by Alex Day
I don’t have time to ponder this further, however, as straightaway Charlotte is asking me about Naomi. I reassure her that her nemesis is no better or worse than usual.
‘She’s been keeping Dan fed, that’s all I’m aware of,’ I report. ‘The other day it was some noodle dish she insisted on giving him in a plastic container to take home so that “he doesn’t waste away”, in her words.’
‘Oh!’ A cloud of worry passes across Charlotte’s hitherto untroubled countenance. ‘Dan loves his food, especially anything Far Eastern. Or curry, as long as it’s super-hot. I don’t ever make him that sort of stuff. I’m more classic French or Italian.’ She pauses, grimacing thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I should?’
‘Maybe,’ I shrug. ‘I wouldn’t get too worked up about it. I mean, he said it was delicious but whatever they say about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach, I’m not sure that Tupperware meals are that romantic. Although if curry is his favourite …’
I see how her face drops, alarm flickering across her eyes.
‘Only joking,’ I interject hastily, trying to dispel her fears with a conspiratorial laugh. ‘Vindaloo isn’t known as an aphrodisiac, as far as I’m aware, nor soy sauce.’
The fact is though that Naomi slaves over the dishes she makes for Dan, and openly revels in the praise she receives. The other day she had a massive smile plastered on her overly made-up face for hours afterwards. It must have driven him mad the way she pestered him about it for the next two days, asking him every time he came in if he’d finished the portion he’d taken home. If he put it straight in the bin, he had far too much tact to tell her so.
I’m actually never quite sure what he does with all the goodies she plies him with – usually, when it’s homemade protein energy balls or flapjacks, they disappear into his bag and are never seen again. He always says, next time he’s in the cafe, that whatever it was tasted delicious, in the same way that he always tells her how lovely she’s looking. Which I guess would be true if peroxide-blonde locks, alarmingly thick and prominent eyebrows, orange-tinged foundation and false eyelashes were really his idea of beauty, which somehow I doubt. So the conclusion that I draw is that he’s adept at those little white lies that oil the wheels of social convention and that’s probably another reason why he’s such a successful businessman.
Few of us are immune to flattery and charm, after all.
‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,’ Charlotte suddenly announces.
‘Oh?’ I ask, conscious that I’m short of time but realising there’s something she needs to get off her chest. Perhaps she’s finally going to reveal all and tell me what’s bugging her.
‘I’ve left Dan out too much, monopolised the children, not allowed him in. All of that has to change.’
‘Right,’ I say. So no revelation, after all – or at least not the one I want her to make. This admission about the way she presides over all aspects of childcare, shutting Dan out, is only what he identified and told me himself so recently. ‘OK. That sounds like a good decision to make.’
‘And sex,’ she adds, out of the blue. ‘I need to have sex with him. More often than we have been – which, if I’m honest, is hardly ever recently. Men need that, don’t they?’
I’m blown off course by this disclosure. I mean, Dan has hinted at their lack of physical intimacy. But men generally have a distorted view of sex and how regularly they should be getting it. It’s a rare long-term relationship when both partners have exactly the same needs in terms of frequency of intercourse. I wonder if Dan puts pressure on her, if that could have anything to do with her despondency. Perhaps this is all it is, all that’s causing her diffidence, her perturbation. That bizarre mix of concern and guilt that women feel when they’re not doing something someone else wants them to.
‘You should never feel forced into sex, Charlotte,’ I say, keeping it gentle, trying not to sound prim. ‘It’s not an obligation.’
‘It’s just that I’ve been putting him off so much lately,’ she pauses. ‘Well, always, actually,’ she concludes, sadly. ‘I’m just not in the mood, and I hate how it messes up my hair. But really it’s because I’ve got too much on my mind. You see …’
I cast a surreptitious glance at the clock. I’m going to have to go.
‘I don’t think you should be worrying about it right now,’ I cut in firmly. ‘You should be concentrating on relaxing. That’s what you’re in Corsica for, after all.’
Charlotte’s face hovers closer to the screen. ‘I was just going to say that …’
I need to go. A blur in the background behind Charlotte morphs into Toby. He stops at the threshold of the door and starts yelling something about Sam.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I laugh, as Charlotte turns to wave a threatening fist at her son. ‘Speak soon. Bye!’
I press the button that, with the familiar robotic beep, sees Charlotte disappear from my screen. It’s only when I get to the club that it dawns on me that she had been about to make a revelation. That maybe she had finally been going to share something with me, something more than she already had when she told me about her and Dan’s sex life. Damn! Foiled by the children interrupting again.
Brushing the mystery to one side, I stow my bag in a locker. I can’t do anything about it now and I’m looking forward to this match with Dan. I take a quick look at my reflection, loosening my ponytail slightly; I never think it’s flattering to have it pulled back too tightly, pram-face style. I stroll outside to wait for Dan, who arrives only minutes later. I notice the grey in his hair tonight, but far from ageing him, it makes him look distinguished and wise, like the kind of man who can be depended on. This is not a man who would let his entire world collapse around him, who would leave his wife and children with neither a penny to their name nor a roof over their heads, like Justin did.
He kisses me on each cheek, and with the kisses comes an enticing waft of subtle aftershave and warm skin. Then he pulls a coin from his pocket and throws it flamboyantly upwards, catching it with a slap of one hand over the other. I win the toss to serve first and a tingle of anticipation ripples through me as I propel the ball into the air and then smash it over the net. Playing with Dan releases something in me: an animal instinct to get one over on him, to second guess his every move so that I can counter it; an urge to win because I can tell – I know – that much as he hates losing, he admires a winner above all else.
And, after a gruelling three sets, I am declared the victor by a whisker. We’ve played often enough now for me to know that he’s definitely not letting me win because I’m female or Charlotte’s poor, abandoned friend or even his friend. I triumph on the occasions that I am the better player.
He looks me in the eye as he congratulates me.
‘I’ve never been put through my paces like you do,’ he says.
I smile and feel my cheeks redden – again. ‘Flatterer,’ I murmur in reply. I still haven’t quite got my breath back after the last, decisive rally.
‘No, seriously,’ he continues, an urgency in his voice that I haven’t heard before. ‘I play because it keeps me fit and I enjoy it so much more than a solitary sojourn in the gym. But you play like a professional, like you could go places.’
I pull my mouth into a lop-sided grimace. ‘Could have gone places, once upon a time.’ It’s a struggle to keep the bitterness out of my voice. ‘If I’d pursued it when I really had the chance. But it’s too late for regrets now.’ I look at him and try to smile. ‘Anyhow, at least I’m beating you fair and square.’
He laughs, his eyes crinkling in their sexy way, his expression all kindness and admiration.
‘You are so right. Your athleticism is too much for me. However, in another context …’
He lets the sentence hang, unfinished.
These statements that have a double entendre seem to be happening more and more often. Perhaps it isn’t just my overactive imagination.
Hurriedly, I snatch up my towel and racket
and head off to the changing rooms. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him watching me depart and I’m conscious of his eyes upon me until I’m out of sight. Under the pounding water, I soap myself thoroughly, eradicating all traces of the sweat induced by the game, emerging cleansed and fragrant. Though, unlike Charlotte, I’m not a big drinker, I’m looking forward to one tonight. It’s been so long since I’ve been without ties or responsibilities, the children elsewhere, nothing to hold me down. Even before any alcohol, I feel light-headed and dizzy with the unfamiliarity of it all.
It’s the first time I’ve been to the Thai restaurant that stands proudly on the village high street, drawing foodies from all around to sample its authentic dishes. In all truth, I haven’t eaten out since I left London, and before that not for at least six months or so. I’m not sure what to order, surreptitiously scrutinising the prices and veering towards the cheaper options until Dan, without looking up from his own perusal of what’s on offer, says, ‘This is on me, by the way.’
I pause and bite my lip. I should refuse, insist on going Dutch, but if I do, I’ll be eating nothing but porridge and dandelion leaves until the end of the month. Dan is not just rich but stinking rich; if he wants to pay, I should let him.
As if to reinforce my thoughts, he continues, ‘It would give me the greatest pleasure.’ He waits until I’m looking at him and then forces me to hold his gaze. ‘I enjoy spending my money on things that I like. My watches, remember?’ He pauses, his smile so assured but at the same time so genuine that it melts my heart. ‘And taking a beautiful woman out to dinner is about the most enjoyable thing I can think of. Even better than a Rolex.’
The waiter arrives with glasses of champagne I didn’t even notice Dan ordering. He picks his up and holds it towards me and I do the same. He clinks my glass and leans forward to me.
‘Thank you for coming with me and entertaining me whilst I’ve been abandoned by my entire family.’
He gives a short laugh and then drinks a large glug of champagne.
A sudden sharp flash of understanding sears through me. He hates to be alone. He hates it when Charlotte takes the boys away from him for extended periods. He hates being left to his own devices, the house echoing, the bed cold and empty.
I sip my drink and, emulating his body language, lean forward.
‘I understand where you’re coming from. I’m, well, I’m an expert in abandonment,’ I confide in him. ‘It seems to be my forte.’
A memory is ringing in my ears as if I can hear her voice right now.
‘Tout est juste dans l’amour et la guerre.’
Those were Josephine’s last words to me as she shut my own front door in my face. The worst thing is that I had to look them up to find out what they meant.
All’s fair in love and war.
‘I’m so sorry, Susannah,’ Dan says, his voice low with sympathy and regret, unaware that Justin is far from the only disaster in my past. ‘You don’t deserve to have been treated like that.’ He clinks his glass against mine. ‘Here’s to a better future.’
We drink and put our glasses down on the table simultaneously.
‘You deserve someone who’ll give you everything and think himself lucky,’ continues Dan.
I swirl my champagne around in my glass and contemplate the popping bubbles. ‘Deserve doesn’t have anything to do with it, does it? Life doesn’t work like that.’
I don’t want to sound angry, cynical, but I’m afraid that I do. It’s hard not to. Involuntarily, I sigh deeply, and he takes my hand, just like he did so recently in the cafe. The waiter is hovering and Dan sends him away with a flick of the wrist.
‘If it’s worth anything – I’d like you to know that I would never have left a woman like you. I don’t know what your husband was thinking.’
Or what Charlie was thinking? I shrug helplessly and struggle to stop the tears that are pricking behind my eyes from pouring forth.
‘I’m sure it was me as well as him,’ I mutter, unable to meet his gaze as I speak. ‘We were probably both—’
‘No,’ Dan interrupts, forcefully. ‘Don’t excuse him or find reasons to justify what he did. There are none, and that’s final.’
I manage a weak smile and nod resignedly. ‘You’re right.’ Then I laugh and, with a wave of my hand, dismiss the conversation. ‘But let’s not talk about miserable things anymore.’
I pick up the menu and Dan mirrors my action.
‘We should order – that poor guy’s about to come back over again and anyway, I’m starving. All that vigorous exercise …’
Dan grins and then glances over at the waiter, who is by our side and bowing respectfully in seconds. Dan is clearly well-known here and holds a lot of clout. I guess all restaurants love their rich clients, the big spenders. No reason not to.
‘OK, let’s choose,’ Dan says, as the waiter hovers silently with his pad. ‘I really recommend the green papaya salad, and we must definitely have a pad Thai, but then I also love chilli …’
His voice floats over me as I sink back and relax, loving the feeling of being taken care of. Dan is so capable, so competent with everything from building a multi-million-pound fortune to ordering the best dishes on a Thai menu. Justin had nothing like his style and Charlie never had two beans to rub together.
The food arrives and I tuck in with alacrity. I wasn’t lying when I said I was hungry and I haven’t had anything this good since the Sunday lunch Charlotte cooked a few weeks ago. Which, incidentally, I noticed that she barely touched, pushing her helping around her plate and only picking at the vegetables and a little of the meat. Of course she didn’t have so much as a single potato on her plate, though they were sublime, flaky and crispy and delicious, just as roasties should be.
Dan notices my enjoyment of his choices from the menu.
‘It’s so good to be with someone who actually eats!’ he exclaims.
I know I should be embarrassed about my healthy appetite but at the same time I can tell he’s genuine in his appreciation – and unlike such a comment coming from a woman, there’s no side to it, no buried agenda or insinuations contained with it that perhaps I should exercise more restraint. He just really likes the fact that the meal he’s paying for is being enjoyed.
His phone rings a couple of times whilst we are eating and he checks it, briefly glancing at the screen, but doesn’t answer.
‘Someone wants to get hold of you!’ I say, the third time it happens.
He shrugs. ‘The office. Some of the Americans I deal with don’t have any concept of work-life balance. They’re workaholics.’
I nod. Ironically, Charlotte has made this very accusation against Dan many times. I can see that making money becomes addictive and hard to restrict to the hours of nine to five on weekdays – but maybe it’s not as simple as that. The next thing Dan says confirms my thinking.
‘But then again,’ he muses, suddenly dejected, ‘I can hardly talk. I’d be at home more myself if I felt wanted there. But sometimes, well, sometimes Charlotte seems as if she can manage quite well without me.’
I frown sympathetically. ‘That sucks,’ I say.
He doesn’t reply, just gives a resigned grimace and goes back to the papaya salad. I’ve had to give up on that – far too much chilli for me to handle.
When the meal is over, Dan leans back in his chair and gives a satisfied sigh. ‘That was great,’ he states, conclusively and I’m in full agreement. ‘But now I feel like going home and relaxing. Want to join me for a coffee and a nightcap?’
I hesitate for a moment. I don’t really fancy going to the manor and then walking to my house alone late at night across the green and down the dark road to the unfashionable enclave where I reside. Though there’s little danger of encountering hooded thugs lingering on street corners, sometimes it’s the dead silence and emptiness of the countryside that I find scarier than urban noise and bustle – especially at night. Like so many other things, I’m just not used to it.
&nbs
p; ‘Um, I’m not sure …’ I begin, wanting to tell Dan the reason for my reluctance but not wanting to come across as a total wimp.
‘Oh!’ he utters, as if reading my mind. ‘Of course, you’re worried about how you’ll get home. But I’ll give you a lift back or, even better, you could always stay over.’
My face flushes red hot and I shake my head. I’m feeling flustered, not wanting to seem rude by turning down his invitation. It’s kind of him to ask and even kinder of him to be concerned about what might be holding me back. But I’m just not sure I should, if it would be appropriate to go back to his house with him.
Dan is studying me intently. ‘I mean,’ he continues, ‘it’s not as if we’re short of bedrooms. Charlotte always has the guest room made up and ready in case of a chance visitor. You could have a swim and sauna in the morning before you go. It costs a fortune to heat that pool; I’d like to see it being used.’
‘Well,’ I say, still hesitant. ‘That does sound very tempting, I must say. I suppose I could borrow something of Charlotte’s to swim in. What luxury! Your very own wellness spa.’
‘It’s nice,’ agreed Dan, ‘but terribly underused. The family take it for granted.’
‘I guess that’s always what tends to happen,’ I muse, ‘when it’s there all the time; it’s easy not to be appreciative.’
‘So come!’ says Dan, gently. ‘Be appreciative. I’ll be eternally grateful.
I can’t help but laugh. He really is such a sweet, kind, generous man. ‘I’d love to,’ I reply, all reason to resist swept away.
The Porsche has us home in moments.
In Charlotte’s elegant drawing room, I accept the tumbler Dan proffers. I can’t stand whisky – or at least I thought I couldn’t until tonight – but I don’t want to be troublesome by asking for something else. And when I try it, I find that I quite like the peaty, boggy taste that seems to contain the essence of the Highlands. I express my surprise, inadvertently giving away the fact that I’ve agreed to have a drink I know I don’t like.