by Jane Moore
She felt an unmitigated failure. Not just because she was facing the ignominy of Sean’s blatant betrayal, but because she’d exposed her children to yet another relationship that now lay in tatters. Her protection of them was paramount. Elbows lodged on the steering wheel, she sat and sobbed relentlessly for about ten minutes, not caring what spectacle she presented to any passersby.
24
Rosie what had happened, for two reasons. First, her friend was absorbed in her new relationship, and second, Jo felt so ashamed by her naivety that she’d been too embarrassed to broach the subject even to the friend she normally shared everything with.
“It’s strange though,” added Jo after she’d told everything to a wide-eyed Rosie as they enjoyed a cool drink in the back garden. “If I think about it, I don’t feel anything like the same devastation I felt when it all went wrong with Jeff.”
“Well, he was your husband and the father of your children, so it’s not surprising,” said Rosie, slurping her Diet Coke through a straw.
“Yes, but it’s not just that.” Jo gazed up at the sunlight filtering through the old oak tree at the bottom of the garden. “I genuinely think I will never let anyone close enough again to hurt me as much as Jeff did. Sure, I feel a little wistful that I’m single again, but the worst thing I feel about my break-up with Sean is wounded pride that I could have been so damned stupid.”
Rosie made no attempt to disagree with her on the last point. “Have you heard from the slimeball since?”
“Yes,” sighed Jo. “A hand-delivered letter was shoved through the door a couple of days ago in which he declares his undying love for me, says he can’t contemplate life without me, and that he is going to leave his wife so we can be together.” She recited the contents as if reading a shopping list.
Rosie gasped. “Bloody hell. What are you going to do?”
“I’ve already done it. I sent it back to his London address with a note that said something along the lines of ‘fuck off and die.’ ” She gave a quick smile, but inside she was feeling decidedly flat.
“Wow, pretty definite then.” Rosie let out a sigh. “Can’t say I’m surprised though.”
“If you are about to say ‘I never liked him anyway,’ bloody well don’t,” grinned Jo. “You always said there was something insincere about him and I wished I’d listened to you.”
“Yes, but even I didn’t realize how spectacularly insincere he’d turn out to be,” laughed Rosie. “I just couldn’t understand why you opted for him when you had Conor and Martin to choose from as well.”
Jo narrowed her eyes. “Hmm, well Martin’s interest was clearly a figment of your imagination because he’s never made a move on me to this day, and as for Conor . . .” She paused and Rosie finished her sentence.
“He’s now ensconced with someone else and you’ve missed your chance.”
“Yes, that’s it, rub it in,” said Jo good-naturedly, moving her legs so Rosie could get past and go inside to the loo. “Everyone’s happy except Jo Miles, emotional cripple and spinster of this parish.”
She sat and reflected on this statement for a moment. Despite meaning it as a joke, it was true to a certain extent. She was alone again, thirty-something with two children, an ever-present former husband, and an overbearing mother. Damaged goods, some might say, and certainly not an easy package to take on. No wonder so many men opt for uncomplicated twenty-somethings, she thought. I’m destined to be on my own forever.
Jeff had Candy, Rosie had Jim, her mother had her father, Conor had Emma, and even feckless Tim had recently seen the same girl more than once.
Conor and Emma. She allowed her thoughts to drift back to the first time she’d met the girl a couple of months ago, when Conor and Tim had an impromptu barbecue in their back garden.
Jo had taken Sean and, while he was playing a particularly energetic game of rough and tumble with Thomas and Sophie at the bottom of the garden, Conor had sidled up to her for a chat.
“Seems a nice bloke,” he said, jerking his head toward Sean. “Happy?” He was looking particularly delicious in a white T-shirt and beige combat shorts.
“Yes, very,” smiled Jo. “Emma seems nice too, not to mention horribly pretty.” In her pre-Sean days, she probably wouldn’t have mentioned it, but it was amazing what a new relationship could do for your magnanimity.
“Very true,” murmured Conor, glancing over to where Emma was clearly making a valiant effort to listen to one of Tim’s excessively long-winded jokes devoid of a punch line. “She’s a lovely person, too.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, both nursing their Budweisers and staring into the middle distance.
“So is it serious?” asked Conor. “It’s been several months now, hasn’t it?”
Jo noticed a small muscle twitching in his cheek. “Yes . . . I mean, yes it’s been several months, yes it’s serious,” she stumbled. She wasn’t quite sure why she’d felt the need to say that. “What about you?”
He wiped a small line of perspiration from his top lip. “The signs are all good. I’m a very lucky man.”
Yes, thought Jo, snapping back to the present day as she saw Rosie returning from the loo, everyone seems capable of maintaining a normal, healthy relationship except me.
Of course if, God forbid, her mother knew about her daughter’s latest relationship debacle, she would say it was all Jo’s fault and that she simply attracted the wrong kind of men. But Jo didn’t believe that. After all, she and Jeff had been together for ten years and, even after he’d abandoned her for younger thighs, she still didn’t think that deep down he was a bad man. She’d long ago reached the decision that his adultery had been partly her fault for failing to put more effort into the marriage. There was no doubt she’d become complacent, as had he. Better communication and more effort might have saved it. But now they’d never know. At a recent wedding she’d attended, the words of the vicar had stuck in her mind. “Love is a decision, not just a feeling,” he had droned.
Jo hadn’t heard the rest of the speech, becoming lost in consideration. He’s so right, she thought. In this day and age of endless temptations and easy outs, you have to make the decision to stick with someone and work at making it a good relationship that neither of you wants to give up on. Otherwise, it’s the rocky road of chasing the chase all the time, never settling down and putting effort into what you’ve already got.
It struck her that Conor was probably the sort of man who practiced what the vicar had preached. “Lucky old Emma,” she thought.
“Anyway, enough of my sad old life,” she said as Rosie sat back down next to her. “How are things in the well-balanced world of Rosie and Jim?”
It had been just over a month since Rosie started her new relationship, but Jo still couldn’t help smiling when she said their names together.
“Well, I hate to gloat, but it’s amazing,” said Rosie, her eyes shining. “He’s funny, kind, considerate, has his own place, and seems to adore me.”
“Please tell me he’s got a willy the size of a peanut or I’m going to throw up with the perfection of it all,” said Jo, pretending to stick a finger down her throat.
Rosie pulled an apologetic face. “Sorry, but the sex is great too.”
Jo made a choking noise and fell off her chair onto the grass, scrunched up into the fetal position.
“Well, it’s about bloody time I had some good luck in love,” Rosie laughed. “You’ve hogged it all up to now.”
“Now let me see . . .” Jo had sat up and placed her finger under her chin in mock thoughtfulness. “My husband walks out on me and the children, and the next man I date turns out to be married. Yep, I can see why you think I have good luck.”
Rosie raised her eyes heavenward. “You know exactly what I mean. Admittedly, Sean was bad luck, but if you’d chosen Martin you’d probably be wearing a vast sparkler by now and preparing to become accustomed to a life of untold luxury.”
Jo clambered back onto her chair.
“Look, I’ve already told you a squillion times. I’m not interested in him and he’s certainly not interested in me.”
Jo’s anxiety that Martin was one day going to pounce on her had all but vanished in the previous few months. Since the Britney Spears concert, she had spent several meetings and dinners alone with him, poring over the plans for the house that was now nearing completion after a series of unforeseen building delays. She had eventually mentioned she was dating Sean, just in case Martin was harboring any lascivious thoughts about her, but not once had he even so much as hinted his designs on her were anything but interior and décor-related.
“In fact I’m so convinced he’s not interested that I’ve agreed to fly to Nice with him next weekend to view a house he’s thinking of buying,” she said, pulling a flying ant from Rosie’s unruly mass of hair. “He wants an estimate from me on doing it up.”
“Really?” Rosie raised an eyebrow. “Where are you staying?”
“The Byblos in St. Tropez. We fly into Nice, then he’s hired some boat for the whole weekend to get us there and back. We fly back to London on the Sunday morning.” Jo lobbed a stone in the direction of a pigeon that was pecking at her wisteria. “Jeff is having the kids so I don’t have to worry about anything. I’m quite looking forward to it actually.”
“I should think you bloody well are! The furthest anyone has taken me is a package holiday in Spain, and Martin isn’t even getting a shag out of it.”
“That’s for sure. Anyway, the way my love life is going, I’m never going to risk having sex with anyone again.”
“Cheers.” Martin held his cut crystal champagne glass aloft and clinked it against Jo’s.
They were sitting at a table in the legendary Club 55 on St. Tropez beach, with its distinctive blue and white striped seating and abundance of the painfully chic in-crowd.
“Look, it’s Joan Collins!” hissed Jo, making it completely obvious she was staring.
Martin looked nonplussed. “I know, she comes here a lot,” he said. “Jack Nicholson was in here the last time I came.”
Two bottles of champagne later, Jo never wanted to leave this wonderful place. The sun was shining, the atmosphere was electric, and the numbing effect of the alcohol meant she could have quite happily sat there and people-watched all day.
“So how are things going with Sean?” asked Martin nonchalantly.
She had vowed to herself that if the subject came up, she was simply going to pretend everything was fine. But the combination of heat and alcohol had made her brain woozy to the point that she said the first thing that came into her head.
“They went considerably downhill after I found out he was married,” she muttered, taking another swig of champagne.
Martin’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly and she found herself irritated by his lack of response.
“That’s quite a big thing in a girl’s life,” she said sarcastically.
“Indeed,” he replied levelly. “Want to talk about it?”
She didn’t, but she couldn’t help herself because the whole farrago was still quite raw and it felt good to get it off her chest with someone so objective. For the next half hour she told Martin everything about the phone call to Sean’s office, the showdown, and how he’d offered to leave his wife.
“So the whole thing is one, big fucking mess,” she finished, flopping back in her chair and wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
“What do you think you’ll do?” asked Martin, gesturing to the waiter to bring the bill.
“Start again I suppose,” she said, her face clouding over at the thought. “Brush myself off and step right back into that dating bear pit again. Not just yet though.”
Martin gave a half-smile. “Are you really so scared of being single? It’s not that bad you know. God knows I’ve got used to it over the years.”
Jo thought about what he’d said for a moment, then flipped her sunglasses back onto her head and let out a deep sigh. “I just have this thing about not growing old alone. I want someone to sit on the porch with, so to speak.”
Martin remained silent, a curious expression on his face. He signed the credit card voucher that had been placed before him, then stood up. “A woman like you will never have to spend life alone,” he said. “Now come on, this is all getting far too gloomy. I’m going to cheer you up.”
“Where are we going?” She was reluctant to leave the vibrant atmosphere of Club 55.
“To see the house I’m interested in, then back to the hotel to prepare for a wild night out where you are going to forget all your troubles.”
Through the haze of alcohol, Jo managed a quick glance at her watch. It was midnight.
She and Martin had wormed their way into a quiet corner of the Caves Du Roi nightclub under the Byblos hotel, and were both slumped against some cushions watching the action on the dance floor. It was a heaving, sweaty hotbed of nubile girls, well-off thirty-somethings, and excessively wealthy businessmen in the full throes of their midlife crisis.
Locked in a quiet stupor, Jo was enjoying watching the men and the different ways they danced. It took her back to her youth, when being asked to dance by a stranger was tantamount to a legal mugging, because of flailing arms and legs.
There was the phantom cigarette extinguisher, constantly grinding his left foot into the dance floor and swinging his arms like a novice skier, then Casey Jones the train driver, choo-chooing from one side of the dance floor to the other, occasionally ringing an imaginary bell. There were always a couple of John Travoltas, arms aloft (handy when you needed a cab later), and several Chubby Checkers who twisted to every record regardless of decade or tempo.
Again, Jo found her thoughts drifting back to Sean and what fun they would have taking the piss out of the spectacles now before them.
A half bottle of champagne sat in front of her and Martin, at $160 a time. The expensive quirk of Caves Du Roi was that all drinks had to be bought by the bottle, including vodka and gin.
“Come on,” said Martin, leaping to his feet and grabbing her hand. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”
As he led her onto the dance floor, the unmistakable beat of “Night Fever” thumped through the speakers, and Jo felt her spirits soar. There was nothing like a favorite piece of music from your youth to pep you up.
She was surprised to see Martin was an excellent dancer, gyrating his hips in time to the music without looking a fool. Jeff had always been an embarrassment on the dance floor, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She’d never seen Sean dance, and now she doubted she ever would.
Martin suddenly moved toward her, grabbed her hand, and spun her round. As the room shot past her eyes, Jo realized she was very drunk indeed, potentially out of control. She was relieved when the next record turned out to be a slow one, and she started to walk back to their seats.
“Hey, hey, hey, where are you going?” shouted Martin above the strains of Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s version of “The Power of Love.” “Come here.”
He held one of her hands and placed the other around her waist, drawing her toward him. Jo rested her chin on his shoulder and it felt like the most perfect place in the world. Gently swaying from side to side, she became lost in the moment, comforted by the feeling of being in a man’s arms again, intoxicated by his smell.
Such was the headiness of it all, she barely noticed when Martin buried his face in her neck and started to nuzzle it. It had always been one of her most responsive erogenous zones, and tonight was no exception.
Gently pulling away, the room still hazy around her, she moved her head until her face was directly in front of his, their noses touching. Suddenly they were kissing, tentatively at first, then becoming more urgent.
To Jo, the man she was kissing at that moment was fairly irrelevant. It just felt delicious to be away from home and responsibilities, and once again to be propelled back to those heady days of youth when a few drinks led to the gay abandon of necking with a virtual
stranger in some disco.
The record changed to the repetitive beat of some modern dance track and they were suddenly snapped out of their trance.
“Come on, let’s sit down,” said Martin quietly, hanging on to her hand and leading her off the floor.
They flopped back on to the sofa Martin had tipped a waiter to keep free, and he poured them two more glasses of champagne. As he handed her one, his empty hand went behind her head and started to idly play with her hair. Without the heady spell of the music and her head resting on his shoulder, Jo was unsure how to respond.
Martin leaned forward and gently kissed her on the lips, and she smiled nervously. She had an idea what was coming and she wished now that they could just leave and forget all about what had just happened.
“Jo?”
Here we go, she thought. “That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” she said brightly, practicing her usual habit of saying something completely fatuous at awkward moments.
“Listen, I’ve been thinking.” Martin’s face was worryingly serious.
“Ooh, steady on.” There she was doing it again, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“We’ve known each other for a while now, and I like to think it’s as friends rather than just business associates . . .” He paused, as though seeking corroboration of this statement.
“Friends, yes,” said Jo, taking another swig of champagne as fortitude. She had a horrible feeling Rosie’s prophecy was about to come true.
“I have grown very fond of you.” He sounded stilted. “And a few times I’ve wondered whether there could be more between us.”
“More?” Jo parroted. She knew she sounded gormless, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Yes, more. You know, maybe a relationship.” He emphasized the last word as if it were revelatory.
“I see.” Except Jo didn’t see. She didn’t see at all. Was Martin suggesting something serious here or was he just after a fling? She was too drunk to make any distinction.