so fresh water would be hot for the tea when Flora came out of
the bathroom. Two weeks without her! It would seem like forever.
Georgie waited for the time when Felix was always good-humoured, immediately after they had sex in the morning. ‘I have to be away next week,’ she began as soon as she was dressed.
‘Mnmn.’ Felix’s face was in the pillow. She went over to the bed and risked turning him over to make sure he stayed awake.
‘Darling, they’re sending me to the European Managers’ Conference in Brussels.’
‘Great city, Brussels. Beautiful architecture. Of course, it’s neglected because everybody talks about Bruges, but really I think parts of Brussels are superior.’
‘It’ll be two weeks.’
‘That long, huh?’ He seemed very little moved. Georgie was annoyed.
‘And I’d like to go in Flat Eric.’
‘Who?’
‘The car. I need the car,’ she said. That got his attention.
‘Is everyone at your level going?’ he asked in bewilderment.
‘Uh – no.’ Yikes! Suppose they went to one of those with-partners evenings, like at Christmas, and Felix starting talking about Brussels and everyone went blank? ‘Actually, the invitation was confidential,’ she improvised swiftly.
‘Great. That means they’re fast-tracking you already. Superb.’ He sat up and kissed her with great satisfaction.
‘You’ll be OK?’
‘Of course. I’ll rent a car for a couple of weeks. And I’ll be able to work later, get things really moving. Don’t worry about me. Go and get the best from it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, and hurried off to work, pretending to be running late in case he saw that she looked guilty.
The air seemed unusually fresh. The leaves on the great plane trees shading Holland Park Road rustled with optimism. The buses grinding towards Notting Hill Gate looked magnificently red. Georgie felt elated, but was too busy to notice that.
They started out like four crazy teens at a sleepover. When Sunday came, Flora and Georgie packed their bags and arrived at Donna’s place, Flora towing Des behind her as a porter. In case there were any faint-hearts, Donna had the champagne chilled. She had also chilled the flutes for it, which Flora reckoned to be the apogee of style.
‘Dillon,’ Flora instructed Georgie, ‘really loves ditzy, wacky, crazy, kooky women. Bubble-heads. Puff-balls. The intellectually challenged.’
‘Don’t we all?’ commented Des, pouring the champagne.
‘He watches old Goldie Hawn movies. You know the stuff I mean, Late for everything, putting the credit cards through the wash, forgetting your own phone number. Anything to make him feel all macho and protective.’ She chuckled, thinking of Dillon‘s exasperation if she even misplaced her keys. ‘And really obvious dressing, bright colours. Holey clothes, split seams, runs in your tights. Slutty stuff really turns him on.’ She remembered seeing him wince when he noticed that smear of old guacamole under the net thing. ‘And the old Gothic makeup. Black eyeliner. You know.’
‘Yes, I know,’ Georgie agreed. ‘It’s not me, is it?’
‘You’ll manage. And Felix?’ Donna prompted her. ‘What does he go for?’
‘Well,’ Georgie winced with misgiving, thinking how thunderously Felix would disapprove of this adventure. ‘He and Flora really have a lot in common, actually. He’s a vegan, of course, no animal products at all, no smoking, no drinking, no alcohol. Cruelty-free cosmetics. He’s amazing, he can tell.’ She frowned, thinking of the things that made Felix frown. ‘But what’s really important to Felix are the emotional things. Being aware and caring and really, really honest. He can’t respect people who don’t share his values, think about the environment, social issues, peace. All that.’
‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘I know absolutely.’
Donna smiled at them and said, ‘Amazing. You’ve really studied these blokes, haven’t you? Oh, this is going to be fun.’
‘What about my hair?’ asked Flora, letting a limpid strand run through her fingers.
‘He’ll love your hair,’ Georgie promised her. ‘Everyone loves your hair.’
‘What about your hair?’ Donna suggested, dragging a curl or two out of Georgie’s obedient power pleat.
‘It’s boring, it needs some drama,’ Des declared.
‘We should have thought of this before.’ Georgie clutched her hair to protect it but the majority were already voting for its re-education with critical eyes.
‘I can do something with it,’ Des volunteered. They regrouped in the bathroom where he teased Georgie’s hair into a haystack then slashed into it with Donna’s manicure scissors. When he considered his work finished, he giggled, ‘Well, that’s sort of what I was thinking of,’ and clipped up the ragged forelock in a pom-pom of the style which works only with two-year-olds and Yorkshire terriers.
‘Great,’ nodded Donna.
‘Hot,’ pronounced Flora.
‘Really hot,’ affirmed Des, standing back to admire the effect.
‘It certainly is wacky,’ sighed Georgie, covertly delighted that she now looked like a giant lap-dog, so this Dillon person would never fancy her so the whole mad scheme would fall apart. She noted that at the bottom of her heart she did not believe that Felix would fall for Flora, either. ‘Can I go to bed now? I’ve got an early start.’
‘Not yet – tell us the game plan!’ Donna demanded, suspicious of Georgie as the weaker vessel in this conspiracy.
‘She’s got her ID picture and she’s going to pounce on Dillon at the gym,’ Flora assured them.
Georgie showed an overexposed picture-booth photograph of Dillon with red eyes kissing a cadaverously pale Flora. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime. He gets there at twelve-thirty, I get there at twelve-forty-five. He will be wearing grey Calvin Klein shorts and a dark red rugby shirt. I take it from there. It’s between asking him how the chin-up machine works or dropping a barbell on his foot. You did say he liked the obvious approach.’ My God, Georgie exclaimed to herself, I sound so clinical here.
Des sniggered. ‘I’d go for the barbell. Stop him running away.’
‘So would I,’ Flora confirmed. ‘Who says he knows how the chin-up machine works anyway? He’s there to sculpt his butt for me.’
‘OK, barbells at dawn then. Can I please go to bed now?’
They sat up while Georgie tossed in her guilty sleep. ‘And our Flora,’ said Des. ‘What’s your plan for this pitiful creep?’
‘You don’t know he’s a pitiful creep,’ Donna reasoned.
‘All that tree-hugging hippy crap. Of course he’s pitiful.’
‘If it’s true,’ Flora pointed out in a thoughtful voice. ‘I never reckoned Georgie with a tree-hugging type.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Donna shook her head.
‘What d’you mean, if it’s true? Wickedness, what’s on your mind?’
‘She’s not really up for this, is she? She’d really like for it not to work. That’s why I told you to cut her hair, you see. To commit her. She’s buggered now, she’s got to go through with it. But what if she told me exactly what this Felix creep doesn’t go for, just to make sure I never get any action out of him?’
‘Of course,’ said Des at once. ‘You’re absolutely right. That’s exactly what she’s done.’
‘She was always devious,’ Donna commented. ‘Never comes out with stuff. I think you’re right.’
‘I know I’m right. I think we can forget all that whale-saving anorak bullshit. I’m going for material girl. Big time.’
‘You!’ Des protested. ‘You’ll die, darling. You haven’t a clue.’
‘It’s only a game,’ Flora promised them, her smile more inward and mysterious than before. ‘Donna, I need a car. A real car. You’ve got a Mercedes, haven’t you? I can borrow it.’
There was a sudden hiatus. ‘Uh – of course,’ the prima donna agreed.
‘Dilbert!’ As soon as Dillon dragged himself into the cardio
theatre on Monday, his trainer bounded over and clamped him in a hefty Tasmanian handshake.
‘Actually, it’s Dillon,’ Dillon told him. The lunch-hour rush was starting, treadmills were roaring, music was pounding.
‘Huh?’
‘My name’s Dillon,’ he ventured to shout.
‘Dillon! Dillon! Right! Sorry about that. Listen up, my man! Congratulations! You’re a star. You got third in your class in the Himalaya Trek! You get a T-shirt!’
‘I can’t have,’ he said automatically. He had never won anything for sport in his life.
‘No lies! Your name’s on the board! Here it is, put it on! Increase your motivation!’
The Tasmanian was holding out a purple T-shirt with a jagged green line across it. Wonderingly, Dillon took hold and unfolded it. The green line was intended to represent the mighty skyline of Nepal. He had dim memories of a long time on a treadmill that lurched up and down of its own accord, of the Tasmanian holding out a form on a clipboard for him to sign.
‘I won this?’ He had to ask. Flora might be proud of him, if it was true.
‘No worries! Your name’s on the list! Runner up, beginners’ section. Put it on, it’s yours! You deserve it!’
‘Cheers,’ Dillon murmured. He put down his programme card, sucked in his stomach, pulled off his old red rugby shirt and struggled into his new trophy.
‘Great colour. Matches your eyes.’ The Tasmanian slapped him on the shoulder.
Dillon climbed aboard a treadmill and started to run. Soon his head was full of hamsters running wheels and rats running mazes. Focus group voices babbled of gerbils. He saw bright black eyes and twitchy whiskers and scampering paws. Marketing, it was all down to marketing. He needed a name. Bright Eyes? Mawkish, maudlin, forget it. Whiskers? Archibald Whiskers? Never. Marmeduke Whiskers? Could be! Cute plus wise! Cute plus traditional! Trad plus funky! Irresistible to the small-pet owner. Excellent!
From her perch on a Stairmaster at the back of the room, Georgie looked anxiously for a chunky form in a red rugby shirt. A dozen men were striding out in front of her, all of them tasty, especially the one in purple on the end, but none of them seemed to be in red, therefore none of them was Dillon. Georgie was hot, she was tired, she was sweaty and the trouble with cruelty-free mascara was that it was not waterproof.
Dillon moved to a rowing machine. He borrowed the Tasmanian’s biro and noted ‘Marmeduke Whiskers’on his record card in case his inspiration slipped away.
In another half-hour, Georgie was exhausted. Cramp was searing her thighs and the Gothic makeup was streaming down her cheeks. She couldn’t work out how to reprogramme the machine and she couldn’t move to an easier piece of equipment without losing her view of the room. This scheme was going to fail. Her heart felt lighter for this prediction.
In a few more minutes the cardio theatre was full. Purple T-shirt was rowing. He really had splendid thighs. Georgie was a thigh woman. She had often discussed this with Flora. It was another of their dynamic differences, for Flora liked buttocks. She was a self-confessed bum fascist. More than once she had vowed that she would rather be found dead in a ditch in shoulder pads and leg-warmers than be seen out with a man with a fat backside.
Georgina spied what seemed to be an old red garment lying on the floor beside the towel and the workout record card belonging to Purple T-shirt. Suddenly hopeful, she-stepped down and checked the card under cover of visiting the water fountain. But the name on the card was Marmeduke Whiskers.
Damn! There he was! A man in a magenta jersey with a white collar had appeared in the cardio area and was making towards the weights room. On jelly legs, Georgie followed him, checking with Flora’s ID picture, which was rolled in her towel. Yes, this must be Dillon. Her mood lurched back towards adventure.
She was barely aware of Purple T-shirt following her, and the Tasmanian following him. Dillon paused to survey the weights room; his trainer took his programme card and added it to his clipboard. ‘Let’s take a look here. Time to move your weights up, isn’t it?’
Dillon prepared to wait with resignation. ‘You’re not in a tearing hurry, are you?’ The Tasmanian clearly had no respect for people who could not give their workouts prime time.
‘Not really,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’ve someone to see at home at half-two, that’s all.’
‘You’ve got plenty of time then,’ the trainer conceded.
For a moment Dillon allowed himself to watch the woman who had entered the room ahead of him making her way towards the pec-deck. The oscillation of her hips was rather beautiful. Amazing the way women’s legs joined on their bodies, so different, so female. But he was engaged now, there was no other woman in the world but Flora.
On the other side of the room, the tide of fate seemed to have turned decisively in Georgie’s favour. The man in the magenta jersey made straight for the chin-up machine, an awesome stack of steel stretching almost to the ceiling. Georgie passed time on the pec-deck while he drew on snazzy black leather weight-lifting gloves and began to perform. After thirty chin-ups, he released the machine with a crash of weights and stepped away.
Georgie jumped up to intercept him, then had to leap for the abdominal cruncher when she saw him go back for another set. The second time he let go she moved more warily, gliding to the pull-down apparatus while he walked around in a circle, swinging his arms. Finally, he seemed to be finished.
‘Excuse me.’ Was she sounding ditzy enough? She tried a mad grin and fiddled with her hair. ‘I was wondering – can you show me how this thing works?’
Breathing hard, his face as red as his shirt, the man pointed to the illustrated step-by-step guide screwed to the wall, gave her a thumbs-up and moved away to the floor mats at the far side of the room.
There was nothing to do but climb aboard the fearsome machine and attempt to master it. It was a steep learning curve, impossible to follow and keep your dignity. Georgie felt lucky to escape without dislocating her shoulders. At least her windmilling limbs fitted with the ditzy-wacky-kooky thing.
Luck was still with her, in its way. When she was able to look around she saw the man in the magenta shirt doing impressive things with-a barbell in the free weights area. It was comparatively simple to skip over there, seize a pair of hand weights and let one fall on his foot. A very large foot.
‘Silly me!’ she squeaked.
Unmoved, her victim put down his barbell, picked up her weight and handed it back to her, then ripped open the Velcro fastenings on his gloves. He was, Georgie noticed, impressively large all round. Maybe it was the exertion, but there seemed to be a huge volume of first-class protein throbbing away under the red jersey. He did not give the impression of a man with buns of custard.
‘You should be more careful,’ he told her solemnly in a heavy German accent. ‘Vy don’t you take my gloves? Gloves are good vhen you get sveaty hands. You can grip good wit gloves.’ The gloves reminded her of the Porsche mittens to which Felix had treated himself when she brought home Flat Eric. With a motherly gesture, the man in black picked up first one of her hands and then the other and strapped on the gloves. She had time to look over his record card in this process. The name on it was Dieter Apfeldorf. Damn.
‘Now you azzume a good position, like zis, you vork from your ztomach …’ The ditzy stuff had worked, at any rate. Dieter was now looming over her with an earnest concern that was unmistakable. His courtship ritual was a weightlifting lesson.
With arms aching in sympathy with her legs, she escaped after another half-hour, whirled into the changing rooms to shower and sprinted down to the underground car park. Now the mission to contact Dillon seemed the silliest waste of time imaginable. And horrifically embarrassing. Shameful, in fact. And crazy. If not totally insane. Her relationship was the most important thing in her life. She loved Felix. She loved Flora. How could she have talked herself into risking the happiness of the two people she cared for most in the world? And screwing up her own life on the way?
When she dropped her car keys, Georgie realised that she was actually trembling with exhaustion. When she picked them up she found that she was also blurry eyed. Too bad. She had to get away, get back to reality. Fast. The car smelt of Felix’s aftershave.
Flat Eric was feisty with the gas. In the gloom of the car park, she did not notice the dark Saab sneaking out of the bay directly behind her. So when she ran the back of Flat Eric smack into the Saab’s rear, it was a double shock. She heard metal crunch and plastic shatter. Her seatbelt cut savagely into her neck just before the airbag burst into action and blotted out the world.
‘I am so terribly sorry,’ said a man’s voice outside the white belly of the airbag. ‘I didn’t realise you were coming out so fast. Are you OK?’
Georgie heard another voice, Felix’s voice, intoning inside her head, ‘Never admit liability.’ She groped for the switch that deflated the airbag but her arms were not behaving. Everything was white. The bag seemed to be wet. Her neck really hurt. She wanted to tell this poor man that she was fine, but the words were behaving even worse than her arms, she was yelping like a crazed poodle. She heard the voice repeat, ‘I am so sorry,’ and another man say, ‘She’s pretty shaken up, sir. Why don’t you take care of her, and I’ll take care of the cars?’
Thus Dillon, with the help of the security guard, extracted the hysterical woman from her Audi coupé. She was crying too much to speak. Dillon felt personally responsible when a woman shed tears. Thinking of the duty first-aid officer, he escorted her back to the gym, where it turned out that she was not hurt but shaken up and in need of a soothing hot, sweet drink. He installed her on the most comfortable sofa in the café and bought her fluffy cappuccino with two sugars.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ he said, noticing that she was still trembling all over. ‘I know it was all my fault. I’ll call my insurance company and tell them. Look, here’s my card.’
‘Gff,’ Georgie mumbled through teeth that wanted to tap dance. At least she seemed to have stopped crying. She concentrated on gripping her coffee in her shaky hands, then gave up and tried to focus on the card the man put in front of her on the table. It bore the logo of Direct Warranty and the name: Dillon MacGuire. It took ten seconds for her scrambled brain to compute that she had indeed contacted her target, rather more violently than planned. Panic exploded somewhere in her traumatised mental equipment. She tried to take deep breaths.
Heartswap Page 8
