by Terry Tyler
Clean and new and mine.
At eighteen, when my friends were living with their parents, looking forward to university and spending all their money on clothes and make-up, I had my own place with my own furniture.
Working as a receptionist and waitress showed me where my talents lay. The proprietors of both establishments said the same: that I was terrific with the customers, that I kept them coming back.
“You’ve got a feel for them,” said Carla Stone, who owned Snips. “You know, instinctively, whether to do the girly mates thing or hold back with a bit of professional distance—I love it.”
That was when I dared suggest she change the name of the salon. Snips was catchy, I said, but it sounded like what it was; a place that offered OAP discounts on Thursdays, and did half price offers to get the punters in when business was slow.
“Call it Stone’s,” I said. “It’s more classy.”
She smiled. “I like it, I like it! Sounds upmarket, doesn’t it?”
“Exactly,” I said, and decided to take the plunge with the other ideas I’d had. “Upmarket is how you’ll make the place a success. Raise the prices, don’t drop them. Never mind the OAPs, they can go somewhere else. Start doing St Tropez tans; the posters will look terrific in the window. You know you were thinking of redecorating? Do it in your quietest month, close the place for a week, and let me drop leaflets all over town about the newly revamped Stone’s.” Encouraged by Carla’s smiles and thoughtful nods, I warmed to my subject. “Let me help—I know I can really turn this place around. I’ll ring up the local paper and get them to do a feature on it. And the radio. It’s all about PR, you see.”
Even as I said that, I knew I’d found my calling.
I knew how to make businesses make money.
I didn’t stay at Stone’s for long, once it was up and running. I needed to move forward, but couldn’t find the openings I wanted in my not very go-ahead home town. I considered London, but I wasn’t ready; I couldn’t afford to live there, didn’t have experience in the marketplace. I made another plan. I learnt to drive, took an evening course in marketing, and a position in a large estate agency. I shifted more properties than anyone else in the year I was there; management offered me a salary boost to keep me, but I had bigger goals. That year had merely served its function as a necessary stepping stone.
I kept an eye on the trade publications and found what I was looking for in 2006, when I was nearly twenty-one. A new chain of sports shops in Hertfordshire and Essex was looking for a PR assistant. The ‘proven experience’ requirement on the specification only fazed me for a moment; I could do the job. I didn’t fall into the trap of making ridiculous claims and promises like a candidate on The Apprentice. Instead, I told them exactly how I would approach media contacts, both on and offline; I think my aptitude must have come across because my interview at the flagship shop in Eltham only lasted twenty minutes. If I could impress everyone else, they said, in the way I had impressed them, they couldn’t wait for me to start.
Within a month I’d rented an apartment in Eltham. I went back to my childhood home to say goodbye to Mum, Dad and Storm on the evening before I moved. Even as I got out of my car I felt I was no longer a part of the family. I walked down the overgrown front path in my Armani jeans (a stupid extravagance), and all I wanted to do was turn around and drive away, as fast as I could.
I found them all in the kitchen. Mum was stirring a huge pan of something that smelled the same as everything else she cooked; I suppose there was only so much you could do with lentils and tinned tomatoes. Her round, unmade-up face sweated as she stirred; her hair was braided, and the roots were grey. Why on earth didn’t she dye it, or at least cover the grey with henna, if she was against chemicals? She was only fifty-two, but looked ten years older. Dad and Storm were playing cards and sharing a spliff. I’d hoped, so much, that Storm would follow my example, but he hadn’t worked since leaving school six months before, and I suspected his future was already mapped out. A girlfriend, an unexpected pregnancy, and a council house all of his own, no doubt.
They all looked up as I walked in.
“My goodness,” said Mum, “the young executive on her day off!” There was no edge to her voice; she just looked bewildered.
I went over and hugged her. She smelled of incense.
“Are you off tomorrow, then?” Dad said, taking the spliff out of the ashtray and drawing heavily on it.
“Yes. The removal van’s coming at nine.”
“You’ll come back and see us some weekends, though, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.”
“You’ll have to sleep on the settee,” Mum said. “Dad’s got his plants in your old room, now.”
She meant his dope plants. “I know.”
Storm looked up at me and grinned. “You look fit, our sis,” he said. “I like the hair.”
I felt a sudden rush of love for him. “I like yours, too, our kid.” We all laughed; Storm was trying to do the dreadlock thing but it hadn’t happened yet; he looked as though he had stubby worms growing out of his scalp. After a quick dinner we said our goodbyes and Mum cried a bit, and I hated myself for not feeling sad to be leaving them.
I’d left them years ago, in my head.
***
I worked for Bradgate Sports until the end of July, 2010. But I’m skipping ahead.
I loved my job, excelled at it, forged the image of the company as bang on trend but affordable, did much to gain contracts in sports outlets and create a great image for the online sales. I was Twitter-mad. During that time, I bought my own apartment in a brand new block in the riverside area of the town. A few men wandered in and out of my life, one of whom I thought I loved for a while, but emotional entanglements were not my priority until fate decided my path should cross with Jim Dudley’s at a squash club in September, 2009.
I went there with a colleague, Dana, ostensibly for a game but really to suss the place out as a possible outlet for Bradgate, and to further Dana’s romantic ambitions; afterwards, she wanted to hang out in the bar because a guy she fancied always played there on Monday nights. His name was Nick Throckmorton, and he worked for the huge property developing company, Lanchester Estates.
On that night, he’d been thrashing a ball around a court with his boss.
Jim had his back to me when we walked up to join them, but even as I looked at the back of his head and the broad set of his shoulders, I had a funny feeling. I knew he was going to be a person of great importance in my life.
Mum had always told me I had particularly strong intuition. Until then, I’d thought this claim was fanciful New Age baloney.
I wanted to sleep with him as soon as our eyes met, but I tried hard not to want to for at least half an hour because he was wearing a wedding ring. I’d always despised both men and women who pursue those already attached. That night I discovered how easy it is to have high moral standards when you’ve never been in a situation that tests them. It was no good me trying not to want him, because once you’ve acknowledged to yourself that you fancy someone, the genie is already out of the bottle, isn’t it? The brakes are off the rollercoaster, the ball’s begun to bounce down the hill, et cetera, et cetera—especially if the feeling is mutual.
He had this very dark, street-sharp look that I found so sexy. The lined, handsome face, the eyes that looked as if they’d been there, done that and seen everything; he was all man. Nothing like the trendy young guys I’d been out with before. He wore a black t-shirt, black jogging bottoms and trainers, and had a white towel around his neck; his thick, slightly too long hair was still damp from the shower. As soon as we were introduced, I felt my eyes roll down from his shoulders to his feet, inspecting every inch, and when they rolled back up again to look at his face I found he’d been watching me do so. He actually winked at me.
That was when I knew it was going to happen.
I was warm and flushed from the shower, too, and suddenly the air was supercharged
with sexual attraction.
Dana was so busy flirting with Nick, and he was so busy trying to hold her at arm’s length by keeping the conversation general, that they didn’t notice Jim passing me his business card. On the back, he’d written phone me tomorrow morning.
I had trouble getting to sleep that night.
“Drinks or dinner, then, pet?” he asked, when I finally plucked up the courage to call his mobile number the next day. I loved his accent. It wasn’t that broad, just enough to make me fancy him even more.
“Let’s start with a drink and see how we go,” I said. What I really meant was that I didn’t think I’d be able to eat a thing if he was sitting across the table from me.
Our affair began that evening. I joined him in an off the beaten track pub, away from the town centre, and was only halfway down my first glass of wine when he laid his cards on the table.
“Shall I tell you what you need to know, to get it out of the way?” he said. “I’m fifty-two, I’m married, and I have three grown-up bairns: Robert, Giles and Kirsty. My wife is called Jean, and although I am very fond of her, I’m not in love with her and never have been. I married her because she has a rich father. I haven’t been an angel during our marriage, but neither am I an habitual philanderer. To put it another way, I’m generally quite content, but occasionally someone comes along who shakes it all up—which is what happened last night.”
I sat there for a moment, taking it all in, and then I laughed. His face was dead serious, his eyes boring into me, waiting for my reaction, and I laughed. He loved that, he told me, later. He said many women would have fished for more compliments, or tried to find out if he was rich, too. He said that was when he knew he was going to fall in love with me.
He asked me to give him a brief biography, and even when I was amusing him with tales of my mother and her rain dances, and he was nodding with great empathy when I described what was important to me, it was there, just waiting to explode. The huge chemical reaction between us. I was just finishing my second glass when he leant forward to make a point about something and touched my leg. The touch was electric. We both looked down at his hand just above my knee, then back up at each other, and he said, “Shall we get out of here?”
Having only just managed to stop ourselves consummating our relationship up against a wall in the car park, we tore each other’s clothes off as soon as we got through the door of my flat, like I’d thought people only did on the telly. Oh, wow, it was fabulous, the sexiest encounter I’d ever had. Before, I’d just been playing at it, though of course I didn’t know so at the time, like you never do until you meet the one.
So the first man I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with was fifty-two, with greying temples and a wedding ring on his finger. Cupid’s a wicked little fellow, isn’t he?
Our lust temporarily sated, we talked. Because I felt bad about what I was doing I’d tried not to think about the fact that he was another woman’s husband; if anything I’d presumed his wife was one of those who know their husband is unfaithful but put up with it for the sake of the marriage and children, but I’d got that all wrong. Apparently, Jean Dudley was pretty damn fierce.
“You wouldn’t think it to look at her,” Jim told me. He was lying on his back, smoking. Yes, I was already so nuts about him I didn’t mind him smoking in my bedroom, which he thought was totally amazing of me. “She looks like the sort of woman who has the vicar round for tea,” he said, “but if she found out I’d been unfaithful she’d cut my balls off, and worse.”
“So she loves you,” I said, quietly. I felt even worse.
“Oh, aye, she did at first,” he said. “I’m sure she doesn’t anymore, though. We still get on reasonably well but my working class charm had worn thin by the time the bairns came along. I used to be her pet Geordie; you know, a bit of a novelty, the sexy bit of rough who was going to have his edges smoothed out by Daddy, except that I didn’t want them smoothed out. Now, the fact that I’m the son of a drunken labourer from a council block in Gateshead is an embarrassment to her when she’s with her ladies who lunch. She tells me what I can and can’t discuss when we have her stuck-up friends round for dinner. No, it’s not love, it’s the fact that I’m her husband, and, as such, mustn’t do owt to make her look foolish.” He turned to me and smiled. “Like getting caught with my trousers down.”
This speech made me feel flattered, intrigued and a little bit anxious. “You’re risking a lot, being here, then,” I said, with care.
He put a hand out to touch my face. “Yes. Nothing would have stopped me coming to meet you tonight.” Then he stubbed out his cigarette and rolled over on top of me again, crushing me, kissing me so hard I thought I might suffocate. It was gorgeous, though.
“I’m crazy about you already,” he said, when we surfaced half an hour later.
I wriggled out from under him; I needed air, we were soaked in sweat. “Are you?”
He stroked my hair, tucking it behind one ear. “Too right. I knew we had something as soon we met. You did too, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. Oh, what the hell, I thought. I’d tell him. “Even before I saw your face. It was weird, I knew you were going to have an impact on my life.” I kissed him. “And I massively wanted this, even if it was only once.”
Now it was his turn to laugh at my serious speech. “I love women who say what they think and don’t do all that coy shite. Aye, and you’re not bad looking, too.” I smiled. He lay on his side, head propped up on one arm, and ran his hand up and down my stomach. “I don’t really do one-offs, and even if I did, you wouldn’t be one of them. We’re going to have to be careful, though.”
“Where does Jean think you are tonight?”
“Dinner with a client. Oh, the alibis are easy. It’s the rest of it we’ll have to watch—I mustn’t look too happy, and you mustn’t scratch my back or wear perfume when we’re together, or send me sexy texts.” He frowned. “No—do send me sexy texts. I’ll get a pay as you go, just for us.”
I had to ask. “Does it make you feel bad, doing this to her?”
“I’m not doing anything to her, I’m doing it to you. Over and over again, I hope.” I laughed. “No, seriously,” he said, “It’s not ideal, but I don’t feel that bad, no. I’ve been a pretty good husband and father for thirty years. I work hard, I don’t drink too much or gamble, I do all the family stuff—and it’s fine, mostly. But once or twice in thirty years of marriage I’ve fallen in love, that’s all.”
I felt sick. I tensed up. “So what happened the other times?” I could hear the jealousy in my voice. Already I couldn’t bear the thought of him with someone else.
He lay back, pulling me to him and kissing me. “Don’t be prickly. Okay, I’ll tell you. I won’t ever bullshit you. The first was Julie, twenty years ago, and she decided what we had wasn’t enough for her. She found someone else. But the bairns were small, I couldn’t go. The second was Yvonne, eight years ago. She got too clingy. Demanding, like. She became a danger to me.”
That made me feel even more sick. Would he ever see me like that? “What do you mean?”
“She was pushing me into making a decision, too much, too soon. Threatening to arrive on our doorstep. I wasn’t ready; we’d only been seeing each other a couple of months.”
Something told me not to ask any more.
I didn’t need to, of course.
“You’re wondering if I would ever leave Jean, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re thinking, do I want to get involved with a man who will always be going home to his wife, when I could find some perfectly nice, available fella of my own age, right?”
“Am I?” Was he sure he liked me being direct? Okay, then, direct I would be. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”
“It’s understandable, especially after what I’ve just told you.” He shifted so we were lying opposite each other again, our legs wrapped round each other’s, and he stroked the indent of my waist with his lovely big strong ha
nd. I felt weak with whatever emotion I was feeling; I didn’t dare put a name to it. “Okay,” he said, “until last night I had no reason to think of leaving her, but I’m getting older and I rather like the idea of living with someone I’m actually in love with. There’s something about reaching fifty that makes you think about all this life shit. Look, I’ll tell you the score—”
“I thought you already had!”
He flipped my nose with his finger. “There’s more. If we’re going to have a future there are things you need to understand.” The words ‘a future’ made me feel happier than I’ve ever felt before, even within my fantasies about being one of the benefactors on The Secret Millionaire.
“We live in a dead big posh house, with another one in Northumberland, and a villa in Spain,” Jim went on, “and they’re all in Jean’s name, because they were all bought with her father’s money. I earn a decent salary, but I’m just an acting managing director—I don’t earn enough to keep my family in the style my father-in-law sees fit. He’s seventy-four and he’s like a fucking Mafia boss, I’m not kidding, pet. I was not much more than a bairn myself when I married Jean, but I soon wanted to be independent of him, for my self-respect. So, I started my own property developing company twenty-five years ago, but it went bust, so I was back to square one—which is why I took the job with Lanchesters. All the money I’ve scraped together since working there I’ve used to buy shares in it, and I’m working my arse off to expand the company and make it bigger and better, so that one day soon I can say, fuck you, Daddio, I don’t need your money. But that’s not going to happen just yet. If we divorce, I get jack shit because I was made to sign a pre-nup. Aye, I know, I know, the stupid things you agree to when you’re twenty-two and know nowt about the world, but Old Man Guildford was wary about his darling daughter marrying some guttersnipe who might run off in two years and demand half her cash. Being married to Jean means I can live like a lord, but if I fuck up, I’m on my own.” He reached over to the bedside table and lit a cigarette. “For the last few years, my plan has been to work with the Lanchesters, rather than for them,” he said, “but it’s not an easy company to break into. I got on great with the main man, Harry, who employed me, but he died a couple of years back and that changed the landscape. However, my love, I’m a shareholder now, and for the next four years I’m in charge.” He went on to explain to me how he’d come to be acting managing director until young Jasper Lanchester was old enough to take over. How his plan was to take the company into the hotel business, so that by the time Jasper took charge he’d be willing to make him not just a shareholder but a business partner. As I listened to him talk, I thought, he’s like me. He wants status and the things money can buy, and he’s prepared to work hard and box a bit clever to get what he wants. He felt the same way I did—that money equalled freedom.