your mobile phone?’
‘Battery died,’ I said, grabbing another tea towel to help with the dishes.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she hissed, flicking the kitchen door shut with her foot so Dad couldn’t hear us chatting.
I feigned surprise. ‘I simply spent the weekend with a friend,’ I replied, vigorously polishing some damp knives and forks.
‘Yes, it’s which friend that’s bothering me,’ she muttered.
‘I had a last-minute invitation to spend time with a pal from the office,’ I shrugged, rattling crockery into the drawer. ‘It’s no big deal.’
‘I see,’ said Mum, opening another drawer and deftly putting away a stack of clean saucepans. ‘And who is this bosom buddy that you had such a great girly time with? Because, let’s be frank, I’ve only ever heard you talk about half a dozen women, all of whom are married with children, and usually beyond weary by half past five in the evening. Indeed, from what you’ve previously told me, they long for the weekend so they can exchange their exhaustion for something else – being frustrated and frazzled as they drag their protesting offspring around the supermarket, nagging their equally knackered husbands into taking part, before doing some compulsory family time at the local park. Which of these women, Hattie, is suddenly your new bestie, hmm?’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, give it a rest, Mum.’ I buried my head in the cupboard as I stacked plates onto a shelf, my hair falling across my face, so Mum couldn’t see my blushes. The trouble with my mother though was that she had an inbuilt lie detector. Jeremy Kyle could have used her on his show and caught out every guilty guest without the need for a polygraph.
‘Don’t lie to me, Hattie.’
See? Told you.
‘I’m not lying to you,’ I replied, ‘I honestly did spend the weekend with someone from the office.’
Mum paused to eye me beadily. ‘Yes, that much is true. But it wasn’t a female, was it?’
I ignored her and carried on with my wiping, cups tinkling together alarmingly as I shoved them onto a shelf.
‘It’s that boss of yours, isn’t it?’ she continued. ‘Don’t think I haven’t had my suspicions about your feelings for him, Hattie. Apart from anything else, ever since you started working for him, you’ve had acute mentionitis. Nick this. Nick that. From everything you’ve told me about him, I think I could go on Mastermind and win with Nicholas Green as my specialist subject, and yet I’ve never met the man.’
I shut the cupboard door and spun round to face her. ‘Yes, okay, it’s my boss. I spent the weekend with Nick. Is that a problem?’
‘Are you mad?’ she demanded. ‘He’s married.’
‘But not for much longer,’ I countered.
‘And he’s been married before,’ she said, ignoring me and sweeping on.
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ I said crossly. ‘It’s no crime to have been married more than once. Celebrities do it all the time.’
‘He’s not a celebrity.’
‘Oh right, so ordinary folk aren’t allowed to cock up a couple of times in their pursuit of true love?’
‘True love?’ Mum sneered, her lip curling with disdain. ‘Is that what this is then, Hattie?’
I opened my mouth to say something but bit back the words. Well, on my part it was true love. Of that I was sure. But I couldn’t speak for Nick. At no point, between giggly tussles under the duvet, had he uttered those three magic words. In fact, when Monday morning rolled around, I just hoped he didn’t call me into his office and tell me that the whole thing had been a small diversion on his part, a bit of fun while he dusted himself off from his last marriage, and that our relationship would immediately revert to a professional one. Was I destined to watch him go off to his meetings leaving me to stroke his desk lamp and furtively sniff the aftershave on the collar of his coat? I could feel my bubble bursting as the doubts set in. Damn my mother for doing this to me.
‘Look, Mum,’ I sighed, ‘I didn’t know anything was going to happen between us.’
‘Oh don’t give me that,’ Mum snorted. ‘You’ve been dripping around this house these last few weeks looking like Cinderella lusting after Prince Charming, slow-dancing with the vacuum cleaner when you think I’ve not been looking, crooning love songs into the nozzle. You know perfectly well that you’ve been waiting in the wings for something to happen with this man, and suddenly – bam! – it has. You’ve jumped in head first without pausing to consider the repercussions.’
‘What repercussions?’ I asked, brow furrowing. ‘He’s as good as single, and so am I.’
I knew, as soon as I’d uttered those last words, that I’d let Mum provoke me to the point of falling into her trap. I shut my eyes as she looked at me triumphantly.
‘Forgive me if I’m wrong, Hattie,’ Mum crowed, ‘but I seem to remember you have a boyfriend. Just to remind you, his name is Martin. I’m aware he’s not been in touch much lately, but I would presume that he still believes you are his girlfriend.’
‘We’re like brother and sister,’ I said dismissively.
‘But you haven’t actually finished with him, have you?’ Mum cried.
‘No,’ I snapped, ‘because I haven’t had the chance.’
The kitchen door opened, and Dad peered around it. ‘Why all the raised voices?’ he asked. ‘Are you two having a barney?’
Before either of us could answer, the telephone rang. Mum snatched it up, eyes not leaving my face.
‘Hello?’ she said, glaring at me. ‘Yes, she’s right here. I’ll put you on, just a sec.’ She passed me the handset. ‘For you,’ she said, smiling sweetly, as my heart sank. ‘It’s Martin.’
Twenty-Five
‘Hi,’ I warbled into the mouthpiece, watched all the while by Mum. My father frowned and went out again, shutting the kitchen door after him. There were far more pressing things to do than listen to a mother and daughter bicker in the kitchen. A football match beckoned.
‘Hey!’ said Martin.
Mum put her hands on her hips, clearly waiting to hear what I was going to say next. I glared at her. Ah yes, she wasn’t the only one who could do meaningful things with her eyeballs. Nor was I having her earwigging on this conversation with my boyfriend. Correction. Ex-boyfriend. I gave her a defiant look and marched out of the kitchen, up the stairs to my bedroom and shut the door firmly after me. No doubt she’d tiptoe along behind me, creep along the landing, was doing so even now, pressing one ear against the door. This was the downside of still living at home. A definite lack of privacy. Undeterred, I slid back my wardrobe door, climbed in and settled down amongst the shoeboxes, pulling the door shut after me. Ha! Try listening now, Mum.
‘Hey,’ I said, attempting to make my tone light.
‘Hattie, we haven’t seen each other for ages.’
‘Yeah, I’ve… er… been a bit busy.’
‘Me too,’ said Martin quickly. ‘But I thought I’d catch up with you and, well, when I rang you didn’t pick up on your mobile. So I called your parents, and they had no idea where you were. I was starting to worry.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling guilty, ‘something came up at work.’
‘You’ve been working all weekend?’
‘N-No, just, um, it was a work colleague’s leaving do and, you know, we all got a bit plastered, so I stayed over at… hers.’
‘Right,’ said Martin, doubt evident in his voice. ‘It must have been one hell of a bash to have stayed the entire weekend.’
‘Oh it was,’ I said quickly, spotting a handy excuse and swimming frantically towards it.
‘Well never mind, you’re home now. We should catch up with each other.’
‘Mm,’ I said, taking the coward’s way out and trying to be non-committal.
‘Do you fancy coming out tonight? I thought we could go to the cinema. Check out that new Tom Cruise film and afterwards, well, you know…’ his voice trailed off and he chuckled naughtily. ‘…go back to mine. You could bring your toothbrush and go to work from here.’
I wriggled uncomfortably, and it wasn’t just because I was sitting on a pair of spiky stilettoes. Whatever had happened between my boss and me, and whether we became a couple or not, there was one thing I knew for certain. I no longer wanted to be an item with Martin. My passion under the duvet with Nick had most definitely seen to that. I’d never be the same again. If I couldn’t have Nick, then I didn’t want anybody. And I certainly didn’t want Martin. We’d hardly seen anything of each other lately anyway, so I should have properly let him go weeks ago, instead of chickening out, not knowing how to end things. I wasn’t the sort of person to dump by text. That wouldn’t have been kind or fair, given the length of our relationship, not forgetting the assumption by everybody – especially my mother – that at some point we would live the rest of our lives together. It was time to behave responsibly and end this face to face. The fact that I felt like a total bitch for waiting until sleeping with my boss made me feel two inches tall. It would have been so much better to have looked Martin in the eye and said, ‘Look, it’s not you, it’s me.’ Whereas now it was a case of, ‘Look, it’s not you, it’s someone else.’
‘Yes,’ I croaked, before coughing and clearing my throat. ‘I’d like that.’
The Man You Meet in Heaven: An absolutely feel-good romantic comedy Page 10