EX Files

by Jane Moore

  With the modeling jobs small but coming in steadily, Faye managed to buy a one-bedroom flat in a new warehouse development called Millennium Heights in the Clerkenwell area of London. It hadn’t quite up-and-come yet, but a few trendy restaurants and bars were opening and it was handy for the center of town where most of her assignments took her.

  Two days after her wine-bar rendezvous, she was sitting at the kitchen table reading about a local hero in the newspaper when the phone rang.

  “Hello, it’s Mark. We met in Jay’s wine bar.”

  How different from Nat’s first call—“Hi, it’s me”—she thought. She liked Mark’s lack of ego. “Hello,” she said. “How lovely to hear from you.” And she meant it.

  He’d drifted into her thoughts several times over the past couple of days. After the shallow, sex-obsessed months with Nat, she was drawn to Mark’s warmth. He seemed pleasant and uncomplicated, and those qualities appealed to her right now. She just hoped that, unlike Rich, he had that extra something that would keep her interested.

  Now she was going to find out.

  Their first date was in a busy central-London wine bar where they had to shout above the noise. Encouragingly, he made her laugh several times and spent a lot of time asking questions about her life—which Nat had rarely attempted.

  “I really enjoyed this evening,” he said, as they walked arm in arm to the taxi rank.

  “So did I.”

  He looked slightly apprehensive, then asked “Do you think you could bear to see me again?”

  She placed her forefinger on her chin. “Hmmm, let’s see. Oh, go on then, why not?”

  “Great! I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve checked the restaurant schedule, and we’ll arrange something.”

  He saw her into a black cab, leaned in, and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Till next time, then.”

  It turned out that “next time” was the high-profile launch of a new bar to which Faye had been invited. She wondered how Mark would react to the celebrities and glitterati who would be milling around.

  To her relief, he seemed remarkably laid-back and chatted amiably to anyone she introduced him to. More important, he had the good manners to keep checking that she was OK. Nat had always abandoned her at social events until it was time to go home for sex.

  Because of the antisocial hours they both worked, they fell into a pattern of seeing each other once or twice a week. Often Faye would take a couple of her model friends to Mark’s restaurant for dinner. That way, she got to see a bit of him as he popped in and out of the kitchens, and she knew her friends’ presence added a touch of much-needed glamor to the place, which pleased François, the restaurant owner.

  Six months after they met, Mark called her in a state of high excitement. “I’ve been made head chef!” he said, clearly on a high.

  “Darling, that’s fantastic! One step closer to running your own business,” said Faye, anxious to sound encouraging. In fact, she was wondering how his new job would encroach on what little time they already had together.

  “Listen,” said Mark, “I haven’t been to see Mum and Dad in a while, so I thought I might go this weekend before I start the new job, and tell them about it. You might like to come too.”

  Given her usual reluctance to do the parent thing, Faye surprised herself by saying she would.

  To celebrate putting his foot on the next rung of the career ladder, Mark decided to treat them to a half-decent journey. Instead of bumping and rattling to Southampton in the 2CV, he hired a brand new Citroën Xantia with a sunroof. As it was bright and sunny when he arrived to collect Faye, they cranked it open to let some air into the car.

  “They’re really looking forward to meeting you,” Mark said. “My mother will probably ask you which university you went to, but ignore her. It’s her stock question.”

  Faye leaned back against the headrest. She didn’t speak for several minutes, just enjoying the sun on her face.

  She hadn’t given much thought to Mark’s parents so far, but now that she was on her way to meet them, she imagined what they might be like. In her head, she pictured a pebble-dashed semi with a neat garden and a highly polished middle-of-the-line saloon car parked on the front driveway. Jean and Derek would be an ordinary, charming, suburban couple who had worked hard to bring up two decent sons and were now enjoying their retirement. Soon, her thoughts gave way to sleep.

  A couple of hours later, she was woken by Mark shaking her shoulder gently. “Darling, we’re here.”

  She opened her eyes, blinked a few times, and focused on their surroundings. Mark was fumbling in the passenger glovebox, and pulled out a small remote control. He aimed it at the electronic gates that loomed in front of them. They cranked open and he edged the car on to the gravel drive that curled into the distance. Faye was confused by the splendor. It crossed her mind that his parents might live in the lodge or some other cottage in the grounds.

  “Welcome to County Coldair,” said Mark, in a mock-Irish accent.

  “What are you on about?”

  “That’s what my brother and I call it. It was bought from the proceeds of air-conditioning machines.”

  The driveway curled round to reveal a vast Georgian house, of the style usually drawn by children. It was almost square, with an imposing front door slap-bang in the center and even a wisp of smoke from one of the four chimneys.

  Faye was speechless. She had had no idea that Mark came from such a wealthy background. He had never mentioned it, and his whole demeanor was that of a nice, ordinary, middle-class boy. That he’d never boasted about his parents’ wealth pushed him up even further in her estimation.

  She soon discovered that Jean and Derek were the antithesis of what she’d imagined. Jean looked younger than her sixty-two years, with dyed, ash-blond hair cut into a neat bob that went up at the back. She was tall and slim, with an elegance that screamed money, wearing a pair of tailored black trousers with a gray cashmere sweater, and a single string of pearls round her neck. Derek was in a brown tweed suit, with an open-necked shirt and silk cravat. He was gray and balding, but his face seemed virtually unwrinkled.

  Faye noticed that the best Wedgwood china had come out for her visit. Either that, or they used it all the time, which was even more impressive. They also had good taste in wine. “It’s so lovely to meet you,” said Jean, holding out her glass by way of a toast. “Mark has told us lots about you.”

  Her smile seemed genuine, and Faye relaxed a little. “Lovely to meet you too.” She sipped from her glass.

  “Mark says you’re a model,” said Derek. “What kind?”

  “I mostly do fashion stuff for women’s magazines or mail order catalogues. Nothing too fancy.”

  “So, what happens afterwards?” asked Jean. “You know, when you . . .” She waved her hand as if to indicate she needed help in finishing the sentence.

  “When I get too old?” said Faye, helpfully. “I don’t know, really.”

  Jean cleared her throat. One hand was fiddling with her pearls. “Do you have anything to fall back on, like a university degree?”

  Faye looked across at Mark who gave here a subtle smile. “No, I didn’t go to university,” she said. “It wasn’t my thing.”

  “Oh, I see.” Jean looked disappointed. She’d always dreamed of an educated woman for her younger son. “Mind you, Mark went to university, then didn’t make use of his degree.”

  Mark tapped a finger on the table. “Ah, now, about that. I’ve been promoted.”

  “That’s great, son.” Derek smiled, but Faye noticed it didn’t reach his eyes.

  “I’m now head chef, which means more money. It’ll look great on my CV.”

  Derek still looked unconvinced. “Well done.” He held up his glass. “To Mark’s success.”

  They raised their glasses and chorused, “Success.”

  “And to both of you and the future,” said Jean, looking from Mark to Faye expectantly.

  Mark had felt from the outse
t that Faye was “the one,” although, of course, he neglected to say this on their first date in case she thought he was a Looney Tunes obsessive who might start hanging around her house and writing her letters in green ink.

  He’d never felt like this before about anyone or anything, not even his cherished match program from the 1966 World Cup final. She popped into his head hundreds of times a day, and each time he felt a chemical release that warmed his entire body.

  “It’s a crush, that’s all,” said Brian, after one of Mark’s tedious monologues on the wonders of Faye. “You fancy her rotten and you’re having great sex.”

  Mark sighed. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  “What, sex?” said Brian, facetiously. “You’re damn right I’m not getting it. In fact, I’m thinking of hanging a ‘condemned’ sign on the end of my knob.”

  “No, I mean you don’t get the fact that this is it for me. I can’t imagine my life without her.”

  Brian yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth. “I’m sure you felt like that about Kate once.”

  “Yes, I did, or I thought I did. But this is different.”

  Brian made it no secret that he regarded Faye as extremely high maintenance. But, then, his version of a high-maintenance woman was one who would complain if he wanted to spend Valentine’s night watching reruns of old cup finals.

  On the few occasions Faye had stayed at the flat, she had castigated them both for living in such slovenly conditions, and he’d seen the way she could wrap Mark round her little finger with a cutesy smile or a spot of well-timed petulance.

  “She manipulates you all the time,” he said one night, a few months after she’d first arrived on the scene.

  Mark stared at him. “No, she doesn’t. I do things for her because I want to.”

  “Yeah, right.” Brian scratched his crotch. “You’re not yourself when you’re with her, you act differently. You never seem relaxed.”

  “That’s crap.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is. Give me an example.”

  Brian paused, then looked triumphant. “You were never like that with Kate. You behaved the same way with her as you do with me.”

  “Well, maybe that’s why the relationship went wrong. Perhaps you shouldn’t behave the same way with your girlfriend as you do with your best mate.”

  “Bull. You should be yourself at all times.” To illustrate his point, Brian lifted one buttock and emitted a gentle fart.

  Mark winced. “Suddenly it becomes crystal clear why you don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “I wouldn’t want one if I couldn’t be myself with her.”

  They sat in sullen silence, watching the flickering image on the muted TV in front of them.

  “Anyway,” said Mark, breaking the lull, “you’d better get used to the idea of us being together . . .”

  Brian raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. Together forever, are you?”

  “I hope so.” Mark took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of asking her to marry me.”

  Brian picked up the remote control and switched off the television—a sure sign that he was taking the matter seriously. “Wow,” he said flatly. “Now that really is grown-up stuff.” He stood up, went into the kitchen, and came back with two beers. He handed one to Mark. “Isn’t it a bit soon?”

  “It’s been almost eight months. Besides, they always say that when you know you know. And I know.”

  Brian looked at him with undisguised scorn. “That’s all right, then. As long as you know.”

  Mark placed his beer on the table and fell into an armchair. “One day you’ll feel the same way about someone and you’ll know exactly what I mean,” he said.

  Brian lowered himself into the chair next to his friend. “I’m not being funny, mate,” he said, “but what makes you think she’d say yes?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Well, it’s just that she’s very . . . well, you know . . .” he was clearly struggling to find the right word “. . . glamorous.”

  “What are you trying to say? Mark was annoyed. Too glamorous for little old me, is that what you mean?”

  Brian rubbed his eyes. “In a way, yes, that is what I’m saying. It’s just that she’s a jet-setting model and you . . . work in a restaurant.”

  “Don’t make it sound like I’m a bottle washer,” said Mark sharply. “I’m head chef. One day I might open my own restaurant.” He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “But that’s not the point.”

  “It isn’t?” Brian looked unconvinced.

  “No. The point is that we love each other for who we are not what we do.”

  “Mate, I wish I could share your optimism about life, I really do. But I think you’re taking on a lot more than you can handle.”

  Mark snorted. “You make her sound like some unruly thoroughbred.” He got up in high dudgeon, grabbed his beer, and headed for his bedroom. As he closed the door, he sneaked a quick glance at Brian.

  His friend was staring at the floor, slowly shaking his head.

  Saturday, June 29

  12:10 a.m.

  By midnight, Jean was leaning against the library door, looking decidedly squiffy. A resigned Derek was now holding her by the elbow.

  “I’ll be fine, let me go.” She wrestled her arm from his grasp and attempted to take a couple of steps forward but stumbled and knocked over a small Louis XIV–style table.

  Tony was across the room in an instant. “Get her out of here, she’s drunk,” he muttered at his father.

  “I’m trying to. She was just going to say goodnight to Mark.”

  Tony set the table upright. “Wait here,” he said firmly. “I’ll bring Muhammad to the mountain.” He strode across the room to where Mark was chatting to Kate and Ted.

  “Mother’s lost the plot,” he said. “Get Faye and go and say goodnight to her and Dad. She’ll be safer in bed.”

  Mark put down his glass and wandered off to find Faye.

  “We haven’t met properly,” said Tony, shaking Ted’s hand. “I’m Mark’s brother.”

  “I know. Kate’s told me all about you.”

  “Really? That must have taken all of five seconds.” Tony patted Kate’s shoulder. He was immensely fond of this strong-willed girl and had taken to her from the moment they had met.

  Mark had brought her home to Southampton, shortly after starting university. He’d told Jean and Derek some cock-and-bull story about him and Jenna drifting apart, but Tony had suspected Kate was the reason for the breakup. As soon as he met her, he was certain of it.

  Kate was everything Jenna wasn’t. She was feisty, opinionated, in an idealistic, student way, and had a wicked sense of humor. Tony thought she was perfect for Mark; she brought him out of his suburban, Southampton shell, but did not overpower him. He hadn’t spent much time with the pair, but when he had chatted to them, he had thought the balance of the relationship seemed healthy.

  So he had been deeply shocked when Jean told him they had separated. It had never crossed his mind that they might—they’d always seemed perfect for each other.

  When he’d tried to broach the subject in one of his less frequent calls to Mark, his brother had brushed it off as a mutual decision, brought on by their ever-increasing arguments. Tony hadn’t pressed him because he himself was on shaky ground: he had always been resolutely unforthcoming about his own private life, always telling Mark that what people didn’t know they couldn’t nag you about. He could hardly complain that Mark had clearly taken the advice.

  Tonight, fueled by several glasses of wine, he decided to grill Kate for her side of the story. But first he had to get rid of Ted. “So where did you two meet?” he said, looking from Kate to Ted like a Wimbledon spectator.

  “Er, at work.” Kate was flushed, but Tony couldn’t tell whether from embarrassment or drink. “Ted’s a photographer on the magazine I work for.”

  “I see.” Tony drummed his fingers on his empty glass, and allowe
d a silence to drag on and last until he got what he wanted.

  After thirty seconds, Ted had read the signs and leapt to his feet. “I need to find the loo,” he said and grabbed Tony’s glass. “I’ll get that filled for you on the way back.”

  “Thanks.” Tony gave him a quick smile, then moved in for the kill. “So?”

  “I won’t pretend it’s not difficult,” she said, correctly interpreting his loaded meaning in that one little word. She had always been on his wavelength, he recalled. “But I’m coping.”

  He raised his eyebrows questioningly. “You don’t reckon you’ll be standing up during the ceremony, shouting, ‘It should have been me’?”

  Kate looked sad. “No, I think I’ll manage to restrain myself. But you know what? It should have been me.”

  She hung her head slightly, her front teeth scraping back and forth over her bottom lip. Her eyes looked desperately sad.

  Tony put a fatherly arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “What happened between you two? I never got any sense out of Mark about it.”

  “Tell me what he told you, then I’ll give you my version,” she said.

  “He said you’d started arguing a lot and made a mutual decision to split up.”

  “Did he?” She pondered this, then wrinkled her forehead. “I go over and over it in my head all the time,” she said, then added hastily, “he doesn’t know that, though. He thinks I’m totally over it.”

  Tony made a zipping motion across his mouth: indicating her secret was safe with him.

  She blinked rapidly and continued: “In a nutshell, we’d been living together for a while in a horribly small flat, we were both working terrible hours and we started to get on each other’s nerves. It happens, doesn’t it?”

  Tony nodded, but stayed silent.

  “We did start to argue a bit more, but I thought nothing of it. In fact, I was building up to suggest that we should consider getting married and having a child in the next couple of years.” She drank some of her wine.

  “And?”

  “Before I could mention it, he came home one day and said that, as we weren’t getting on very well, he was going to move into a flat with Brian.”