Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  He gently placed the champagne bowl on the side and pulled her to him in a fierce kiss. She sighed, moulding her sumptuous curves to him. He groaned, and pulled her to the floor. She wriggled out of her little black lace knickers and sat astride him. Oh, God, she felt so good. She wrapped her long legs around him. Oh, fuck, oh, yeah, oh—

  ‘Babe.’ Her lips nuzzled his ear, her voice was husky, and he had to fight to keep control. ‘I think you need my help.’

  ‘You’re – helping – me, baby. You’re – helping – me.’

  She slid off him, down, down, and – oh Christ. His eyes were practically rolling in his head.

  ‘What I mean is—’

  ‘Stop talking! I mean – don’t stop! Ooh, yes!’

  ‘I’d like to take a more …’

  Uah!

  ‘ … active role in your …’

  Wo-oh!

  ‘ … affairs.’

  He pushed her off him, zipped up. ‘What’, he said, ‘do you mean?’

  ‘Hey,’ she said, and she was a tiger, purring. ‘I want to make sure that a week like the last never happens again. Remember last week?’

  He shuddered.

  ‘It will have repercussions.’

  ‘A few.’

  She stroked his firm stomach with a touch that made him shiver. ‘Darling. I can be so much more than this. If I were your director of marketing, I would have hand-picked those journalists. Your choice – I believe he only joined the company three months ago – invited along a child molester.’

  ‘That prick is fired and will never work again. I intend to sue the shirt off his back.’

  ‘And you’re looking for a replacement?’

  He smiled at her. ‘But that would be nepotism.’

  ‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘But keep it in the family.’

  He cupped her heart-shaped chin and softly turned her face towards his. ‘You really want this, don’t you?’

  There was something in her eyes.

  He stroked the hair out of her face. Why should she want this? She had everything: status, money, and now a baby. Unless she had plans he didn’t know about. He was paranoid, even on 25 mg.

  ‘Angel. You have the most important job in the world: the job of bringing up our child … children.’ He felt himself blush. ‘You can spend, spend, spend, but leave the earning to me. I’m afraid I’m old-fashioned like that. I don’t want my wife working. I don’t want her to be seen to be working. Perhaps some token charity fluff: kids, MS, breast cancer is hot, but nothing more serious. I don’t want you to encounter any stress during your pregnancy.’

  To be honest, he expected a tantrum, even tears. But she merely nodded and said, ‘As you wish, darling. I only wanted to help. I understand. And forgive me for being so silly about Lloyd’s. You have far more experience in these areas – and it’s a wonderful opportunity for you.’ Then she gave him a light kiss on the cheek, smiled sweetly and parted her legs a little. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to finish what we started?’

  As Jack pumped away, Innocence longed for a good-quality feather duster to brush the cobwebs from the chandelier. You just couldn’t get the help these days. ‘Mm,’ she sighed. ‘Oh yes, oh, Jack.’

  Sharon Marshall had a thousand ways of being persuasive. It was just a pity for Jack that he was so unwilling to be persuaded. A simple yes would have made life so much easier for him. But, he was stubborn, and Plan B was already in action.

  Poor Jack. It was like taking candy from a baby. Not that she’d actually do something so wicked – although, of course, it would depend on the baby …

  LONDON, 1990

  Nathan

  ‘She’s expecting you,’ said Mark, grinning like a monkey from the orange Citroën 2CV’s driving seat. ‘No pressure! Do you want me to wait here? Or should I pick you up later?’ His laugh sounded forced. ‘Now, remember, I could get into deep doo-doo for this, mister! We’re supposed to be at the zoo.’

  Nathan smiled. ‘Chill, Markie,’ he said. Mark loved it when Nathan called him Markie. ‘I’ll give you a shout. But I may be a while.’

  Mark nodded. ‘I know. It’s a pretty big deal, this. You take your time. Just give me a bell when you’re ready.’

  Nathan waved. ‘Cheers,’ he said, and stood there until Mark took the hint and drove off. Her house was big – a whole house, not a half-house or a joined-up house. Those were crap. It had three lots of windows at the front, and the roof came right down. It made the house look half asleep. There were red roses growing up the wall in a neat, confined way, and a black garage. The front was a perfect square of grass. There were flowers all around it. Tall white funeral ones, lemon-yellow ones, bright pink ones, massive daisy ones. He didn’t know the names of any of the flowers. It was a nice house. It was a very smart house.

  He glanced down at himself. His jeans were from Topshop; he looked the business! Mark had insisted. It was, after all, a special occasion. The flowers were his idea too. ‘Women go nuts for flowers,’ he’d said – like he knew! They were pink; Nathan didn’t know what sort. It looked like she would, though.

  He walked up the path and rang the doorbell. Suddenly his heart sped up. What if she had a family – a bloke, children? He didn’t think so, though. The house looked too tidy. There were no plastic toys dumped in the drive. He was glad of that. When he saw a plastic toy, it made him feel ill.

  Footsteps. Click-clack, click-clack. High heels. Wooden floor. The door swung open and the woman said, ‘Hell—Oh my God!’

  He stared at her. For real, he stared at her. His stomach turned to hot liquid, and he breathed hard to stay upright.

  She stared back. She was pretty old – like, thirty. She had his eyes.

  She saw it too. He smiled, shyly. She put her hand over her heart, hiding it. ‘Simon?’ she said. ‘My God. Is it you? Simon!’ She took a step back. ‘Would you …’ She swallowed. ‘Would you like to come in?’

  Very polite. Polite, grown-up talk. Had he come far? Had he walked? At least it wasn’t raining! But when she made them each a cup of tea, he noticed she reached for the prettiest china, in the top cupboard, and that her hands shook. She kept looking at his face, looking away. At his face, away, then back again. He was saying that she had a very smart garden, oh, and these flowers were for her, and—

  Suddenly, she sat down quickly on the chair, gasping, as if she couldn’t breathe. ‘How?’ she panted. She was crying, a lot. There were double tears rolling down her cheeks. He felt himself being grabbed and squashed to her. Now he could hardly breathe. She smelled of perfume fit to choke you. He didn’t want to, but he put his arms around her neck and squeezed. He had to steel himself not to jump away to the other side of the room, shuddering. It was the same feeling he’d got after he licked a toad for a bet.

  ‘Oh, Simon.’ Her voice was a deep groan. It was like how women sounded on 15 films before they had sex. He felt like he might puke.

  And Simon was a crap name. It was the name on the birth certificate, the one she had chosen. He couldn’t say how wrong and bad it made him feel, to be called by the wrong name.

  ‘It’s Nathan.’

  ‘Nathan! Of course. Your friend Mark said, on the phone. Oh, Nathan!’ Now she was stroking his face, gazing into his eyes, all over him like a rash. It was too much, way too intense, like having a gun pointed directly at your head. He could smell her breath.

  She pulled him to her again, her arms heavy around his neck, and talking, non-stop talking until he felt like his head might explode. How had he found her, she knew he would come, she had written so many times, but no one would tell her where he was, thank God, it was a miracle, she had prayed for this day, she had never dared believe it would come, she had to pinch herself – and him! – to make sure he was real, he was beautiful, what a beautiful boy, and so grown up, she was so sorry, but she was so young when she’d had him (‘when I had you’: how dare she, the cheek, like sticking her tongue down his throat), her parents had hit the roof, called her a t
art (yes), forced her to give up her baby, she’d had no choice, done as she was told, made to feel ashamed, you thought times had changed but, bloody hell, they hadn’t changed one bit, but she’d hoped, she’d always hoped, he’d had a better life because of her – their – decision … dumb, hopeful, weak face, big watery eyes gazing at him, his eyes, please don’t tell me anything bad, don’t let me suffer, just make it OK for me …

  He was fine. He had been fostered once or twice, but it had never worked out, and now he lived in a children’s home.

  ‘A children’s home!’

  The horrified look on her face assumed that unwanted kids were all sent to live in pink fairy-tale palaces, little princes and princesses, running around making daisy chains and riding Raleigh bikes and eating fondant fancies all day long, stupid, stupid bitch.

  ‘And’ – shy, hesitating – ‘do you have children?’ Pause. ‘Other children?’

  She looked sad and happy at once – what a dumb look. ‘No … No. I never did. It just never … happened for me.’ She stopped. ‘I was married, not to your … father. With him … It was on holiday, I never saw him again.’ (Slag.) ‘I married, quite young.’ She laughed quietly. ‘Probably to escape from my parents. It wasn’t a happy time. I’m divorced now.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Poor you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she said, but he could tell she was pleased that he’d said it. ‘In many ways I’m fortunate, I suppose. After the divorce … very generous … and sadly, my parents died three years ago … a car accident … I don’t have to work.’

  She was a proper Girl Guide.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said carefully – it was always good when you copied how they spoke, and she spoke like a jug made of bone china – ‘it’s great not to work. But it’s sad to have no parents.’ Your gift to me.

  ‘Yes.’ She sighed. She sounded as if she was twelve and he was the grown-up! ‘It is a little … lonely sometimes.’ A timid smile. ‘You are my only family, Nathan. Thank you for coming back to me.’ She leaned in for another hug, greedy to take the love that she didn’t deserve.

  He suffered her insolent touch. ‘I’m really happy I found you. But … I’ve got to go back to the care home now. My … social worker is coming to get me. Please can I use your phone?’

  When Mark finally showed up in his tin can, Nathan burst out of the front door and gulped the fresh air. It was as if he’d been trapped underwater.

  Time for one more assault. She let go, after what seemed like years, but didn’t step away, and he wanted to gag. He smiled. ‘It’s been incredible to meet you.’ Get out of my space. He paused. Should he? Too much? Fuck, nothing was too much for this nutjob. ‘Mummy.’

  She practically came. ‘Oh! Thank you … darling.’ To Mark: ‘Does he have to go?’ Tears.

  He made a point of looking sad and blowing kisses as they drove off.

  ‘How do you feel?’ said Mark. Mark loved that question. Mark must have asked him that question fifty thousand times. But go easy on Mark. Mark had taught him a lot.

  ‘I feel great,’ said Nathan. ‘She is everything I wanted her to be.’ Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.

  LONDON, 1991

  Paula

  Sometimes, at night, she’d creep in to his room and watch him sleeping. Then, he looked so young and pure that she could almost believe no time had passed at all, and that he was still a baby. He would always be a baby; he was a baby. She wanted to bite his bottom! She’d confessed this desire to him, jokily – although she was half serious – and they’d laughed about it together. It was amazing how similar they were. They found the same things funny. And they had the same eyes. But it wasn’t just the physical side. She noticed that his mannerisms were like hers, the way he used his hands to emphasize a point.

  She noticed everything.

  He was used to having nothing: she could see that. She couldn’t bear to think about it. She was so happy to be able to give to him, when, that is, she’d finally gained custody of her own child – bloody ridiculous, the red tape. That it had taken a whole year was an absolute disgrace. Those awful, awful left-wing people at that … well, it was a prison. ‘Home’ indeed! She’d shuddered to think of her baby trapped inside with all those nasty little criminals. How dared they make him out to be all those terrible things. Of course he’d gone a little off the rails! She’d had everything, and even she’d stolen an apple from her friend’s lunchbox when she was, what, seven? She still felt bad about that.

  God bless Mark. He knew that Nathan had reformed. He was the only one of that bunch even qualified to provide a character reference; he’d known Nathan for years. It pained her that she hadn’t, that there were great yawning gaps in his precious history that she knew nothing about.

  She’d blocked out the agony for so long, over a decade, that now it was all rushing back and, despite the unparalleled joy of holding him in her arms, of breathing in the heavenly scent of her own child, the immensity of all that she’d missed hit her – it was like being smacked in the face with a cricket bat.

  She couldn’t give him enough, do enough for him. She had to always be touching him – it was like an addiction. She thought she’d want to tell all her friends – huh, what friends? After the divorce they’d all taken his side, followed the money. People were shallow. Anyway, she found she wanted to keep this miracle to herself, keep him to herself. She felt like a dog with a bone. She wanted to drag Nathan behind the sofa and growl at anyone who came near him. He was her property. She couldn’t share him, not for a minute.

  She’d given him the largest bedroom. She’d had it painted specially, with the ceiling a galaxy of stars and planets. She supposed he was too old for a train mobile, or even a helicopter lamp, but she didn’t think he’d mind that she’d bought him a box of toy soldiers just to have. She’d got him a computer (Apple of course), and a stereo, and a plasma TV. And roller skates. And a bike. And a tennis racquet. And a selection of designer clothes, and Nike trainers. And a mobile phone – so he could call her, if he went out, and she could call him. She needed to hear his voice. She feasted on the beautiful sound of that voice.

  He also had his own bathroom. He was very hygiene-conscious for a teenager – he took at least two showers a day. So what if she was spoiling him. Her only child had been deprived and the thought made her sick to her stomach. When social services had finally agreed that she could foster Nathan, she’d asked if she should hire a van to move in his things. He’d replied, ‘What things?’

  She couldn’t bear to think that he had gone without. She asked if he would ever forgive her, and he’d replied, ‘There is nothing to forgive.’ He didn’t eat as much as she would have wished; he was a little too thin. Just listen to her! So maternal! But oh, he was beautiful, quite stunning to look at, and it wasn’t just because she was his mummy. She was so proud to call him her son.

  Whatever he told her he liked, she remembered. In fact, he was only discovering now what he liked. He hadn’t had access to any significant choice before – he’d never eaten an avocado, or an olive! He’d never been abroad; she’d got him his first passport. It was amazing to have … purpose. The garden was beautiful, and so was the house, but there was a limit to the satisfaction you could derive from a house, a limit to the number of times you could re-do the lounge, or rip out the kitchen. With Nathan, there was no limit. There was always something she could be doing for him.

  She was a good cook, but it had been no fun cooking for one. After her divorce she’d lost a stone. Whereas, during their eight-year marriage, her ex-husband had gained three. Now she rediscovered her skills. Nathan loved Italian food: spaghetti alla puttanesca, lasagne. He was a little nervous of trying Thai, but her green chicken curry put paid to that! And he was so appreciative, so grateful: it broke her heart, because she guessed that no one had ever cooked a special meal for him before. He’d eaten junk, or stodge; basically, whatever was cheap.

  It was disgusting, how he’d been treated
.

  Now he was going to have the best of the best. He’d already started at that secondary school – school, what a joke! It was more like a juvenile detention centre, full of foulmouthed thugs who, if you walked past them, made a point of including the word ‘fucking’ in every sentence. A police officer was stationed outside as they swarmed out, to protect the public. She couldn’t wait to get him out of there.

  She’d enrolled him at the best private school in the area. It was heavily over-subscribed but it helped that there were ‘exceptional circumstances’. That said, his ‘background’ (grr) required an assessment by an educational psychologist. She was nervous – she didn’t trust shrinks – but Nathan had performed beautifully. He was an easy child; you could see that he found the other children fascinating. He talked less than he listened. The shrink had said that he was skilled at ’reflecting’; she guessed that was good. Oh, and he was independent, which they loved.

  He was thriving. He embraced every experience, and it gave her deep satisfaction to know that she had improved her son’s life, given him the chance to ski in Austria, camp in the New Forest, sail in the south of France, act in front of a real theatre audience, learn to play the guitar, and form friendships with the right children. He was popular, said his teachers, always ready to hear other kids’ problems, yet never complaining himself. Mentally, he was impressively … adult, they’d said. His head ruled his heart. He was highly controlled; they had never seen him express a negative emotion. This was fine, as long as he wasn’t repressing his feelings. Perhaps he needed encouragement – acknowledgement from a trusted adult that sometimes it was permissible to let go? But this was a minor detail! He was funny, even-tempered, charming, superb at sport. He needed extra tuition in maths and English, but he’d soon catch up. The head teacher had called him an asset to the school! He was perfect. The perfect child; the perfect son.

  ‘Darling!’ she called. Nathan was holed up in his bedroom, as usual, listening to Metallica. At this age, it was normal. She couldn’t bear it for too long though; she craved his company. Now she’d lure him downstairs. She’d bought a video of The Breakfast Club, and she thought they could snuggle up on the sofa and watch it together. She’d made a nice dinner. She’d bought Angus mince and made her own beef burgers, with home-made chips, and a token lettuce leaf.