Instruction in Seduction

by Judy Jarvie

  “Don’t be this way.” But she didn’t want to approach him, didn’t want to touch him; way too dangerous. Touching Nick was like poking a riled badger with a stick; it had repercussions that jeopardised important parts of you. He might pull her into his arms and then how would she resist? They both needed this but she’d hoped it could be amicable. She’d fooled herself.

  She stalled, seeing the ring in its leather box, placed right beside it was a glimmering, fluffy, perfect soft white feather. Pristine in form, just lying nearby like it had fallen there.

  Ailsa gulped. “Where did that feather come from?” she whispered.

  “A maid set the place up to my requirements. Maybe she has a feather duster. Or thinks they’re romantic?”

  She felt her mouth dry.

  Kirsty? Nope, crazy talk.

  Was she finally getting her call?

  “Don’t do this Ailsa,” Nick whispered. “I love you. You don’t think I’d buy a ring on a whim? This means so much more than some overblown sex list.”

  Ailsa shook her head. “I don’t know what else to say. I just know I can’t.”

  He retaliated swiftly, “What have you to lose? You say you hate modelling. You have a business dream but you’re not pursuing it. What wonderful life am I missing? Why wouldn’t you live with me?”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t be enough for you either.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she roughly wiped it away. “We’ve known each other a month. And you’re asking for life commitments. It’s too soon, Nick. Go home, Nick. Be a good Dad to your son.”

  Silence hung. She saw in his face that her words had moved him.

  “You know, I wanted this weekend to be special,” Nick said. “Not just spending time in bed, spending nights and days with you. I wanted to know you properly. You can’t do it; you’re not capable. You’re closed to getting close.”

  She rose from her seat, picked up her jacket and retrieved her bag. “You finally understand me. When Mum died, part of me did too.”

  Nick drew himself up, all strong, dark heat and mounting glaring hurt pride. “Then, you were right; the charade needs closure. I hope you find a new list and someone who’s happy with as little as that.”

  ***

  Maybe he had lost his marbles even considering this a logical next step. Scouring the jewellers and antique shops of Edinburgh looking for something just right. The special ring, the candles, the mood music, when the timing had been kaput.

  In Nick’s world, he’d fallen, from a height. Ailsa was the woman that mattered. Why wouldn’t he propose, suggest making things permanent in the only way he knew how?

  He’d tried being sensible but sometimes sense didn’t count.

  He’d still be there for Jake and for Amanda; that wouldn’t change. But he’d be so much stronger with Ailsa by his side. Yet she just couldn’t see it.

  Stupid fool. Heart on sleeve idiot. She only wanted you for sex.

  How mad was he? Banking on tomorrows when they’d had no real todays to start with. For her it had just been physical. For him it had developed into so much more. But hey, he’d live. Nick drove her back in strained silence. Dropped her at Sally’s flat and told her he’d find somewhere else. She tried to refuse, of course, but he zoomed off before he could listen to more draining objections.

  Nick drove away, his gut twisting like car-wreckage steel. He even managed to let the radio’s wounding strains of Hall and Oates’ “Kiss On My List” wash over him without inducing ironic strained humour or anger.

  It was over and time to go home. Not worth breaking a sweat for, he lied and pretended his world hadn’t bottomed. Pretended Ailsa hadn’t gone and notched up another tick on her List. And broken his heart into tiny, smashed shards.

  ***

  Ailsa didn’t ever want to speak to anyone again.

  She wanted to hide. Wear pyjamas for weeks. Call in sick from work, have a good cry, get over that she’d probably never, ever have sex that good in her entire life again. Her private parts may well shrivel up and die and she could devote her life to chanting anti man mantras.

  “Oh God,” Lisa’s tone from the kitchen told it was some bad news just to round off the day. Yes she was at Andy’s tiny flat with Lisa and she felt like she was getting in the way of their happy coupledom while she searched for somewhere of her own to stay.

  “That’s terrible,” her tone said it was serious. “He’s okay? Will she be alright? What about his son?”

  The word son had Ailsa on her feet beside her yanking at her sleeve.

  “I’ll tell her,” Lisa concluded. “Send him our wishes, will you?”

  Lisa replaced the receiver and bit her lip. “Sally says there’s been an accident. Amanda.”

  “Jake’s Mum?”

  Lisa ran on, “Car crash on a country lane. She’s used to American side driving. And because she’s famous it’s been on the news and we must have missed it. Look let’s fire up the laptop for the full gossip and look on teletext. The car wreck’s horrific but she and her man escaped okayish.”

  “What about Jake?” Ailsa pushed.

  “He wasn’t there. Thank heavens.”

  Lisa flicked with the remote and searched for an item she quickly found.

  The article told how Amanda MacGuire had been in a head on collision on her way back from a weekend at a country retreat. Her young son had not been in the car but her partner, actor Mark Brodie, had escaped with minor injuries. Tonight Mark was at her bedside at the Royal Lister Hospital in London. Her son, earlier reported to have been involved, was safely at home with family.

  “Nick’s gone south, Amanda’s had a close call. He needs to care for Jake.”

  “How terrible.” Ailsa could feel herself shaking.

  “Terrible for Nick,” said Lisa. “An earlier report said Jake was involved. He’d been supposed to go away for the weekend with them but at the last minute stayed home; it probably saved his life. But must’ve scared Nick to death. Imagine?”

  Ailsa almost went to pieces at the revelation about what Nick had just been through. And he hadn’t called, hadn’t needed her support. Why would he after her let downs and selfishness?

  “You okay?” Lisa checked.

  Ailsa nodded. “Fine.”

  Her memory drifted to the still boxed ring in her handbag. The one Nick must’ve purposefully put there like a painful reminder of how disposable she’d made him feel. Did he really expect her to keep it, or weaken? Now he was gone.

  “I’ll make drinks. Maybe Nick’ll phone when things settle,” said Lisa.

  “Doubt it.”

  But in her heart she was aching, wishing she could undo her actions. He’d gone and would never return. Nick’s world needed him back. She’d got her wish.

  His brief diversion to her bed was over. And Ailsa would just have to live with the guilt that she’d thrown it all in his face.

  Chapter Twelve

  Amanda McGuire had lived with Nick Palmer on and off for years before she’d moved out to The States. Even now she often stayed in his London abode when UK acting work came up; in a separate annexe of a palatial Fulham home.

  This Ailsa read in black and white for herself in “Hot Celebs Magazine”. It boasted glossy photos of Amanda reclining against her Provencal lace pillow shams in a splint, neck brace and with a glam smile.

  So back in the days when Ailsa had been nineteen and swooning over Nick he’d already been involved with this woman. There had, apparently, never been anything in it other than a mutually amicable arrangement. The article confirmed and hyped this at great length, before it went on to describe how her love affair with Mark Brodie, soon to be ‘Agent Ironfist’, had been sparked over a crowded room and crackled ever since.

  So why did seeing the gorgeous Amanda hurt exactly? Why did the insides of her eyes turn green?

  “What’d you think of her?” she asked Lisa.

  “Amazing bone structure,” said Lisa – the Best Friend Bible’s number one wrong answer.r />
  “Suppose,” Ailsa flicked the page with a ping. Pretended to have her interest ensnared by an advertorial on nylon sofa covers. “Collagen and nip tucks.”

  Yes, Amanda was pretty. She managed to look come to bed even with her neck swaddled in medical padding and gauze. Ailsa tried not to obsess about it but it wasn’t an easy task with Amanda’s face grinning from most magazine covers in the northern hemisphere.

  “What I’d give to look as good as her,” said Lisa.

  And Ailsa wanted to throw the picture, and her friend, at the wall.

  ***

  So Ailsa did the only thing she could under the circumstances; threw herself into work.

  Recently she’d filmed her ‘new look’ set of Sofa City ads, complete with dark, slick male model suitor. They’d nuzzled on the leather three piece. They’d posed for ‘loved up’ glossy shots for the Sunday Supplement adverts. The focus groups had given the ads sky high consumer ratings. All they did was make Ailsa miss Nick. Gavin was a great guy but he was camp as a row of caravans.

  At work she cleared her in-tray. She updated her C.V., polished and preened a few applications. A whole new era for Ailsa Murray.

  ‘The Witches Nest’ project was near to completion; the pilot weekend launch just over a week away. She busied herself with the final arrangements and forced herself to add that extra sparkle to what already promised to be a polished event. Most of the arrangements were in place but there was always last minute rearranging, fine tuning. Adding dash and extra value was Ailsa’s forte.

  Her relations with Sally had managed to stay on a light, friendly footing. It seemed Nick’s sister had no idea of the circumstances under which she’d parted company with her brother and Nick wasn’t coming back to Scotland for the event. His invitation had gone unanswered.

  “Fancy catching a movie tonight, Ailsa?” Sally asked when she went over to deliver newly printed programmes and menus for the event.

  “I’m up to my eyes decorating the new flat,” she told her. It was no lie. She was decorating the small flat she’d bought in Trinity; half heartedly so the paint pots really could wait. But she didn’t want to risk hearing about Nick. It hurt. Her mind would be on him for the duration of the film; not knowing and drowning her sorrows in paint fumes was an easier option.

  “Shame,” said Sally. “Another night?”

  “Definitely.” She hated lying, but she had to. Sally may have shrugged in a vaguely hurt kind of way but it was for the best; getting involved further was pointless.

  Two days before ‘The Witches Nest's' 'Dine With The Past’ event it hit her like a hammer. She’d have to forget Nick Palmer; banish him from her mind, her past, her consciousness. If she was to have any hope of surviving, her life must go on.

  So banish him she did. And it might almost, nearly have worked.

  ***

  “What is that?” asked Ailsa.

  Lisa looked sheepish. Sheepish to the point of baaing, bleating and gambolling down a hillside in Spring.

  “A present. To soften the blow of my news. The news I’m about to break,” said Lisa in a voice that smacked of ‘I’m about to deliver big news so brace yourself’. Andy and I have found a house; it’s set to go through quickly. Oh Ailsa, it’s a lovely little place, I’m so pleased.”

  “So am I. That’s great.”

  “It’s time to move on to the next level, Ailsa.”

  And before they knew it they were both crying tears of sadness, tears of joy, tears of remembrance all rolled into one.

  Ailsa hovered over the paint pot she’d been dipping her brush in before Lisa arrived, not caring that there were pools of drips collecting round her feet. There were tear streaks on her cheeks so what was a little paint added to the emotional melting pot?

  Plus who would ever visit to notice now? Now that she’d have no Lisa.

  No reason to socialise or bother with life’s niceties. Now she could turn into the bag lady hermit, live on fish pie and knit fisherman’s socks.

  “I’m pleased. But I will miss you,” Ailsa confessed.

  “You can visit lots. You don’t still hold things against Andy do you? I know he often outstayed his welcome before.”

  “I’d suffer him to keep you with me for life. No, I’m kidding. I used to think you were too good for him. But I know now he’s a diamond at heart. He took me in in my hour of woe.”

  What else could happen to further hamper the fracturing skeleton of her life?

  Who else could she lose?

  Pessimism was her current watchword; her motto, life’s black side.

  “What’s in the box? It’s scary.” As Ailsa watched, it wobbled slightly.

  It was a strange shaped box that kept moving every few seconds.

  Lisa proclaimed. “A pet. He’ll be a great companion for your new home.”

  The grumpiest, plumpest cat with attitude took his moment to appear. His scowl as notable as his fighting credentials; his splodged nose sniffed the air with a haughty air. Ailsa would have cried had it not been for the shock.

  “He’s called Bogey. He’s house trained but only eats boiled chicken or fish. He’s partial to anchovies and adores ripping newspaper. He chews human hair.”

  Ailsa scowled. “Quite a list of specifics.”

  “His owner died last week; lived alone. She was a Humphrey Bogart fan. She was also hot for Rudolph Nuryjev so think yourself fortunate.”

  Was this the life Ailsa was preparing herself for - hair chewed by mad cats?

  “Welcome Bogey. Scratch the furniture and you’re toast, you hear?”

  ***

  And then as if by magic life got better. Was it Bogey’s charmed presence?

  Alas no, it was the arrival of an email from Nick Palmer that wound its way to her computer screen twenty four hours before ‘The Witches Nest’ event.

  Ailsa’s inbox immediately became a happy place to be.

  “Hi Ailsa,” the email read:

  “Just a quick mail to say hi and wish you good luck for Sally’s event. Sally is ecstatic about all your hard work. I hope we can put how things ended behind us and agree to be friends. I’ll see what your response is. But this really is a plea.

  Here’s a pic of Jake at cubs (dorky Dad on the left). Take care and don’t settle for easy. You’re worth more. Nick.

  Ailsa clicked on the attachment and felt rainbows rise in her chest, bluebirds sang in her stomach. Jake stood grinning with his Dad’s dark hair and lashes. The picture showed him clutching a trophy. Just seeing the tableau poked at emotions she’d locked away in a private tin box.

  She hit reply:

  “Hi Nick,” she typed.

  “What a talented boy. Hope you’re recovered from your ordeal. I have to go as your sister is still a slave driver. Glad you want to be friends. Ailsa.”

  At four p.m. she was just about to leave the office to head for ‘The Witches Nest’. As she was pulling on her coat a courier buzzed and delivered a box for her.

  A helium balloon smiled from its carton. The label said – Break A Leg. Nick.

  Ailsa looked at her computer screen, toyed with sending a line of thanks then thought the better of it; they were being grown ups now. She clicked Shut Down and buttoned her coat.

  ***

  “Either you’re going through the male menopause or you’re in love? Which? I’ve a nose for these things.”

  Amanda was just out of hospital and still on crutches. Unfortunately her sense of humour had returned in abundance. All Nick wanted to do was tell her to go away. As fast as her annoying tapping crutches would carry her.

  “Neither,” Nick said dryly. “But thanks for the concern.”

  Perhaps it was the florist shop extent of the bouquets from fans that had been delivered since her discharge. They’d run out of buckets, vases, pots and jugs.

  Maybe it was because having a woman around reminded him of Ailsa.

  “I saw you were watching that DVD again. Is she the one from Scotland?” />
  Nick flicked the TV to off and mussed his on end hair. “What?”

  He’d somehow been sent a DVD (Andy Ferguson suspected as culprit) of Ailsa’s latest screen adverts. And no doubt, spurred by Lisa to give him a poke.

  The reclining on the sofa ad. Unmissable. Five stars.

  The crooking her finger, get down her to the sales, number. Something about the pout there – four stars. Maybe four and a half.

  The one where she had her legs crossed, stocking tops just visible all smooth décolletage and spiky heels. A stellar six point six.

  “Don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  He swivelled in his desk chair. Of course he damn well did; but getting lectured on the barren wasteland of his love life and his hankering senselessly for a woman four hundred miles north by his one time ex was not a good plan.

  “Phone her,” said Amanda. “You give in too easy. I should know.” Andy had said exactly the same thing on the phone two nights before.

  “I emailed her. And don’t get personal; I could have those crutches confiscated to a padlocked cupboard. The doc said bed rest.”

  “You said,” Amanda gave full thespian emphasis to the two words, “you acted in haste. We women are wily creatures. Maybe she just doesn’t know her own mind yet. You need to bring her round.” Amanda picked up the remote and reverse played through the disk. “Jakey says he thinks Sofa Girl seems a good enough sort. But he is only young. He said she was pretty; gave her eight out of ten.”

  Nick tried not to notice Ailsa pouting expertly in reverse; she even looked good backwards at high speed. Though not as good as she did straddling him, nipples like swollen peaks, hair loose and free as she urged on for more...

  “I don’t do repeat knock backs, she made herself clear.”

  “I’ll call Sally for her number,” said Amanda. “I can’t believe you sometimes – where’s your chutzpah?”

  It was Amanda’s brazen Jewish gutsyness that had attracted him. Only Amanda took chutzpah to another realm. Nick rose and grabbed the receiver.

  “Don’t foist forevers on the rest of us.”

  “Go up there this weekend. You don’t need to nursemaid me. Take Jake and go show him the sights. There’s an Australian rugby match on. What’s to lose?”