Going Too Far

by Catherine Alliott

  Pippa shifted position and looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, it’s a bit tricky, actually,’ she mumbled.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘Why? He’s not married or anything, is he?’

  Pippa flushed and bit her lip.

  ‘He is! Bull’s-eye! God, Pippa, you old dog, why didn’t you tell me? You’re having an affair with a married man, aren’t you?’

  Pippa squirmed.

  ‘Come on, admit it!’ I bullied. ‘He’s married, isn’t he?’

  ‘Only a little bit.’

  ‘Only a little bit!’ I shrieked. ‘Married is married, Pippa. I’m shocked, shocked to the core.’ I stared at her. ‘What’s it like?’

  ‘What’s what like?’

  ‘Well, you know, doing it with a married man.’

  ‘Exactly the same as doing it with a single man but with more logistic difficulties, and, anyway, it’s not that shocking; it happens all the time.’

  ‘Not to you, it doesn’t,’ I retorted. ‘You’ve always been dead against that sort of thing. A dirty little slut is what you called Miranda Baxter when she went off with that bit of rough from Rumbelows – remember? You came over very high and mighty about all that!’ I was enjoying myself immensely now. For the first time that day a little bit of moral superiority was creeping my way.

  Pippa squirmed some more. ‘That was different, Polly. That chap from Rumbelows had been married for years and had about ten children. Josh has only been married a year and he hasn’t got any kids.’

  ‘So why doesn’t he leave his wife then?’

  ‘Well, he feels so guilty. He knows it was a big mistake to marry her but he thinks that to walk out after only a year would be a bit rough. He feels he ought to give it a bit longer, and I can understand that.’

  ‘You can? Crikey, you’re more gullible than I thought! Get real, Pippa. He’s having his cake and eating it and licking the bloody mixing bowl too!’

  ‘What a distasteful analogy,’ said Pippa, looking prim.

  ‘Well, it’s true – any fool can see that. He’s got wifey at home cooking his dinner and ironing his shirts, and then he’s got you at work running around in your Chanel suit being all sexy and provocative –’

  ‘I am his assistant –’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you have to sleep with him!’ I snorted. ‘It’s not part of your job description, is it? Come on, Pippa, he’s got it made, but what’s in it for you?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Course it is,’ I scoffed, ‘you’re just a bit on the side as far as he’s concerned.’

  ‘How can you say that! You haven’t even met him. He’s mad about me, if you must know, and he’s definitely going to leave his wife – it’s just a question of time.’

  Even as she said it I think she realized how empty and naïve the words sounded. Her eyes slithered past me and I detected a glimmer of a tear. She was smitten all right. I sighed, moral superiority forgotten.

  ‘Oh dear. How unlike you to get yourself into this sort of mess.’

  ‘I know,’ she said miserably, pulling at the grass, ‘and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.’

  One or two practical suggestions along the lines of binning him occurred to me, but I decided not to voice them.

  ‘Does everyone at work know?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not really sure. We keep it as quiet as possible but I’ve a feeling some people have guessed, Sam in particular.’

  The back door clicked open behind us. We turned in unison and saw Nick and Bruce slowly making their way towards us across the lawn, their heads bowed, deep in conversation.

  ‘Don’t tell Nick,’ muttered Pippa quickly. ‘He’ll be horrified. You know what he’s like about that sort of thing.’

  I nodded. ‘I won’t,’ I promised, and meant it. Nick had some pretty uncompromising views about the sanctity of marriage and I didn’t think he’d find Pippa’s predicament very amusing.

  Bruce’s eyes were shining as he reached us.

  ‘Nick’s been showing me the antiques!’ he beamed. ‘Pippa, you should see some of the things he’s got in there; the porcelain collection is out of this world, and the pictures – God, there’s even a little Renoir drawing in the bathroom! You really must see it, Pippa. It’s quite superb!’

  ‘I have,’ she smiled, ‘but I’m afraid it’s rather wasted on me. Makes a nice change to have an appreciative audience, eh, Nick?’

  ‘It certainly does, and Bruce really knows his stuff. I’ve got one piece of porcelain, which is incredibly difficult to date. I’d eventually pinned it down to being mid-eighteenth century but Bruce here assures me it’s late seventeenth.’ He turned to Bruce. ‘You must come and have a proper look around when there’s more time. I know you’ve got to get back to London now but if you’re ever in the area, drop by, there are some things in the safe I’d like you to cast your eye over.’

  Bruce flushed with pleasure. ‘I – I’d love to,’ he stammered. ‘I’d be absolutely delighted! My mother’s in hospital in Truro so I come down here quite a lot, actually.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, anything –’

  ‘Cancer, I’m afraid, and she’s very old now too, so I come down about once a fortnight. I could easily pop in.’

  ‘Great.’ Nick smiled. ‘Don’t forget. Come and see us whenever you like.’

  He held out his hand and Bruce pumped it up and down enthusiastically, his camp, mincing manners momentarily evaporated. ‘I certainly will!’

  Pippa got to her feet and brushed the grass off her bottom. ‘Come on then, Bruce, let’s hit the road and let these people get back to their muck-spreading.’

  She gave me a hug. ‘Ring me soon,’ she whispered, ‘we’ll talk more.’

  I hugged her back, sorry to see her go. She turned to Nick and took his arm as we wandered back to the house.

  ‘You’ve made his day,’ she murmured. ‘Most people write him off as a big joke but you took him seriously.’

  ‘Well, he knows what he’s talking about,’ said Nick. ‘I was genuinely impressed. I wasn’t flattering him.’

  ‘I know, but thanks anyway.’

  We walked back through the house and waved them off from the front steps. With the flick of a switch Pippa converted her covetable car into a sex machine and they roared off down the drive; Pippa’s long blonde hair streaming out behind her, Bruce’s hand fluttering back to us, Munchkin’s red ribbon blowing in the breeze.

  Nick put his arm round me as we watched them turn through the stone gateposts into the road and disappear around the corner.

  ‘Good to see Pippa,’ he murmured, ‘but I couldn’t live that sort of life any more, could you? The whole London scene, the social life, the ad-racket, thank God we were able to escape down here.’

  ‘Mmmmm … thank God,’ I murmured.

  Nick gave my shoulder a squeeze. ‘Must dash, I’ve got some fences to put up in the far field. I’ll see you around tea time.’ He strode off.

  I turned and walked slowly back through the house. No, I mused, I certainly couldn’t live like that any more – I’d gladly left it all behind me, and I’d gladly swapped it for this – but all the same … I made myself a cup of coffee and wandered upstairs. I paused on the landing and stared out of the window at the fields stretching far away into the distance. It was certainly beautiful, but … quiet. I frowned down into my coffee mug. What was this, Polly? What was the meaning of this sense of dissatisfaction that was slowly but surely seeping through me?

  Chapter Four

  I sat down and eyed my reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Damn, it was true; it was written all over my face, look – there, dissatisfaction – now why? Why, when only a couple of hours ago I’d been counting my blessings in the sunshine, secure in the knowledge that life couldn’t possibly get any better? It was Pippa’s fault of course. She’d come down and put the wind up me, jolted me out of my complacency with the earth-shattering
revelation that I’d been living a boring life – me! The luckiest girl in the world!

  I picked up my hairbrush and frowned, pulling some hair out of it. OK, granted, the last couple of years had been rather quiet, but never dull, never. Why, the gymkhana had only been yesterday and there was so much else to look forward to. The village fête for instance, that was only six weeks away, quite the social event of the county, and I’d been promoted to Tombola this year rather than Guess the Weight of the Cake like last year. I dragged my brush grimly through my hair as I recalled that fiasco. God, what a disaster. Some goon had forgotten to bring the cake along, so some other goon had suggested they guess the weight of me instead. I’d spent the whole afternoon with steam pouring out of my nostrils, roaring, ‘What! Don’t be so bloody ridiculous, I’m nowhere near eleven stone!’

  Still, this year would be more fun, and of course there was the hunt ball to look forward to at Christmas – that was always an absolute riot. Yes, all right, eight months away. One village fête and one hunt ball. I put down my brush and gazed at my sorrowful reflection. Suddenly I scowled – oh, for goodness’ sake, Polly, don’t be ridiculous. You have a terrific time down here, you know you do! My eyes in the mirror looked shifty; they could spot a lie at twenty paces. I sighed.

  It was true of course – country life was rather quiet. When I’d married Nick I’d willingly settled down to become a devoted, home-loving farmer’s wife, determined to put my wild-child days of nightclubbing and partying behind me, but I couldn’t help feeling slightly peeved that the opportunity to resist any form of social whirling had failed to even present itself. The closest I got to a night on the town was supper at the seafood restaurant in Helford, with Nick yawning into his prawns at nine o’clock because he had to get up and milk the cows at dawn.

  Then there was the holiday question. The fact that farmers tended to summer where they wintered had come as quite a shock to me. Why, even as an impoverished secretary I’d managed two weeks horizontal and motionless in the sun, and I would even have been prepared to traipse around monasteries or peer at lumps of stone in the sweltering heat as men are wont to do, but no. Apparently we had to continue to traipse around the corn fields and peer at the sheep. Terrific.

  My chin quivered momentarily in the mirror. I steadied it fiercely, horrified at my audacity. Bloody hell, Polly, don’t be so wet! Don’t sit here in your enormous pile of a house moaning about lack of entertainment, don’t gaze out at your thousand acres complaining that life’s a bitch – you’re the luckiest girl in the world, remember? Get a grip!

  I tried. I tried really hard. Then I thought of Pippa. Pippa, rushing back to London, swinging into her Soho office, laughing with the girls, flirting with the boys, rushing to the loo to touch up her make-up, bouncing into Josh’s office to report her findings, sitting down opposite him and feeling the electric current surge between them – did I miss all that? A small, remote corner of my mind admitted that I did. Not the work, of course, but the fun, the excitement, the camaraderie.

  I sighed, picked up my brush again and wondered idly if perhaps Pippa and her gang could pop in here for lunch, or a drink, when they came down to shoot their commercial, en route to whichever location they eventually chose. My brush froze in mid stroke and I gazed steadily at my reflection. Whichever … location … they eventually … chose. I watched my cheeks grow pink with excitement. My heart began to thump.

  Why not? Why on earth not? It wasn’t out of the question at all, why shouldn’t they shoot it here? I’d dismissed it out of hand when Bruce had suggested it earlier, but if I could get round Nick – and I was sure I could – why ever not? It was perfect! Absolutely perfect!

  I jumped off the stool and danced around the room, hugging myself gleefully. Oh, Polly, you clever girl, you clever, clever girl! It was a brilliant idea! I stopped twirling for a second and gazed out of the window. Imagine – a film crew in my house, shooting in my grounds!

  I could see it all now, and I could see me in the thick of it – not this me of course, a different me, a pencil-thin, leg-waxed, highlighted me, clad in a succession of different outfits – Jasper Conran one day, Armani the next – smiling and laughing, dispensing tea to the crew, chilled white wine to the director, largesse to one and all. Oh, and the actors of course. I’d chat like mad to them – famous ones probably; they were all so hard up these days they practically all did commercials. God, it would be terrific fun!

  My imagination went into furious overdrive as I saw us all having lunch together, out on the lawn probably. I’d cook a fabulous stew – well, buy some ham perhaps – and we’d sit at those long trestle tables like something out of Far from the Madding Crowd. I’d be at one end dispensing the stew – ham – and Nick would be at the other being all handsome and witty, and we’d have huge carafes of red wine and everyone would get incredibly merry and the really attractive actors would flirt like mad with me.

  Then after lunch I’d wander over to watch the shoot and sit in one of those director’s chairs with the canvas backs, looking elegant in something beige and tailored. No – no, I wouldn’t, I’d wear black jeans and a waistcoat and look dead trendy and efficient with a pencil behind my ear and a clipboard to take notes, because of course as a local girl I’d become invaluable in some terribly technical kind of way, something to do with understanding the vagaries of the Cornish light, perhaps. Anyway, whatever it was, there I’d be, part of the crew practically, watching the shoot, which – yes – which would be going rather badly that day due to the fact that the leading lady kept forgetting her lines. The director would look a bit worried, he’d raise his eyebrows to heaven, then look over and give me a grim smile. I’d smile back, raising my eyebrows too – sympathetically of course, not bitchily – and then suddenly, that’s right, suddenly, he’d stare at me in a more piercing, professional kind of way. He’d walk over slowly, scratch his chin thoughtfully and say something like, ‘Tell me, Polly, have you ever done any acting?’

  I gasped with excitement, threw myself on my bed in a fit of giggles and stuffed the duvet in my mouth.

  Yes, yes, yes! This was it! This was the answer to all my problems! Not that I needed an answer, I thought hastily, and not that I had much of a problem, but having a film crew around would – well, it would certainly razz things up a bit, wouldn’t it? Put something of a bomb under rural life?

  I flipped over on to my back and stared at the ceiling. There was no doubt about it, it had to happen. But how? How would I ever get round Nick? How could I ever get him to agree?

  Suddenly I sat bolt upright. Money. Of course, that was it. Hadn’t he just said we were really strapped for cash, and hadn’t Bruce also said we’d be generously reimbursed for our trouble? I’d make damn sure we were. I’d make sure Pippa got us such an unbelievably generous deal that Nick would find it impossible to refuse – we’d get hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands. I hadn’t a clue how much actually, but we’d trouser a hell of a wedge, enough for a new tractor anyway, or – or a few miles of fencing. Nick would be delighted! But how to persuade him first of his impending delight?

  I sucked the duvet and thought hard. This called for tact and diplomacy. No good charging in feet first as usual and simply demanding it should happen. I had to be clever, subtle even, catch him at a good moment, when his defences were down, and if not his defences then certainly his … trousers.

  I leaped off the bed, ran to my wardrobe and rifled feverishly through my clothes. Yes, of course, I’d seduce him. He liked nothing more than to feel I’d made an effort – these days that ran along the lines of washing under my arms and ironing a T-shirt – but this time I’d pull out all the stops, wear something low, something sexy, something outrageous, something – my hand froze on a hanger. I pulled it out and stared at the garment it suspended.

  It was a basque. The one I’d worn under my wedding dress, in fact. It was white, lacy, boned for maximum figure hug and boob uplift and utterly beautiful and sexy. Sadly Nick had nev
er seen it because of course after the wedding I’d taken off all my finery and changed into my going-away kit. Could this be his big chance? I fingered the lace. Why not? Naturally I’d wear my normal clothes on top so he wouldn’t suspect a thing, but halfway through supper in the kitchen or – no, a candlelit dinner in the dining room – yes, halfway through that, just when he was feeling all relaxed and mellow and full of boeuf en croute and claret and was stroking my hand and murmuring, ‘That was delicious, darling, what’s for pudding?’ Just at that moment, I’d whip off my T-shirt and say, ‘I am!’

  A trifle obvious? So what! He’d either find it hysterically funny or a massive turn-on, and either way we were bound to end up in a frantic heap on the floor, laughing like drains and tearing each other’s clothes off. Then just as he was getting really carried away, just as he seriously couldn’t control himself any longer and his breath was hurricaning into my ear, I’d hit him with the big plan. How could he refuse? Softened up by wine, good food, candlelight and tantalized beyond belief by my delectable, lace-encased body, he’d have no option but to pant, ‘Yes, my darling, do whatever you want, of course your friends can shoot their commercial on my land, just let me get that bloody basque off you!’

  I clutched the garment to my chest in delight, did a quick twirl of exultation around the room, and then abruptly stopped. I swung around to the mirror, holding the basque up against me. I peered more closely. It looked as if it might be a bit on the small side; I had been jolly slim on my wedding day. I frowned. Oh well, I’d just have to diet like crazy. Cut out all the biscuits. Simple.

  Now! I threw the basque on the floor and set my hands decisively on my hips. The first thing I had to do was ring Pippa and arrange it all before she booked another location.

  I raced downstairs and rang her at work. Her secretary answered – her secretary, for God’s sake.

  ‘Pippa Hamilton’s office.’

  ‘Oh, hello, I know Pippa’s not there but could you ask her to call me, please?’