by Jane Moore
Jo smoothed the dress over her thighs. “Believe me, it’s a shining beacon in my life at the moment. That and the Britney Spears concert, of course.”
“Sorry?”
“I’m taking the kids to a Britney Spears concert tomorrow night. Or rather Martin Blake is taking all of us.”
“Hang on, hang on,” said Rosie, waving her arms in front of her. “You’re going on a date with the mega-wealthy Martin Blake and you forgot to tell me?”
“It is absolutely not a date.” She shot Rosie a warning look. “It’s a concert. He didn’t know anyone else with children who might want to go.”
“Jo, believe me, in his mind it’s a date. He’s just being clever because he knows the best way to get you out is to come up with something your children would want to do.” Rosie stopped talking and gave the thumbs up to Jo’s dress.
But Jo wasn’t paying attention. She was annoyed by her friend’s assumption, particularly when she hadn’t even met the man involved. “Even if he saw it that way, and I don’t for one moment think he does, it’s definitely not a date because I’m not the slightest bit interested in him,” she said defiantly. “Besides, he’s quite nice-looking, rich, and says he wants to settle down. He could get anyone he wanted, so he wouldn’t waste his time with me.”
By this time, Rosie had fallen face down on the carpet in a mock sobbing fit, thrashing her feet against the floor.
“I know you think I’m mad,” added Jo, “but if the spark’s not there then there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”
“No, but you’re dismissing it before you even try,” said Rosie, sitting up again. “Instead, you’re hankering after some geographically challenged relationship with a cameraman who’s probably earning peanuts by comparison.”
“We’ve had this conversation before,” said Jo wearily. “I’m not interested in money like you are. I want romance and passion.”
Rosie made a loud snorting noise. “You want difficult bastards, that’s what you want. You think straightforward men are boring.”
“Jeff wasn’t a bastard when I married him. He just became one,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling very lackluster about going to a houseful of strangers for a night of mind-numbing small talk.
Rosie picked up her sudden gloom and hastily changed the subject. “If you don’t want him, introduce that Blake bloke to me. Quite apart from anything else, I could do with the sex.”
Jo smiled and gathered up her house keys to put in her handbag. “Right, how do I look?”
“Like a woman who’s going to a dinner party she doesn’t want to go to,” said Rosie.
“Good. That’s precisely the look I wanted to achieve. I have specifically chosen an outfit to blend in with Sally’s wallpaper.”
After saying goodnight to the children, neither of whom shifted their eyes from the television, she walked outside and got into her car.
“Right Ms. Miles, I hope your skill for dinner party repartee hasn’t abandoned you,” she said to herself as the engine rumbled into life.
Half an hour later she pulled up outside Sally Keen’s rather grand house in Richmond, Surrey. Through the brightly illuminated front bay window, she could see some of the guests already indulging in polite banter over pre-dinner drinks. As the sound of false, tinkling laughter rang out, she suddenly felt very weary. Dinner parties had been water off a duck’s back when she’d been with Jeff, but now they seemed a rather daunting experience to face alone.
There would be no one to exchange those “let’s go home soon” glances with, no one to latch on to as a life-raft in the raging ocean of banality that often accompanied such a gathering. With heavy heart, she trudged up the steps to the front door.
“Ah, that must be Jo!” She could hear Sally’s irritatingly la-di-da voice through the door and assumed she must be the last guest to arrive.
“Hello darling!” said Sally, enveloping Jo in a bear hug and an overpowering waft of Chanel No. 5. “I thought you might have got cold feet.”
“I’m only fifteen minutes late,” said Jo, glancing at her watch.
“Yes dear, whatever. At least you’re here now.” Jo could see Sally had lost none of her ability to make her feel she was always a little bit of a disappointment. “Now then, let’s introduce you to everyone,” said Sally, placing a palm in the small of Jo’s back and expertly maneuvering her into the double reception room, stuffed with beautiful antique furniture and paintings.
“This is Sue and Mark.” The simpering woman took Jo’s hand for one of those limp handshakes that makes you feel like you’ve been slimed. By comparison, her husband’s grip was vise-like.
“Ouch. Did you used to be in the army by any chance?” teased Jo, rubbing her hand.
“No, but I’m in the Territorials,” he boomed, as she made a mental note not to sit anywhere near him.
“And this is Mandy and Bob,” said Sally, moving round the room to where a couple sat perched together on a two-seater sofa. She was head to foot Aquascutum woman, with an expression which suggested her knickers might be made of the roughest tweed, while he was very much Reform Club, with blazer and cravat. Neither stood up.
“Hello,” said Jo, nodding and smiling. They didn’t smile back, and she made a mental note not to sit next to them either. I’m running out of guests, she mused, as Sally moved on to the next couple.
“This is Jack and Tina, they’re new friends of ours.”
“Yes, Sally hasn’t got to know us properly yet, otherwise I’m sure we wouldn’t be here,” smiled Jack, extending his hand to Jo. She liked him immediately.
“Jack has a form of Tourette’s Syndrome. He just can’t seem to get through a social occasion without insulting at least three people,” laughed his wife Tina. “So watch out.”
Jo smiled warmly. “Don’t worry, I have a brother like that.” She was determined to remain glued to Jack and Tina’s side, but Sally had other ideas.
“And this is Graham,” she said, stepping back as if to admire a prized exhibit.
Jo hadn’t seen him when she first walked into the room, which gave some idea of how unprepossessing he was. Graham was about five feet six with a puce face, pot belly and fingers like overstuffed cocktail sausages. Because of Sally’s rather loaded introduction, Jo also got the distinct impression he had been earmarked as her date for the night. Her heart, shoulders and stomach all sank simultaneously.
“So how do you know Sally?” said Jo, after the hostess had drifted back to the kitchen.
“I don’t, I know Paul,” he said, referring to Sally’s husband who was clearly being kept manacled to the kitchen by his domineering wife.
“Oh, so are you a graphic designer too?” Jo couldn’t believe she’d resorted to the “what do you do?” question so early on in the conversation, but she was a desperate woman.
“Good God, no. We just attend the same local golf club, that’s all. I’m a money broker.” He delivered the last line with all the self-importance of a man who’d announced he had crash-landed a jumbo jet that very afternoon and saved the lives of everyone on board.
“Oh, that’s handy.” Jo scrambled for something to say. “Perhaps you could do me a better deal on my mortgage.”
“Hardly. I lend money to countries.” He made an elaborate sniffing noise that made Jo feel quite queasy.
“Right, come along everyone!” Sally had returned and was clapping her hands at them like a nursery teacher. “Let’s sit down.”
Jo hovered close to Jack and Tina in the faint hope it would be a sit anywhere arrangement. But she’d forgotten how irritatingly organized and bossy Sally was.
“Now then. You over there, Jack, and you down here, Tina. Sue there, Bob there, Mandy here and Mark there. Jo, you sit opposite Graham here, and Paul and I will go at the ends.”
Jo sank onto her allotted chair and looked down the table where she noticed Jack was trying to catch her eye. He nodded silently in Graham’s direction, then pulled his tie up round his neck
in a hanging gesture. Jo got a fit of the giggles.
“What’s so funny?” said Graham, now seated and pouring himself a generous measure of red wine.
“Oh nothing, just a private joke,” she muttered.
“I always find private jokes rather rude,” he replied, using his napkin to wipe a line of sweat from his top lip. His beady eyes darted around the room, clearly trying to work out who the joke was with.
If Jo was going to get through this torturous dinner, she knew she would have to make an enormous effort to achieve an even slightly interesting conversation with the odious Graham. So she resorted to the age-old charm offensive used at dinner parties across the land. She talked to him about his favorite subject. Himself.
“So how did you get into the money business?” It was a question that heralded the start of an hour-long monologue from Graham about his expertise in the field and how no one could touch him for profit margins. Or boredom thresholds, thought Jo.
Slumped over her crème brûlée, she sneaked a peek down the table and saw Sally nodding in her direction, a triumphant look on her face. As Jo had suspected, it had been a set-up all along. Just because her husband had left her for a younger woman, she had clearly become a figure of pity to others who felt they should introduce her to new men. Men like Graham, a fat, dull, and pompous bore with halitosis, dandruff, and God knows how many hidden neuroses just waiting to be unveiled by some unlucky woman.
Is this what they think of me? she despaired, as she watched Graham launch into yet another anecdote about his financial expertise. Do they really think I’m so desperate I could find this man attractive? I would have to be heavily drugged to even kiss him. She knew she couldn’t sit there and listen to him droning on a moment longer. She stood up.
“I’m sorry Sally, but I’m going to have to go. I really don’t feel well,” she said, putting on her best queasy expression which wasn’t hard considering she’d been sitting opposite Baby Shamu for over an hour.
“Darling, no! And you and Graham were getting on so well.”
“It happens all the time, I’m afraid. It’s the stress, I think.” She gave a little grimace at Sally as if to say, “I know you’ll understand.”
“Sweetie, that’s terrible, but I do hope you’ll come again soon. I have to go and help Paul in the kitchen with the coffee, but I’m sure Graham will see you to the door.” Sally was clearly not going to be defeated in her bid to match-make.
“No, really I’m fine,” stuttered Jo, feeling her stomach bungee-jumping at the thought of spending one more nanosecond in the ghastly man’s company. “I’ll see myself out.”
“Nonsense, nonsense,” puffed Graham, rising from his chair and shuffling round the table.
Jo cast a desperate expression round the room in the vain hope that someone might sense she needed rescuing. But no one knew her well enough to pick up the signs, so she said a heavy “Goodnight all” and walked into the hallway with Graham lumbering behind. Whenever I get asked to another couply dinner party as a single woman, and find myself tempted to say “Yes,” I shall remember this painful moment, she told herself.
Taking care to keep her back to him at all times, she opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air, turning briefly to bid him goodnight. It was the fleeting chance he needed to plant a sweaty, fumbling kiss right on her mouth. Suddenly her queasiness wasn’t fake anymore.
“Would you like to go out for dinner sometime?” he said, his small eyes studying her carefully.
Like all women, Jo had learned a million gentle let-downs over the years. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not ready to date again after the operation. My jealous ex-boyfriend is a psychopath and I wouldn’t want to place you in danger. The list was endless. But tonight she felt too weary to bother with any of them.
“Thanks, but no I wouldn’t,” she said.
He looked stunned. “Really?”
“Yes, really.” Jo started to descend the steps. She stopped at the bottom and turned to see his small, moist mouth curling into a sneer.
“I was only inviting you out of pity because your friends said your husband dumped you for a younger woman. Frankly, I’m not surprised.”
Jo stood looking at his portly frame silhouetted in the doorway and thought how much he resembled a pig skewered for a barbecue. She considered what he’d said for a moment. Just as she was about to reply, he took a step back and slammed the door. She toyed with the idea of going back in and retaliating, but decided to rise above it and drive home instead.
As she drove home on subconscious automatic pilot, she found herself smirking at the thought of what was being said about her right now at Maison Keen. One of the beneficial things about hitting her thirties was that she no longer bothered what people might be saying about her when she wasn’t around. She vowed she would never see Sally again. If there’s one thing recent events have taught me, she decided, it’s that life’s too short to bother with people you don’t even like that much.
When she arrived home twenty minutes later, Rosie was in floods of tears as the credits rolled on Goodbye Mr. Chips starring Peter O’Toole and Petula Clarke.
“She never found out he was made headmaaaaaster,” she wailed, loudly blowing her nose into a pile of scrunched-up toilet paper.
“Rosie, it’s a film,” sighed Jo. “I’m the one who should be weeping after the night I’ve had.” She threw her handbag onto the sofa and plunked herself next to it.
“Crap, was it?”
“I got saddled with one of those terrible bores who, when you ask how they are, tells you. I even thought about jabbing a knife in my eye, just so I could be taken to the emergency room and get away from him.”
“So you won’t be going to any more dinner parties in the foreseeable future then?”
“Quite frankly, there’s more chance of the Queen beating Linford Christie over a hundred meters. I’m off to bed.”
18
the house in a sleek, black Mercedes S-class, complete with capped chauffeur.
“Wow!” said Thomas who had been keeping watch in the front bay window for the past twenty minutes. “He must be stinking rich!”
“Thomas, look at me.” Jo put on a stern voice and forced him to turn round. “You’re not to say things like that, particularly to Martin. It’s rude. Now get your camera and come along.”
“OK,” he said sulkily, his arms dropping to his sides as he walked into the hallway.
Jo opened the door to find Martin dressed in an extremely smart suit and tie. “You look very formal for a Britney Spears concert,” she smiled.
“ ‘Fraid so,” he said apologetically. “I have to look businesslike for my meeting with the European guy, so I’ve had to abandon my usual gold sequined halter top and lycra trousers.”
So he does have a sense of humor, albeit a dry one, Jo thought, as she ushered the children toward the gleaming car that looked rather incongruous next to her humble Clio.
“Thomas, Sophie, this is Martin. I’m working for him at the moment,” she added, keen that the children didn’t think he was a boyfriend.
“But Mummy, you don’t have a proper job,” said Sophie, scrambling over the rear leather seat to sit in the far corner.
“Yes I do, love,” said Jo, anxiously rubbing at a scuff mark on the seat. “I decorate people’s houses, and I’m doing Martin’s for him.”
Despite Martin’s offer to swap, she insisted on sitting in the back with the children, mainly to keep an eye on them. Sophie had a habit of announcing she felt sick, then throwing up less than two seconds later, as the faint whiff of vomit that permeated Jo’s car proved. She wanted to catch it in her lap rather than suffer the embarrassment of Martin’s expensive car seats being ruined.
It took them just over an hour to get to Wembley, as the traffic near the arena drew to a virtual standstill. The whole way, Martin regaled the children with his tales of the rich and famous.
“Have you met Michael Jackson?” asked Tho
mas, wide-eyed.
“Yes, many times,” said Martin, swiveling in the front seat to face them. “He seems nice enough, but he does seem to lead a rather strange life.”
“What about the Hooplas?” said Sophie, referring to her favorite girl band of the moment.
“Ah, that one’s easy because they’re on my record label,” said Martin. “They all hate each other but they can’t split up because they’re making too much money.”
Jo sat quietly and watched the enthralled expression on her children’s faces as they listened to Martin’s stories. Children are such fickle creatures, she thought. You can spend hours doing their homework with them, taking them to the park, or cutting out endless pictures from endless magazines for their scrapbooks. But tell them a couple of stories about famous people and give them some free Britney Spears tickets, and you’ve won them over instantly.
“What football team do you support, Thomas?” asked Martin, pressing the radio’s scan button to find a music station that wasn’t playing records of the “got my girlfriend up the duff” rap variety.
“The Gunners,” said Thomas, punching the air with his fist and making a whooping noise.
Martin smiled. “I’m an Arsenal fan too! In fact I’ve got a season ticket. I’ll take you along to a match one Saturday if you like.”
Thomas looked like he was going to pass out with sheer excitement. “Cool!”
“That’s if Mum says it’s OK, of course,” said Martin, giving Jo a pensive look.
“How could a Saturday afternoon with boring old Mummy possibly compete with that?” She was irritated that Martin hadn’t thought to mention it to her first, out of Thomas’s earshot.
“Here we are,” said the driver, sweeping past the queue of vehicles waiting to get into the public parking lots, and heading for a gate marked “Backstage passes only.”
The gate opened and the car pulled up right outside the backstage door. “Cool!” said Thomas again, leaping out.
“Good evening, Mr. Blake,” said the security guard on the door, standing aside to let them pass.