Today, though, I couldn’t care less. Cosmo is fine, just a bit winded, but he’s still got a home and is guaranteed two meals a day, so what’s he complaining about? If he hadn’t been so insistent on being fed first, this wouldn’t have happened. And now I’ve got to clear up all the spilt milk.
Stuff it, I’m leaving it. I’m so tired I need to go and sit down. I’m taking my breakfast with me to eat on the sofa.
I get comfortable with the bowl on my lap and settle into a nice long uninterrupted think about Nick. The bastard. What can I possibly have done to make him want to dump me? I thought I was the perfect girlfriend: sexy, punctual, enthusiastic, if you know what I mean. What’s wrong with any of that? It’s been a fantastically successful formula until now, so what’s so different about Nick Bloody Maxwell? What makes him so special?
If you take a quick peek at what Nick Maxwell is doing on this Saturday morning in August, you’ll see him standing in front of his mirror in just his underpants, facing the mirror sideways, holding a hairbrush. Actually, it’s his mum’s hairbrush – Nick always uses a comb – and he’s borrowed it this morning for a specific purpose. He’s standing very still, gazing into his own beautiful blue eyes, holding the hairbrush by his side, in his fist. Suddenly the CD player on his dressing table begins to emit music – it’s the opening bars of Elvis singing ‘A Little Less Conversation’ and Nick raises the brush to his mouth, dips his chin, frowns into the mirror and begins to sing along.
He curls his top lip and thrusts his pelvis, his chest muscles jumping in time to the music.
Fortunately for me, sitting on my sofa, I can’t see this performance. I’m having a hard enough time getting over him as it is and seeing that would probably make me swoon into a lust coma.
But I’m still no nearer understanding why he seems to have dumped me. There is absolutely no sensible explanation for it. I’m trying to remember the last time we spoke, the last time we saw each other, although my own experience tells me that a dump rarely comes as the result of a specific conversation. Unless it’s something like, ‘I’m going to live in Australia tomorrow,’ or, ‘I prefer your best friend.’ But neither of those things was said the last time I spoke to Nick. I do remember asking him along to Jake’s party, but he just smiled and said he’d have to check if he was free.
Oh God, Jake’s party. Wouldn’t it be so great if I could turn up with Nick? It would be a very sexy spoonful of sugar to make the ghastly medicine go down. The afternoon wouldn’t be such a dead loss after all and it wouldn’t end until late tonight. I’ve got goosebumps just thinking about it.
Now I come to think about it, Nick has never actually said that he isn’t coming today. Could I phone him, just to make sure? No, that’s ridiculous, if he was coming he would have contacted me. But then my reason for phoning him is not actually to find out if he’s coming, it’s to remind him about me, so he hears my voice, and thinks about other parts of me and maybe is reminded of a couple of reasons why he started going out with me in the first place. At least it would be, if I was going to phone him. Which I’m not.
But then, why shouldn’t I? I’m not turning into Craig Someone, just by ringing up to ask very casually if he’s coming to this party with me today or not. I would never deliberately collect dog shit anyway.
I’m going to phone him. It’s a party, for a little boy, my godson, and I need to know if I’ve got a lift there or do I have to get there on my own. Right. Now where did I write down his number?
I’ve left my cereal bowl on the coffee table while I wander round the flat hunting for my address book. It’s in my handbag, right there on the sofa where I was just sitting, so don’t worry, I will remember eventually.
I’m worried about my memory lately. I can’t seem to retain information the way I used to. I’m sure it’s all due to this virus or whatever it is, or the lack of sleep lately, or maybe a combination of both, but I’ve become so forgetful. I’m worried I’m turning into one of those elderly relatives you hear people talking about who are constantly being discovered wandering along the B2046 in their underwear. I always wear matching bra and knickers by Jasper Conran, so if it does happen, it won’t be too embarrassing.
Ah, here we are, I’m back on the sofa, rummaging through my handbag. As I do so, my hand brushes against the mobile phone and I wonder distractedly if the owner will ring again today. Of course he will, if he ever wants to see his phone again. Aha, here’s the address book.
The number is surrounded by doodles of hearts and the word ‘Nick’ written in very artistic and flowery writing. Don’t look too closely at the page because you might be able to catch a glimpse of the words ‘Rachel Maxwell’ written there. Before I have a chance to talk some sense into myself, I pick up the phone and dial the number.
This is Nick’s house again, about half an hour after that mind-blowing performance in his room. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s got dressed and come downstairs in that time.
‘Nicky! Phone’s ringing!’ It’s Helen Maxwell, standing in the kitchen, pouring boiling water on to coffee granules. The ringing phone, with me on the other end, is in a different room, somewhere behind her.
‘Mum, I’m busy.’ That’s Nick’s voice, coming from the same direction as the ringing phone. Sounds like they’re in the same room.
‘Yeah, so’m I, you lazy thing. Just get the phone, please.’
‘I can’t, I’m at a crucial point.’
‘So pause it.’
‘I can’t, I haven’t got any Save Game crystals. Can’t you just—’
‘Oh, for crying out loud,’ she says, slamming the kettle down furiously, and balancing her smoking cigarette on the edge of the ashtray. She marches into the living room, mumbling under her breath, ‘It won’t be for me anyway, don’t know why I’m bothering,’ but Nick doesn’t notice: he’s engrossed in shooting a T-rex.
‘I’m not your bloody secretary, you know,’ she says, picking up the receiver. ‘Hello? This is Nick Maxwell’s personal assistant, how may I—?’ Nick glances up at her briefly as she listens to the caller speaking.
‘Oh, no, I’m not really, it was just a joke . . . I’m Mrs Maxwell, who’re you? . . . Yes, he’s here, shall I . . .? Oh, OK.’ Nick looks up again, more interested. Helen stares at him as she listens. ‘Well, you can tell him yours— All right then . . . Look, there’s no need to get . . . I shouldn’t think so, no. Right, fine. Bye.’ She turns round and puts the receiver back on the hook.
‘Who was it?’ Nick says, resuming his game.
‘I don’t know. Some girl for you.’
He looks up. ‘Did she say who?’
‘No, but she was bonkers. Very upset. Kept saying she was sorry and didn’t mean it.’
‘Did you know her?’ he asks, already losing interest in the conversation.
‘Nope.’ She walks back to the kitchen door and turns. ‘She asked me to pass on a message. She says, she hopes you catch a disgusting disease and die from it.’ She thinks for a moment, then nods. ‘Yes, that was it.’
Nick sniggers and his friend Sean who is sitting on the sofa joins in.
Helen turns to Sean. ‘Oh, hello, Sean, didn’t see you there.’
‘All right, Helen.’
‘Still not sorted out your tattoo, then?’ Helen says, eyeing Sean’s head.
‘Nah, it’s not worth it. No one really notices anyway.’
Helen smiles. ‘Well, at least it’s less offensive than SKINS, that’s all I can say.’
Back to me sitting on my sofa, staring at the phone in my hand. Of all the reasons for Nick not contacting me all this time, I had never once considered the possibility that he was married. I shake my head in disbelief. But then why should I be so surprised? He’s an incredibly gorgeous bloke who probably has women after him all the time. In fact, I should have been more suspicious that a bloke like that was still single.
Now that I start thinking about it, it’s disgust that overwhelms me, not misery. I have had s
ex with a married man. Several times. In his car. What if he had sex with his wife in that car? What if he takes his kids out to the beach in that car? No wonder he never took me to his place. Decorators, my arse. It all makes sense now.
I’ve got up suddenly. My face has gone a rather peculiar colour and I’m heading rapidly towards the toilet, clutching my hand to my mouth. I retch violently into the bowl, my stomach clenching to expel its contents, but there are only a few Shreddies so once they’re out, I’m left straining and rasping drily, body racked with spasms over and over, eyes streaming, mouth drooling. Eventually, after what seems a very long time, it stops and I slide, weakened, to the floor, wrapping my arms around myself, and curl up, foetus-like, saliva dripping off my chin and snot off my nose.
Chapter Six
SORRY ABOUT THIS – it’s not very interesting to look at, is it? It’s the outside of my bathroom door. I’m still in there, feeling very poorly, but it would only make me feel worse if you could see me. As you know I was born with a gorgeous face and body, perfect, straight teeth, naturally glossy hair and almost no freckles, but there is so much more to me than just those things. I would be a fool if I thought I could get by in life with just the good looks I was born with.
Firstly, I have to go to the hairdresser every six weeks to have my highlights touched up. While I’m under the heat lamp, Shanelle does my eyebrow wax, and every second visit she does my eyelash starch. I have to have some other areas waxed too, and let me tell you, that hurts. I do a facial once a week, I have a manicure once a fortnight and a pedicure once a month. I exercise regularly and only eat carbs every other Tuesday. On top of all this work, you have to consider the hours I put in choosing fabulous clothes, creating gorgeous, sexy ensembles, finding the right shoes – and it’s not just the colour that matters, it’s the style too – accessorizing with a scarf here, a bangle there, co-ordinating bag, earrings, belt, jacket. Then there’s the make-up. I have spent what must amount to years in front of the mirror, dabbing, rubbing, smoothing, practising and perfecting the ‘not wearing any make-up’ look. It hasn’t been easy.
So my clothes, hair and make-up are all perfect. But it’s still worth nothing if I am seen looking hunched and undignified. I have poise, elegance and glamour, carved out of the raw material that God and my parents gave me, and I will not sacrifice it by letting you come in and see me in this state. So outside the door you stay.
This behaviour is quite unlike me. Normally, I love to be watched, whatever I’m doing. Normally, I am in control of whatever I’m doing. This is a bit different.
I can tell you, though, even though you can’t see me at the moment, that I am quite surprised, and pleased, by this violent reaction. My abhorrence of the situation I have found myself in, of being ‘the other woman’, is so profound, due to my deeply held moral conviction, that it has brought on this episode. I feel quite proud.
Those sounds behind the door tell you that I am up, and in the shower. All right, you can come in now. I have already had a shower today, as you know, but I am not going to appear at Jake’s party in the clothes I wore to throw up in.
As I’m rubbing my head vigorously under the hot water, I start thinking about Nick. Well, actually it would be more precise to say I resume thinking about Nick. Nick and his wife, in relation to me. Could Chrissie have known he was married when she was urging me to go out with him? I think back to that moment, when she laid her hand on my arm. Was she giving any clues away, or did she look like she was trying to hide something? I close my eyes as I rinse the shampoo away and try to bring back into my head Chrissie’s face as she was talking about Nick. Aha, got her – big red hair, strong perfume, orange top. Right, but what was the expression on her face? Was it secretive and knowing? Complicit? Deceitful? I’m zooming in on her, looking really close-up, trying to spot those little tiny clues . . . Big red hair, strong perfume, orange top.
OK so I’m not the most observant person in the world. Not of women, anyway. But I do know one thing: Chrissie does not consider anything to be forbidden or out of reach, and that includes married men. In fact, I know that she considers a married or otherwise attached man to be a particular challenge, and a valuable conquest.
‘Single men are easy,’ she always says. ‘They’re not getting any, are they, so do you think they’re gonna turn you down, if you offer it? Has that ever happened? Of course not. They’ll take whatever they can get, no question. There’s no challenge there – they’re practically falling over each other to get to you. It’s all just a bit too simple.’ She adjusts her top, pulling the V down at the front a bit to let her cleavage out. ‘The real challenge lies with someone who’s got a girlfriend or wife at home and who can therefore, in theory, get some whenever he wants. You’ve got to persuade him either that he’s sick of having steak every night and would like to have a nice, big, juicy burger for a change, or that what he thinks is steak at home is actually just a soggy old burger and he can have nice, juicy steak every night if he dines out. Now that’s rewarding.’
‘What if he’s vegetarian?’ Susan asked once, looking sidelong at me and Sarah, before slugging on her Pinot Grigio.
‘Gay, you mean?’ Chrissie said with a confident smile. ‘Oh, Susan, you know they’re the biggest challenge of all.’ And she flicks her hair nonchalantly over her bare shoulder, as if to remind us that she has the power to turn every gay man she’s ever met over to the dark side.
She tried to convince us all when we were sixteen that she had done it. Had sex with a gay guy. I was very sceptical, even then, and she was much more attractive eight years ago.
‘Brian McManus,’ she announced proudly, a few days after the alleged event. Well, it was easy to see from his purple trousers that Brian was gay, but I wasn’t convinced she had really turned his head. If you get my meaning. Back then, getting a gay guy to have sex with you was the ultimate accolade and confirmed in the eyes of the whole school that you were the sexiest, most powerful and feminine girl there.
Susan gave me a quick nudge and produced a confused frown. ‘But surely, Chrissie, if a guy fancies you who normally only fancies other blokes,’ she said, apparently puzzling it out, ‘doesn’t that make you the one who is least—?’
‘You gonna have a go, then, Sue?’ Chrissie had cut in quickly.
Susan declined, giving her standard excuse that she had just started seeing some bloke from Iceland (‘The shop, not the country’), but I did find out myself a few weeks later that Brian McManus wasn’t remotely gay, and never had been. He just looked gay. George Clooney would look gay in those trousers. Trouble was, I couldn’t denounce Chrissie without giving myself away too. Brian was not attractive – he had huge yellow teeth and smelled of pastry – but he found that quite a lot of high-calibre girls like me were very keen to sleep with him, as long as he kept quiet about it afterwards.
So we know Chrissie has never slept with any gay men, whatever she might like to think we think. But I do know for a fact she is not averse to having a go at married men, and has dipped more than a toe into that pool. ‘Your dad’s a bit of all right,’ she once famously said to my horrified reflection in our bathroom at a birthday party. But Chrissie wasn’t the only one who was encouraging me to go out with Nick. Do Jean and Val and M and M all think it’s OK to shag someone who’s married too?
No, surely not. Not Val, anyway. The story about Val is that she split from her husband because of the affair he had a few years ago. Apparently, she thought he was doing the accounts in the spare bedroom, when he was actually doing the accountant on the upstairs landing. I’ve never spoken to her about it first hand, though. It’s just one of those really private and personal things that absolutely everyone in the office knows. So I think she would definitely not have encouraged me, if she had known Nick was a married man.
So, what does that tell me? No one knows Nick very well? Yes, and I don’t know Val very well but I still know about her cheating husband. If Nick was openly married, the office would know.
Which can mean only one thing – he is masquerading as a single, available man in order to ensnare innocent, gorgeous young girls into his web of sex. And lies. But mostly sex.
I pause while stepping out of the shower as this realization hits me. Can you look away a minute, please? Give me some dignity. I’ll snap back into action in a moment.
OK, I’m safely wrapped in a towel now. You can look.
Are you surprised to see me just throwing on any old thing today? Yes, you’re right, it is unusual. Normally, it would take me at least an hour to get ready, if not an hour and a half. Choosing my outfit alone has been known to take me almost the whole hour, but today I am throwing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt that says in really small writing across my boobs, ‘If you can read this, you’re too close.’ I’ve towel-dried my hair, but am leaving it to relax today, as you know, so that’s done. And finally, I’m not even bothering to put on any make-up – not a crumb. What’s the point? The only bloke there will be Glenn.
That is most unlike me. Normally I put on my make-up and do my hair even if I’m going for a swim.
Outside the air feels intensely cool and fresh on my skin. It’s invigorating and makes my face tingle. I realize that this is because I haven’t been outside without foundation on since I was fifteen.
When I arrive at Sarah’s twenty minutes later – after getting Jake a birthday card from the garage on the way – Sarah squints at me in the doorway, as if she can see there’s something different about me but she can’t tell what it is. Eventually, she hits on it.
‘You look ill.’
In spite of my apparently obvious fragility, Sarah has asked me to pull the bouncy castle down the garden to the shed, where there is a power supply. I agreed. Did you spot my mistake there? Well, I’m thinking bouncy castle, full of air, will be light and easy to move, like a giant beach ball. I can bounce it down the garden, no problem.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 8
