I’m huddled into the sofa, staring at the phone. There are four hundred messages on the answerphone, all of them from Cara asking me to contact her, except one which was from our Headmaster, Mr Shankley, asking me to call him, and one from Declan, begging me to get in touch with him. Fat chance. I’ve not returned any of them yet, because I haven’t the strength to make brain-to-mouth connection. All Cara has is decaff, mung bean coffee substitute which smells nothing like coffee – but this could be due to all five of my senses having been totally obliterated. Whatever the reason, mung bean jallop just isn’t up to the job.
The door bell rings, shattering the inside of my cranium and, rather reluctantly, I pad out to answer it, trying not to make too much noise in the padding department. I open the door and a man is standing there in a black leather jacket and a matching Nike baseball cap. I pull my dressing gown a bit tighter around me.
‘Emily Miller?’ he says.
I nod.
He pulls a camera out of his jacket and, before you can say ‘as quick as a flash’, he rattles off a bevy of photographs of a very bemused me with my mouth drooping foolishly agog.
‘Who the hell are you?’ I finally manage to stammer. But by then he has jumped back into his decrepit Vauxhall Vectra and is speeding off down the road in the manner of ace rally driver, Colin McRae.
‘Oh bollocks,’ I say with a heavy sigh. The world – and my bit of it in particular – is not turning out to be a very nice place.
Chapter Nineteen
Adam took in the unchanged décor of the Jig. It didn’t seem like five minutes since they’d last been sitting here. Cara looked vaguely ill at ease and Adam didn’t think she’d seen the inside of a pub quite so much in years. She was probably much more at home in a yoga class. He felt quite touched that she wanted to make the effort when the Jig clearly wasn’t her kind of place, and he was glad that he’d asked her.
‘This is nice,’ Cara said over the clanking of the fruit machine and the dulcet tones of Eminem on the juke box.
‘Yeah,’ Adam replied.
A white, jaded sandwich sat on a plate in front of Cara. Adam gestured at it. ‘Sorry about the sandwich.’
‘It’s fine,’ Cara insisted. ‘I like cucumber.’
‘Me too,’ Adam said. He just wouldn’t want to eat an entire sandwich of it manhandled together by the bar staff at the Jig. Their bacon rolls were infinitely more lovingly prepared; he just didn’t think Cara would be tempted. ‘Do you fancy some crisps?’
My word, did he know how to show a girl a good time!
‘No thanks.’ Cara shook her head, then regretted it.
Just as well, Adam thought. They’d probably only have raw steak flavour here. His colleague sank her teeth into the white bread and then abandoned it on her plate again.
‘I’ve been trying to phone Emily all morning,’ Cara said with a little huff of concern. ‘I hope Nick has managed to catch her in.’
‘I think he’d have let us know by now, if she wasn’t.’
‘Yes,’ Cara said. ‘I hope it went well.’
‘What could possibly go wrong?’
Cara shrugged. ‘You’re right. I’m worrying unnecessarily.’
‘It’s understandable,’ Adam said. ‘She’s your friend. None of this can be easy for her.’
Cara sipped at her orange juice. ‘I’m trying to get my Vitamin C levels back up.’
So that was the cure for a hard night on the pop! Her cheeks were wan, and now that she’d finally taken her sunglasses off, he could see that her eyes were sunk back like pee-holes in the snow. Adam smiled to himself. That Emily was definitely a bad influence on Cara. Or maybe she was a good one.
‘How did your date go?’ Cara asked, picking up her sandwich warily.
‘Date?’
‘Sorry, perhaps I’m being too nosy.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t a date as such,’ Adam said. What was the point in trying to appear like some sort of stud, like Chris, when he wasn’t? He might as well come clean. Particularly as Josh’s nagging was the main reason he was trying to brush up on his social skills with the opposite sex. ‘I was actually taking Josh out,’ he admitted. ‘My son.’
‘Oh,’ Cara said.
‘I don’t really do dating,’ Adam said.
‘Me neither,’ Cara confessed. ‘I think I’m too intense. I scare men away.’
‘No,’ Adam said. ‘Never.’ She was probably right. She scared the life out of him. But then so did the majority of women.
‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ He scratched his head. ‘I’ve had a few near-misses, but most women tend to object to threesomes. Particularly if one of them happens to be a twelve-year-old.
‘I like children,’ Cara said.
‘A lot of women do,’ Adam agreed. ‘But not if they’re other people’s.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘To be honest, by the time I’ve fitted work and Josh into my life, I don’t have much time for anything else.’
God, this was excruciating! He was veering between sounding desperate one minute and standoffish the next. When had he lost the art of doing this sort of thing? He looked at Cara, who was smiling keenly. It wasn’t fair to use her as practice. Did he fancy her? She was very sweet, certainly. But was that enough?
There was a distinct hiatus in the conversation. Adam studied his bacon roll guiltily. Every time he saw Cara he was eating unhealthily and carnivorously. She’d think he lived on bacon sandwiches. Actually, it wasn’t that far from the truth. What should they talk about now? Having exhausted the banality of his private life, should he move the subject back on to work matters? How was he ever going to get back into real dating if he found a sociable lunchtime drink more painful than plucking his nose hairs?
Cara smiled across at him and he forced himself to grin back. Help me out here, he thought. Someone! Anyone!
The door burst open and six girls from the Classified Ads department crashed in. They were always a wild and raucous bunch. Adam decided that it came from days of sitting on the telephone with headsets on taking copy for adverts for prams and sideboards and unwanted, unused golf clubs. When they were finally unplugged from their phones at the end of the day, they all went completely mad.
‘Adam!’ they all shouted, and headed towards him and Cara. ‘You don’t mind if we join you, do you?’
One of the girls, whose name Adam could never remember, came and kissed him on the lips. ‘Haven’t seen you for ages,’ she said, before plonking herself down next to him.
Adam looked at Cara, who appeared to be slightly aghast, and shrugged. ‘No,’ he said.
Amid much shuffling of stools, lighting up of cigarettes and ordering of drinks, they formed an untidy little group surrounding Adam and Cara.
‘Adam,’ one of the girls said, taking a drag on her cigarette, ‘what do you prefer – stockings or tights?’
Adam looked bemused. ‘I’ve never worn either.’
The girls shrieked with laughter.
Perhaps they should have gone somewhere quieter, somewhere further away from work, somewhere that was anywhere but the Jiggery-Pokery. The girls roared again. He glanced across at Cara who was looking downcast and more than a little disappointed. Whereas Adam wasn’t sure that he didn’t feel more than a little relieved.
Chapter Twenty
The photographic studio looked very salubrious. Well, it was in a nice, neat street with a nice, neat door and precious little evidence from the outside to show that it was, indeed, a photographic studio. Normally these places have a massive window with portraits of grinning brides and winsome children, but not this one. This one was a white stuccoed building in a well-to-do residential area and had, by the look of it, been expensively and recently restored to its Georgian glory. Through a wrought-iron arch there was a short gravel path which curved up to the front door.
Declan checked the address just in case it wasn’t actually discreet and he was just in the wrong place. He wasn’t. This was it – the answer
to his prayers. As he nervously approached the door, he saw the small gold plaque which announced very succinctly, Sebastian Atherton – Photographer.
This was the guy who took the pictures for the retired lap-dancing friend of Alan the computer nerd. After much persuasion – in heaven only knows what form – she had coughed up the goods to Alan. So to speak. God, wasn’t life getting complicated. Declan was starting to hanker after a time when it had been just him and Emily and relative domestic harmony. He would be glad when there could be an end to all this subterfuge and he could prove to Emily that he would forever be a caring, sharing boyfriend from now on.
Straightening his tie, Declan rang the bell and then fidgeted on the doorstep of the sleek black-glossed door surrounded by curls of variegated ivy as he waited. Clearly there was money to be made in photography, he thought, taking in the surroundings again.
Declan had come to commission some photographs. Sexy, saucy ones to replace Emily’s sexy, saucy ones. Alan was designing a new website – www.cheekybits.com – which he hoped, very sincerely, would get them out of this terrible mire. The bank was phoning every day, along with the backers and everyone else they owed money to. The only person who was never at the end of the line was Emily.
Declan wanted the site to be fun, feisty and, as the title implied, a little bit cheeky. He didn’t want to slither down the seedy side of the porn pole; just dipping his toe into the suburban outreaches would do just fine. He hoped it would be enough to appease Emily.
The story of her appearance on the net was starting to leak out in local places, which he could never allow to happen. Only yesterday evening, a jumped-up local hack had been snooping around for info and Declan had very firmly informed him where to go and which mode of transport to take to get there. These boys would stop at nothing for a story. But then he was a fine one to talk about ethics.
The door swung open soundlessly and a tall blond man stood inside. ‘Hello, there,’ he said in an accent that screamed Eton-educated.
‘Declan O’Donnell. I’ve an appointment.’
‘Ah.’ The man reached out his hand. ‘Sebastian Atherton. Pleased to meet you. Do come in.’ And he stood aside, while Declan shuffled past him.
Sebastian Atherton’s office was replete with maple furniture, fresh white paint and gothic windows that faced a long, narrow and sumptuously lush garden. It was minimalist, classy, clean and sharp. The epitome of modern taste. Declan tried not to stare. Sebastian followed his gaze. ‘Comes in useful for outdoor shots,’ he said, nodding towards the garden.
‘Grand,’ Declan said and suddenly felt like a country hick. Being the youngest of seven children had certainly left its scars. Despite his desire to leave his impoverished, down-market upbringing behind him, there were occasions when it pushed itself enthusiastically to the fore. No matter how he tried, style was always hard work to him. For all his designer suits and his designer watch and his designer anything else he could lay his hands on, he always felt like an impostor. Whereas Sebastian Atherton had obviously been born with effortlessly stylish stamped on his bottom. He didn’t look like a man who pored through the pages of GQ to find out what the ‘in’ thing was and what were the right names to drop in the right places. Sebastian Atherton looked like a man to whom it all came naturally – and who didn’t give a flying fuck one way or the other. Perhaps that was the key.
Sebastian had seated himself at his maple desk, while Declan stood like a naughty schoolboy. ‘I understand you’re looking to start up an erotic website.’
Declan felt himself flush at the word ‘erotic’. This guy must think I’m a real perv, he thought with a heavy heart. Declan nodded. ‘There’s big money in it,’ he said through dry lips.
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ Sebastian said with an air of complete indifference to the lure of making ‘big money’.
‘I wanted something tasteful,’ Declan said.
‘Tasteful is my middle name,’ Sebastian assured him.
Of that, Declan had no doubt. This was not a man who would trouble himself with snaps of a willing, buxom wench wiggling her bum in a conservatory in Watford. Declan peeped at the studio beyond. Despite being predominantly black, it also managed to exude sophistication.
‘Tasteful, however,’ Sebastian drawled, ‘does come with a rather higher price tag than tat.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ Declan said, attempting to sound as if it wasn’t. ‘I’m trying to get away from the old bloke in a stained mac image of pornography. I think there’s a huge market for something more artistic.’ Declan was warming to his theme. ‘More fresh. More fun.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, old boy,’ Sebastian Atherton agreed. ‘The market potential is huge. But then some men will look at anything.’ When he crossed his legs and made a steeple of his fingers, Declan thought he looked like an aristocrat out of a Jane Austen film. ‘Some sad saps actually take snaps of their girlfriends and slap them on the net!’ Sebastian laughed.
Declan joined him.
‘The things people do to make a few bob.’ Sebastian shook his head in amusement. ‘Ah well – it takes all sorts.’
Declan could feel his smile sticking to his teeth. ‘It certainly does,’ he said as lightly as he could manage.
Sebastian leaned over and whipped a small and unspeakably tasteful brochure from a series of stainless steel shelves. ‘Here’s a list of my charges,’ he said as he handed it to Declan.
As he scanned it, the Irishman felt a large gulp travel the length of his throat until it hit the raft of acid rapidly forming in his stomach. There was no doubt that he had to have Sebastian Atherton as his photographer for the new site, and there was no doubt that it was going to cost him. Atherton might be indifferent to big money, but he didn’t seem to mind charging it. Declan wondered if there were any Peters left to rob to pay the Pauls. This was getting into selling-the-clothes-he-stood-up-in territory. Which might well force him to go down the road Emily suggested and get his own kit off. Declan swallowed the gulp. ‘Do you ever photograph men?’ There was an uneasy croak to the question.
Sebastian Atherton barely raised one eyebrow. ‘If I’m asked to,’ he said.
‘I was just wondering,’ Declan said.
‘Would you like to see my portfolio?’ Sebastian pushed a beautiful leather-bound volume towards him. ‘Girls,’ he added with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Thanks.’ Declan groped for the nearest chair and crossed his legs. He wanted to be sitting down for this. There was no way he wanted to get a hard-on with someone like Sebastian Atherton watching him. That really would be the final humiliation.
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time Cara comes home I am distraught. With a big D. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you all afternoon,’ I wail at her before she’s even had a chance to take her coat off. Then I notice that her face looks very pasty. ‘What?’ I say. ‘What’s wrong now?’ She’s carrying a copy of tonight’s Hampstead Observer and there is a look of terror in her eyes.
I snatch the paper from her and there I am on the front page in my tatty, terry robe looking like some sort of drug-crazed, sink-estate harlot. ‘Oh good grief,’ I say and flop onto the nearest stair. ‘That was your photographer who came round this afternoon?’ I look at Cara for an answer and her cheeks are on fire.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Why didn’t you warn me?’
‘I phoned you here about a million times!’ There is a catch in her voice. And to be fair to her, I do remember a lot of calls racking up on the answerphone. ‘I tried to let you know that he was coming.’
‘He was a gorilla,’ I shout. ‘He practically jumped out from behind a bush. He was delighted to catch me looking like the wreck of the Hesperus.’
‘I know, I know,’ Cara pleaded. ‘We asked him to be sensitive, but he totally ignored us.’
‘I’ll say he did.’
‘It’s all my fault.’ She wrings her hands. ‘Adam was going to come.’
‘Adam,’ I say. ‘Who the hell’s Adam?’
‘He’s the only nice photographer we’ve got.’ Cara is trying to shrink into herself. ‘And, well, he . . . he sort of asked me out for lunch . . .’
My arms are folded and my foot is tapping out the same rhythm as my heart, which is a steady pound. ‘And you said yes?’
‘Well . . . yes.’
‘And left me to the mercy of a photographic primate?’
‘I didn’t know it would turn out like this.’ She casts a reluctant glance at my Pauline Fowler image.
‘But you might have guessed,’ I say.
‘I didn’t think,’ Cara admits wearily and I notice that her face is pale and tired. I cave in. It is truly exhausting being permanently angry and Cara might be an air-headed idiot at times, but it’s all done with the best intentions.
‘Here, give me your coat.’ I feel mean. After all, she is providing a roof over my homeless little head at the moment. And she is a very good friend. Most of the time. ‘Let me get you a drink.’
‘Not vodka,’ Cara says, looking alarmed.
‘I was thinking of a nice cranberry and ginger tea.’ Although I’m not sure that the word ‘nice’ is entirely appropriate for that particular combination.
Cara trails after me into the kitchen.
‘So,’ I say as I bash around doing tea-making type things with the kettle and mugs, ‘was this lunch with Adam worth selling your best friend down the river?’
Cara has plonked herself down at the table and is nibbling dried apricots. She nibbles one in an expressively thoughtful way. ‘Emily,’ she says finally, ‘I think I might just be in love.’
‘In love?’ I sit down opposite her and present her with a cup of blood-coloured water that is supposed to contain health-giving properties. When I finally got dressed I nipped down to the local Sainsbury’s and stocked up on emergency supplies of good old Tetley’s super-strength, caffeine-laden, hairy-arsed tea, and as I take a sip of this welcome restorative brew now, I sigh with relief as it hits the spot. Why does tea always work when all else fails? Declan made magic tea – it could put you to sleep when you couldn’t and wake you up when you couldn’t do that either. It was the only vaguely domestic thing he was any good at. ‘Now that’s a news story.’
A Compromising Position Page 9
