I blink. ‘Um. All right then. I’ll wait here, shall I?’
So we went to Pizza Hut. Seated in the booth, I take the picture out of my bag and lay it on the table. We pore over it, arms on the table, heads almost touching.
‘He kept saying “he”,’ Hector says. I nod.
‘I noticed that. What do you think it means?’
Hector looks up at me with a lopsided smile. ‘I can’t imagine, can you?’
‘Could he have been saying it to cover all eventualities?’
He shrugs. ‘I suppose so.’ We both lean down over the picture again. Hector says, ‘I couldn’t believe how clear . . .’
‘Me neither.’
‘And the little feet . . .’
‘I know.’
‘Did you see his face?’
‘Yes! He looked right at me.’
‘And the hiccups!’
‘Yes! I didn’t even know that they . . .’
‘Nor me!’
We both laugh and look up at each other. Our faces are very close and we both sit up a bit more.
‘I wonder if it is a boy,’ I say.
‘Well, you’re just going to have to wait till Christmas to open your presents, aren’t you, little girl?’
‘You’re right. There’s no way I can open this one early.’ And here comes the waitress with Hector’s pizza. Look at the way she’s ogling him, for heaven’s sake. Like he’d ever look twice at a waitress.
‘Thank you very much,’ he says, smiling warmly at the girl and maintaining eye contact for a second longer than was actually required.
‘Ooh,’ I say suddenly, clutching my belly. That got his attention.
‘What? God, what is it, Rachel? Is everything all right?’
I nod. ‘I think I just felt it move.’
Very near by but too far ever to visit, microscopic nerves caused tiny muscles to contract a tenth of a millimetre and a miniature limb like a curled prawn twitched in its first demonstration that it was alive, and in some tiny, subliminal way it knew that it was.
‘Oh my God. Really? What did it feel like?’
I’m shaking my head because it’s impossible to describe. How can you explain what something feels like if you’ve never felt it before and the other person never will?
‘Oh, it’s like, I don’t know, like holding a butterfly in my hand. No, no, wait a minute; maybe more like someone flicking dust off my jacket. Oh, Hector, it’s so hard to . . . Oh, there it goes again!’ I lean back in my seat, my breath taken away by this new extraordinary feeling, and lay my hands across my belly.
A week and a half later, here I am sitting at my desk listlessly talking through the St Petersburg hotels with a customer.
‘No, Mrs Sullivan, that one doesn’t have a pool. Or a gym, no. Well, I don’t think any of them do. I don’t know why – maybe that sort of thing isn’t very popular over there.’ There’s an opening here for me to suggest a more expensive destination, like Dubai, where all the hotels will have pools and gyms and air conditioning and saunas and spas and hairdressers, but I miss it.
I am interrupted by Hector’s phone going off in my bag. ‘Oh, Mrs Sullivan, I’m awfully sorry, can you hear that sound? It’s the fire alarm. I’m going to have to go now. Why don’t you call back in an hour or two? If the building is still standing, I’m sure someone will be able to help you. Yes, certainly, my name is Christine. Thank you, goodbye.’
I flick to ‘B’ for Busy, grab my handbag and head for the door and the sanctuary of the Ladies. As I go I am rummaging in my bag to get the phone before it stops.
You’ll notice that as I enter, I don’t hesitate, even for a second, by the mirror, but head quickly into a cubicle.
‘Hi,’ I say as I lock the door behind me.
‘It’s me,’ he says, as if we were really close.
‘Hello, you. How are things?’
‘I’m fine. How are you two?’
‘We’re doing well. Plum is still hiding and I think he’s right. He can’t face all the probing into his parentage that he’ll face as soon as he announces his presence.’
‘I can understand that. Little fella’s entitled to some privacy.’
‘He certainly is.’ A sudden thought occurs to me. It’s the office Christmas party at the end of next week. What if I invite Hector to come with me? God, I’d love to see the look on Chrissie’s face if I turned up with him. She’s probably never seen anything like him before. Outside of the Littlewoods catalogue.
There’s something familiar about this scenario, isn’t there? Remember when I asked Nick to come to Jake’s party with me? Well, I didn’t know it then, but that was the final nail in the coffin for our relationship. Technically, it was the only nail, but it was a big ’un.
‘Hey, Hec, are you free next Friday?’
‘What, the eighth? I think so, why?’
‘Well, it’s our office Christmas party and I was wondering if you . . . Well, if you would . . .’
‘Come and perform? Yes, I would love to, thanks so much. But how did you know I was in a band? God, this is great! I can’t wait to tell the guys. We haven’t had a gig for months. They’ll be stacked.’
This is utterly hideous. There is no way anyone wants a live band at the Christmas party. Unless it’s U2. But then only if they promised to do ‘Elevation’. And then leave.
‘Er, Hector, I actually didn’t know you were in a band. What kind of music do you do?’
‘Mostly heavy slash metal, and some disco.’
‘Oh. What’s the band called?’
‘It’s called . . . um . . . Dead Funky.’
‘Wow. The problem is that I don’t think that Rupert de Witter will want that sort of music at—’
‘Oh, no, it won’t be a problem. He’s a friend of mine, remember?’
Crap. ‘Oh, yes, of course. That’s . . . good, isn’t it? Well. I suppose, in that case, that you—’
‘Oh, Rach, I’m sorry.’ He’s laughing. ‘I’m only teasing you. I’m not really in a band. It’s a joke!’
I have to wonder at this point why he called me. Was he at a loose end and fancied having a good laugh?
‘Right. Great. Good one. You really got me there.’
‘I’m sorry. I just couldn’t help it. What were you going to ask me about next Friday?’
But I’ve suddenly gone off the idea of asking him. I have to keep reminding myself that he’s a friend, a mate, someone to have a laugh with, muck about with, not more. It’s clear from his little joke that that’s how he sees me, and if I now go and ask him to come to the party, it looks as if I want it to become something more, which is not what he wants. And that, as I know from first-hand experience, makes me look sad and desperate.
‘Oh, no, it doesn’t matter after all. It’s all sorted.’
‘What, you sorted it while you’ve been on the phone to me?’
‘Yeah. Someone’s just put a note on my desk, so it’s all fine now.’
‘Really? Oh, well. Good.’
‘OK then.’ I’m making end-of-the-call noises because it’s become quite hard to listen to his voice knowing that he thinks of me as one of the lads.
‘Rach, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘What? You didn’t. When?’
‘Just then. That little joke. I’m really sorry if I hurt your feelings.’
‘No, don’t be silly. I’m fine. Look, Hector, I’d better go. There are search helicopters circling the building.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. I’ll speak to you soon, then.’
‘Hope so. Bye.’
So here I am now, arriving at the party. The shirt I’m wearing is the new top. What do you think? I’ve worn the diamanté camisole underneath a couple of times but I don’t think anyone here has seen it before. Anyway, to hide my little bump I’ve had to put this baggy gold shirt on over the top. I don’t think it’s visible really, is it? Looking at me from the other side of the room, in the dark and the fog, pissed out of your s
kull, you wouldn’t notice any difference.
I’m not drinking, of course. It promises to be a laugh a minute for me, doesn’t it?
Plum’s movements have become really noticeable over the past three weeks. To begin with, I only felt it maybe once or twice a day, for a fleeting moment. And when it stopped, I got really sad and wanted it to come back. Now it’s flickering away inside me like a candle flame, or like bubbles rising. It’s a very peculiar sensation that feels almost like it’s nothing to do with me.
As I enter the party, I start scanning the crowd for a glimpse of Nick. Well, come on, why do you think I spent so long getting ready? He’s bound to be here – every department is here – so I’m desperate to spot him.
I don’t want him back; you don’t need to worry about that. Not even if he got down on his knees in front of me, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, his skin shiny and damp, his hair all flopping messily, those stunning baby-blue eyes gazing up at me imploringly, or maybe just lustily, those full lips reaching up for a kiss, that sensual mouth—
Crikey, it’s hot in here.
No, no, no. I just want to have a look at him. I haven’t seen him since we last met at the vending machine by the lift on the third floor and he called me a bitch – presumably he made a special trip down from the sixth floor to say that – so I just want to have a look at him. Actually, what I really want is for him to have a good look at me while I am being devastatingly sexy, and for me to be utterly oblivious of him. But first I’ve got to hunt him down.
He should be easy to spot as there aren’t many people at Horizon who look like him – there aren’t many people in the world who look like him – but I can’t pick him out. There are a few youngish blokes here and they’re all wearing short-sleeve shirts and jeans. From a distance, Nick could be any of them. I need to get closer so I can study them more carefully, while looking like I’m not even aware of them.
Chrissie and Val are here, so I go over and stand with them. Chrissie looks like a tramp, doesn’t she – short red skirt, black top, thigh-length black shiny boots; it’s fantastic – and Val is wearing a very feminine floral-print dress and some peach lipstick. She looks different. We make our way over to the bar, but none of the blokes comes over to buy me a drink, which is unusual.
‘Where is everyone?’ I shout to Chrissie.
‘What do you mean? Everyone’s here.’
It’s not until we get to the bar that I realize why it seems there are fewer blokes here than usual: they’re all grouped around someone sitting on a bar stool. And guess who it is?
Paris.
She’s had her hair cut, look. It’s short now, and brushed forward around her face. It looks ridiculous, frankly. And so does she, flirting, batting her eyelids, simpering, giggling, thanking people so much for getting her a drink. For God’s sake. I fist my hands as I imagine pushing her off the stool in her little strapless basque and sateen skirt.
It’s a possibility that Nick is somewhere in that crowd, but I don’t want to get any nearer. That would be too obvious. I move away and notice that even Chrissie, in her trampy way, is getting some of the attention. She and Paris giggle and put their heads together, like two people who have been friends for twenty years. I turn away and watch the dancing for a while, my eyes darting around, looking for those shoulders, that hair, those eyes. I’m not drinking so the hilarious antics of the couples and singles just make me squirm. I can’t bear to look at one of the Ms with his shirt off, shimmying in front of Val, whose eyes are darting desperately around the room – anywhere, in fact, but at his shiny bare chest. But at the same time, I can’t take my eyes off this spectacle. It’s utterly riveting.
By eleven o’clock, I’ve had enough. Somehow, Nick is the one who has been oblivious to me while I have peered into every corner looking for him, and I’m crushingly disappointed. My head is pounding, I’m tired and the music is too loud. I leave the office and head towards the lifts, intending to sneak away without anyone noticing. But as I move along the deserted corridor, I spot a flash of movement with the corner of my eye. It was far down the end of the corridor that leads away from the lifts.
All is bright and familiar at the lifts, and my car waits at the bottom to take me home to bed. But I hesitate. Was that another quick movement at the end of the corridor? It’s very dark down there. It must have been my imagination. But in an action that is more like something Hector would do, I’m heading down there anyway, tip-toeing, can you believe? As if that’s going to make any difference with the noise of the party just a few doors away.
I think I hear a short burst of soft laughter, and a rumbling sound that could be furniture being dragged across a floor. The lights from the lifts and the party noises are receding behind me, and it’s getting darker and quieter down here. I’ve never been down here before. I think it’s just all conference rooms that are rarely used. At least, not by telesales staff. Maybe the marketing bods, or the managers get more use out of them.
As I’m walking I’m trailing the fingers of one hand against one wall to steady myself in the dark. There are definitely sounds of activity coming from up ahead and finally I can see that two doors further down have got light coming out from under them, one on the right and one on the left.
I pause in between the two, then move right, placing both hands on the wood and leaning forward so my head is almost touching. All is silent within. After a second or two, I start to move away, but then freeze. I’ve heard a sound that stills my heart for a second. It was a cry, a gasping cry, and it came from behind this door. I’m almost entirely sure it was made by a woman.
I stand there, hand on the handle in an agony of uncertainty. Something is going on behind that door and someone could be in need of help. I look right and left but there is no one around. Something needs to be done and the only person who can do it is me. Weak, pregnant, solitary me. I brace myself against the door, grasp the handle more tightly, then release it and step back; then forward again, then before I have any more time to reconsider, push the handle down quickly, at the same time shoving hard against the door with my shoulder. I am sure that whoever is in there will have pushed something up against the door to avoid being interrupted, but they haven’t and the door swings open easily, my increased momentum carrying me stumbling over the threshold and three or four paces into the room.
When I’ve regained my balance I look round. And instantly long to be anywhere else.
The two people who have obviously been, until my dramatic entrance seconds ago, the source of the strange sounds I heard are staring at me in horror, eyes and legs wide. I’m aware without really seeing that they are half-lying on the floor immediately in front of me and instinctively I take a step back. My eyes are jumping from place to place, not wanting to linger on anything, so I put the scene together in a series of very short close-ups. A bare thigh. Some undone buttons. Bent elbows. Damp skin. Baby-blue eyes.
In my confusion I understand that one of them is Paris. My eyes rest for a little longer on that haircut, taking in the wisps over the ear, the feathered fringe, the short tendrils down to the collar. It’s gorgeous and very familiar. Then this view is blocked by the sheen on a shoulder, bones and muscle moving beneath the damp caramel skin, as its owner leans over to grab a shirt from the floor.
‘What the hell are you doing, Rachel?’ he says. I realize finally what no doubt you spotted immediately. It’s Nick Maxwell, there on his knees in front of me, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts, his skin damp and his hair messy; but he’s not begging me to take him back and he’s not reaching up for a kiss. He pulls on a shirt aggressively as he spits out, ‘For God’s sake, bursting in like that. What, is there a fire or something?’ Nick does seem to prefer the floor for his sexual liaisons, doesn’t he?
I gape at him. ‘What are you doing?’ I say stupidly, quietly, almost just to myself.
‘What does it look like, darling?’ Paris says, buttoning up her basque with a smirk.
I’m still
staring at Nick – his thick, dark hair, those full black eyelashes, that sensual mouth. My plan of being oblivious to him has pretty much gone out of the window – did you notice? I’m drinking in the view, rapt.
‘For God’s sake, Rachel, where’s your dignity?’ Paris sneers at me and finally I stir myself, turning to look at her.
‘I’ll tell you after you pull your knees together, do up your blouse and get off the conference-room floor,’ I say cuttingly.
‘Now now, come on, girls, be nice,’ Nick starts saying, although I can see he’s really enjoying this.
‘He’s married, you know,’ I say quietly. Nick’s head snaps up to look at me, horrified. ‘You might want to ask him about that before you wonder about my dignity.’
‘What?’ Nick and Paris say together, Nick staring wide-eyed at me, and Paris staring wide-eyed at Nick.
I nod, feeling on the brink of something, teetering on the edge. ‘It’s up to you, really, Paris, but I made my decision four months ago. The question is, what sort of person are you? I know what I am, and now we both know what he is.’ I incline my head in Nick’s direction but don’t look at him. I don’t trust myself.
My throat is aching as if I might cry, but there are no tears coming. I feel calm and strong. It’s FANTASTIC! As I go back through the door into the corridor, I hear his voice telling her in soft, loving tones that it’s not true, I’ve made it up, I’m a seriously mad bitch, and I can picture him stroking her arm and kissing her ear and my throat aches like it’s going to break. My head is down and I don’t hear the door opposite opening, don’t notice someone coming out until I practically walk into him.
‘Whoa, there, heads up,’ he says and I look up to find myself staring into the face of Rupert de Witter, the owner or manager or director or whatever he is of the whole company. I’ve only ever seen him before inside the back cover of all the brochures.
Thanks For Nothing, Nick Maxwell Page 22
