He purses his lips, obviously taking my refusal as a personal rejection. ‘Why did you invite me tonight?’ he asks. ‘Because you needed a date for your work party, or because you wanted to grill me about my report? Clearly, you weren’t seeking the pleasure of my company.’
He’s got me there, and I do feel a little ashamed of my behaviour. David Waters came here in good faith, as my guest. He didn’t come to talk about work, and I’m the one who’s putting a damper on the evening. ‘Look David,’ I say, smiling shakily. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a little bit too much champagne to dance. But I’d like to sit and chat – maybe a glass of water might help.’
‘Fine. I’ll go get you one.’
‘Thanks.’
He gets up and heads to the bar. As soon as he’s gone, I head to the Ladies’ loo to splash cold water on my face. I’m in the toilet cubicle when I hear the loo door swoosh open. Water begins to run. Hoping it’s Claire, I come out.
‘Oh!’ I cry.
It’s Alistair Bowen-Knowles – in the Ladies’ loo. He’s standing at the sink, his tie pulled out of his jumper, rubbing at a spot on the silk with a paper towel.
‘Ah, Amy,’ he slurs. ‘Just the person I want in a crisis. Can you come help me with this stain?’
With some trepidation, I walk over. He holds the tie out to show me – a splash of red wine. He drops the tie and grabs my hand. ‘I wanted to tell you, Amy Wood – you’re doing an awfully good job for someone so new.’
He thinks I’m doing a good job? First I’ve heard of it— ‘Well, I—’
He leans in and kisses me lightly on the cheek. The champagne is definitely getting to me, because it doesn’t even make me flinch.
Of course, he doesn’t just stop with a peck on the cheek. He pecks a little line of kisses in the direction of my mouth. The snowman’s nose flattens against my side. I have the overwhelming urge to laugh out loud – this can’t possibly be happening. For a second, I go limp, which catches him off guard. I push him away.
‘I don’t think this is a good idea.’ I flatten myself against the sink.
‘Why not? It’s Christmas. No strings attached right?’
Anger and alcohol mix in my veins. I grip the edge of the sink. ‘Two reasons really. One, I don’t want to, and two, I feel… oh no—’
I pirouette on the spot, and retch into the sink.
‘Shit Amy!’ he yells.
‘No,’ I sputter. ‘It’s sick.’
I stay there for a moment, my head bent over the sink. Alistair thrusts a towel in my direction. I wipe my mouth and run water in the sink, hoping Alistair will get the hint and leave. But as soon as I straighten up, he’s there again, weaselling up to me. He rubs his hand in little circles on my back. ‘There, there,’ he says, like he’s comforting a skittish horse or something. The hand on my back creeps around to my front. I wheel around to push him away, but at that second, the door opens again and Tessie comes inside. She screams, and I scream, and everyone comes running. And they see me standing there panting, my hands raised in crash position, my boss standing guiltily close to me. People are pointing at me, and I point at Alistair. My face in the mirror is as red as Rudolph’s nose. And Jonathan is laughing and David swoops up and grabs me by the arm.
Cold air hits me in the face. I’m outside a fire exit being dragged away by David, and, I notice, Claire.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks me.
‘Yes, but it wasn’t my fault – Mr Bowen-Knowles—’
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘That happens sometimes when he gets drunk. Don’t take it personally.’
‘But how can he just – do – that? It’s awful. What if no one had come in?’
‘I don’t know,’ David says angrily. ‘What if no one had come in?’
I stop and stare at him. ‘What? You think I led him on— ? That’s ridiculous.’
‘Anyway, I think the evening’s over.’
‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘I’ll call a cab. I want to go home.’
David steps forward. ‘I’ll take her,’ he says to Claire.
Claire looks at me. I hang my head, realising that I’ve left my handbag in the toilet. I don’t have my mobile phone or any money. ‘Whatever,’ I say.
After Claire retrieves my handbag, I’m bundled into my coat and David’s car. I know he’s angry, and I’m angry, and I never should have come to this stupid party in the first place, let alone bring a plus-one. We drive in stormy silence all the way to Nailsea.
By the time we near my parents’ bungalow, I’m quite sober and a more than a little sorry. After all, technically, it isn’t David’s fault that it turned into a miserable evening (actually, we were there for just over an hour) and that I’d had too much to drink.
The outside of the bungalow is trimmed with a riot of multicoloured Christmas lights, white icicle lights, and this year, Dad’s outdone himself with a tableau of near-life-sized light-up plastic figures: Santa, Rudolph, and – oddly – the baby Jesus, next to the door.
As David slows down to let me out, I put my hand on his arm. ‘I’m really sorry about tonight, David. I know you’re angry – and you’ve every right to be. But would you like to come inside for some hot chocolate?’
He looks at me, and I can tell he’s debating whether to tell me where to go. He looks at the house – behind the garish display, the windows are dark. My parents and their anniversary night, I recall with foreboding.
‘Okay,’ he says.
Still slightly nauseous, I fumble around for my keys. We walk to the door and the automatic light flicks on like it’s caught me in the act of doing something untoward. I glance over to the house next door – the curtains in Mrs Harvey’s kitchen window twitch and she gives me a little wave. Then she disappears, no doubt to phone her friends at the Scrabble club to tell them that Amy Wood brought a bloke home when her parents were out.
I unlock the door and push it open, making the wreath wobble precariously. I usher David inside and turn on the lights. Suddenly, I’m aware of things that I usually don’t notice: the smell of cabbage and English Leather soap that’s a dead giveaway of ‘ageing parents’; the fibre-optic tabletop Christmas tree that Mum keeps plugged in 24/7; the fading floral, slightly threadbare sitting-room suite with crochet-covered throw pillows that are not ageing gracefully. And then, I feel ashamed of being ashamed. Not for my parents – they have the perfect right to live in whatever manner they see fit – but rather, for myself. I’m the university-educated, grown woman, who’s having to be escorted back to her parents’ house by her date.
David Waters takes off his coat and walks towards me with a come-hither look on his face – like he’s now looking forward to the ‘kiss and make up’ part of the evening. I teeter backwards. All of a sudden, everything feels wrong.
He reaches out for me.
I sidle away towards the kitchen and start babbling over my shoulder. ‘I’m so cold – I’ll just put the kettle on. Chocolate, I thought, unless you’d prefer coffee? And maybe you can turn on the gas fire? I’ll make enough chocolate, I mean, coffee, for my parents too – I’m sure they’ll be home any minute now, and they’ll be happy to meet you… or, if you don’t want – which I completely understand – we can, uhh, do this another time and—’
‘Amy.’ I wheel around as he comes into the kitchen. ‘I don’t want any chocolate or coffee. I didn’t want to talk to those people at the party, and I didn’t really want to dance or sit and chat at that bar. I just want to be alone with you.’ He draws me close and kisses me full on the lips while simultaneously unzipping my dress and pulling it down at the front. I will myself to sink into his embrace but my body automatically stiffens. He stops kissing and fumbling.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m… it’s just that… I’m not feeling…’
‘Oh.’ He holds me at arm’s length. ‘Of course, you’re still feeling sick.’
‘Well, yeah, I am. Plus…’
‘Plus?’
‘Plus… th
is is all going a little fast for me.’
‘Fast? We’ve been out exactly twice.’
‘Yes, but I’m just not sure. To be honest, I’m feeling a bit of pressure.’
He takes a step back. ‘What is it? The golf? That damned house?’
I wince. ‘It’s not any of that. In fact, it’s not you at all – you seem like a great guy. It’s me—’
He holds up his hand, and his lip curls downwards into an ugly expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I get it. I’ll just get my coat—’
‘Amy, is that you?’ A voice. My mum’s voice.
‘Hi Mum… just a minute—’
‘Oh!’
To my great horror, Mum appears in the kitchen doorway with Dad at her side. They’re both giving me – and David – the once-over. David looks flushed and dishevelled like he’s coitus interruptus instead of coitus rejectus. My dress is hanging off me, my bra showing, and my face hot, and the kettle begins whistling at full pitch.
I rush over and turn off the hob. But by then, Mum has taken charge.
‘I’m sorry we interrupted you,’ she coos to David, drawing him conspiratorially by the arm. ‘It’s our anniversary. We had a very nice dinner and thought that we’d have an early night – if you know what I mean?’ She actually giggles. ‘Love the jumper, by the way.’
‘We weren’t expecting you and Amy back so early,’ Dad says, ‘but since you’re here, we’re just so pleased that she’s met a nice chap.’
I cringe. ‘Actually, Dad,’ I say, ‘David was just leaving. He has a dog that needs—’
‘Don’t worry, Mr and Mrs Wood,’ David cuts in (in a way that is clearly meant to torture me further), ‘the dog will be fine. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you and dying for that chocolate.’
‘Yes, Amy, sit down and be polite.’ Mum addresses me like I’m one of her five-year-olds. She draws David away into the sitting room. Dad follows them, humming ‘Some Enchanted Evening’.
Resigned to my fate, I spoon chocolate powder into four mugs. I stall for as long as I can, putting biscuits on a plate, finding the sugar bowl and four spoons, and putting it all on a tray. Unfortunately, by the time I bring everything into the sitting room, Mum, Dad and David are getting on famously. Dad is consulting David about the garden shed he wants to tear down and rebuild, and David is offering suggestions. Then Mum asks his opinion on some fabric swatches for new curtains. David goes along with all of it – he winks at me over his cup of chocolate, clearly enjoying my discomfort.
I sip my chocolate and eat too many biscuits, as the conversation turns to holiday plans, Christmas jumpers, party games, and more specifically Scrabble – my parents’ favourite. Before I can voice an objection, the single malt Scotch is out and the Super Scrabble rotating board is on the table.
‘No,’ I groan. No one pays any attention.
We all draw tiles to see who goes first. My head is half-nodding in sleep and I just want to crawl into bed – alone. But everyone else is going strong, and Mum gives me a little kick under the table.
I draw the high tile, which means that I go first. I take six more terrible letters – ending up with a J, Z, E, two U’s, an S and an X. I take a minute to wordsmith the possibilities, but in the end, I’m forced to increase my humiliation further with – SEX on the double word score.
‘Heh, heh,’ Dad jokes. ‘I guess that’s what you two kids would rather be up to, ehh?’
‘Dad!’ I want to curl up in a ball and die.
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll have you both beaten in no time and then you can get on with it. Are you okay on the sofa bed?’
‘Just write down my twenty points, okay?’
David makes a crack about my parents’ bed being more comfortable and everyone laughs but me. The three of them come up with a spontaneous new rule – extra points for every naughty word.
Mum has the next clincher with ‘TOSS’ and David manages somehow to make ‘SHAG’. I’m hoping that at least all the S’s are gone when Dad makes a coup using one of Mum’s S’s and the next thing I know, ‘PENIS’ has entered the fray.
The three of them rollick with laughter, slapping each other on the back. I silently palm a few tiles, trying to make the game go faster.
My next turn, I make ‘BANKER’ and everyone frowns. I’m obviously a party pooper. When someone offers to trade me a ‘W’ for the ‘B’, I push my rack of letters away and stand up. ‘That’s it!’ I say. ‘I’m going to bed.’
The laughter fades. Mum looks embarrassed. Dad and David both look annoyed.
‘I’ve had a rough day and a lot to drink. I need sleep.’
David stands up. ‘I’ve had a lovely time. But I should be going.’
‘No,’ Dad practically pleads. ‘Stay to finish the game. I haven’t had this much fun since Amy’s boyfriend… I mean – ex-boyfriend… heh, heh… took me go-cart racing…’
‘Well, if you insist.’ David smiles triumphantly and sits back down. I go over and give him a little obligatory peck on the lips.
‘Thanks for an interesting evening,’ I manage.
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘See you around.’
He doesn’t look at me as he lays down his next word: ‘SUCKS’.
- 20 -
On my way to work on Monday morning, I amuse myself by trying to decide which of the weekend debacles was most humiliating. From the three disastrous viewings, to the Christmas party and its aftermath, it’s impossible to pick a winner. But surely, it’s statistically impossible for everything to go wrong forever.
As I walk into the office and nod to my colleagues, immediately I sense a collective flashback to the shenanigans at the Christmas party. I sit down at my desk and turn on my computer. Claire asks me if I made it home all right after the party. ‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, my cheeks hot with embarrassment. I go about the business of checking my emails. Before I’ve even deleted the day’s spam, Mr Bowen-Knowles’s office door bangs open. He blusters out, without a hint of regret or apology, and gets straight down to business.
‘Amy,’ he says sternly, ‘I’ve just had a Mr Patel on the line. You showed him a property over the weekend?’
Everyone looks at him, then at me. I shudder at the memory of what I’ve tallied as the fourth most humiliating experience of the weekend: getting chased out of a crack house by squatters.
‘That’s right,’ I say.
‘Well, he’s just phoned with an offer. Sounded fairly genuine to me. The financing is already in place and he wants to exchange this week, if possible.’
Although I recall all too well Mr Patel’s enthusiasm with the laser measure, still, I’m stunned.
‘He said you convinced him that it had great potential.’
‘I did?’ I practically choke. ‘I mean… yes, I did.’
Mr Bowen-Knowles’s lip curves up in what might be construed as a smile. Not the wolfish, lecherous grin I’ve seen from him before, but one that is almost genuine. One that, despite his behaviour at the Christmas party, almost smacks of respect. And I realise that for better or for worse, this job is for real, and I can do it. I look around: Claire is smiling; Jonathan is glaring; Patricia is putting on lipstick.
Mr Bowen-Knowles comes over and shakes my hand. Then he heads back into his office. I sit back in my chair, my hand smarting from his firm grip. I may or may not ever get my name on the top of the sales chart. I may have made a complete arse of myself at the Christmas party, but I wasn’t the only one. I may have sent a decent bloke packing without so much as a proper goodnight kiss. I may be living with my parents and causing them perpetual disappointment because I haven’t inherited the Scrabble gene. But none of that matters right now. What’s important is that I’ve made a sale. And that’s something I can be proud of.
*
After the dose of good karma, the morning goes by quickly, and soon it’s time for lunch. Claire invites me out for a sandwich. We sit outside the Assembly Rooms, watching the tourists, and she fills me in on the C
hristmas party antics that occurred after I left: Mr Bowen-Knowles moved on to snog Patricia under the mistletoe; ‘Tessie’ left in tears and got her own taxi; Jonathan punched someone from the Cardiff office over a slur to his rugby team. I decline to fill her in on the later events of my evening. Still, I like the way she’s non-judgemental, and sees me as a co-conspirator rather than just an object of gossip. By the time we return to the office, my sides hurt from laughing, my hands are freezing from sitting outside, and the day has a general winter glow about it.
Until about an hour after we return from lunch, that is.
I’m sitting at my desk going through a few enquiries that have come in over Rightmove. I refill my coffee in the kitchen and when I return, Mr Bowen-Knowles is hovering over Claire’s desk. Immediately, the glare he was directing at her gets turned full beam on me.
‘Amy,’ he says, crossing his arms. Stiff upper-lipped, I follow him inside his office and close the door. He tells me to sit down. I sit down. He sits at his desk and frowns at a piece of paper in front of him, then at me.
‘A Nigel Netelbaum phoned from Hexagon,’ he says. ‘You were out so I took the call. They’re going to send through the offer for the Rosemont property. If we do the legwork, we should be able to pocket the commission even though Kendall’s client – that idiot “Mr Jack” – negotiated the deal. At least, you’d better hope we can, or else it’s all been a colossal waste of time.’
I open my mouth, but can’t speak, as the cracks in my heart begin to widen.
‘Anyway, they’re sending someone round to have a look at the house. Since they aren’t going to be able to knock it down, they want to see what they’re in for.’ He shrugs. ‘They’re hoping to make it into the clubhouse: pro shop, fine-dining restaurant, cigar parlour, members only VIP lounge.’ His face turns wolf-like as he outlines the possibilities. I imagine that he’s mentally practising his swing for his first round there with David Waters.
‘But if that doesn’t fly with the English Heritage antis and the local blue-hair brigade, then they’ll build the clubhouse on the other side of the property. It’s the land they’re mainly after anyway. The planners have hinted that if they at least shore up the house so it doesn’t fall down and fence it off out of the way, they’ll be able to get permission for the other stuff they’ll want to build: floodlit driving range, car park, groundsmen houses, machine sheds, etc. The planners seem pretty happy just to let them run with it.’
Finding Home Page 17
