by Adele Parks
‘He knows we had a thing.’
She gasps and snaps her neck around to stare at Craig, who is standing only a few metres away.
‘How could you? He’s my daughter’s headmaster. You stupid –’
Craig saves my skin because at that moment he butts in. He introduces us to Mrs Someone-or-Other who is director of the nativity and we all discuss the scenic needs. Connie says very little. She stares at the floor and refuses to meet anyone’s eye. Even so, she’s so scarlet she’s giving off a light that could safely draw a ship into harbour. Matters are settled relatively quickly and Mrs Something-or-Other and Craig leave us to get on.
‘You have let me down so often, John. Time, after time, after time. In fact, thinking about it, that’s all you’ve ever done from the first moment I met you.’
Although Connie is clearly vexed, her calm has not vanished. I’m used to Connie the tempest and I don’t know this Connie. She’s not wild, passionate or furious in the way that she used to be just before she agreed to brutish or fanatical sex. She’s frustrated, exasperated and maybe even disappointed. Her tone reminds me of my old schoolteachers.
‘Don’t you get it? This school isn’t just a building with lots of Lego and sticky-back plastic. It’s my daughter’s life. And my daughter’s life cannot be part of your game. Plus, I wanted to ask you, how long are you planning on hanging around for? Because, if it’s much longer, I’m going to have to talk to Luke. I really didn’t want to bring up your name to him, it’s going to be difficult and painful, but if you are settling here then I don’t think I have a choice. I’m so ashamed that my actions keep hurting him.’
This last sentence was said more to herself than to me, but it was the one I heard loud and clear.
I’m stunned. There is something about Connie’s calm that is far more final than her rants or threats of yesteryear. She’s ashamed. She’s really sorry that she might hurt Luke again by just mentioning my name.
I consider the possibility that truly she didn’t agree to meet me the other night because she wanted to rake over old coals and perhaps start up a new fire, as I’d imagined. I get it. Honestly, I get it. She really has changed. It’s not just an act. It’s not a complicated game of hard-to-get.
I run through all our conversations since September and consider that she really never had any intention of resuming her affair with me. Maybe I’ve heard what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. It is possible that all she wanted was reassurances about protecting her family and her future.
I stare out of the hall window. It’s still raining and the droplets of water that are clinging to the pane are illuminated by the street lamps. The thousands of tiny particles make up a picture that reminds me of once when I was at a meeting in the Chrysler Building, New York. The meeting was going badly. We couldn’t solve the clients’issues and several of us had snarled at one another around a meeting table for hours on end. It was a cold wet February day and as time got on it drew dark outside. The client had just asked me a difficult question. To buy time I’d stood up and walked around the meeting table and then paused to look out of the window. It was a technique I was taught on some management training programme. The idea is you don’t say the first thing that comes into your head.
I remember noting the view for the first time, although surely I’d glanced out of the window hundreds of times just that afternoon, let alone on previous visits. I didn’t answer the client’s question (because I couldn’t) but said something like, ‘Whenever I’m faced with views of cities I am stunned by a sense of opportunity. So many lives. So much possibility.’My comment resonated because of its incongruous nature and maybe because of its truth and simplicity. The client thought I’d said something profound about his business choices and he was delighted.
Afterwards my buddies and my boss congratulated me on my genius bullshitting but I hadn’t been bullshitting. I had been struck by a sense of possibility as I looked out of that window, and if that happened to be what the client wanted to hear, then all well and good, but in fact what was important to me was that I’d said what I wanted to say. It was my truth of the moment.
The December raindrops on the school window glisten, putting me in mind of hosts of lit windows in skyscrapers. I am overcome with a sense of possibility once again.
Suddenly it’s clear to me that Connie does know me well. She does have insight into my mind and we do have a brief section of time that is common to us and us alone. But that’s all we have. Connie is slamming shut a door but it’s a door in the past and, by doing so, she’s unlocked all the portals to my future. I’m suddenly grateful.
‘Craig knows that we were once an item but he thinks it was before you married. He likes you and your family a lot, by the way. You are making a good impression. I know that’s important to you. And as it happens I’m pretty much finished up with my project here and I found out today that I’m about to be posted elsewhere. Perhaps Manchester.’
‘Oh,’says Connie. What else is there to say?
As relief floods her face I am once again struck by her beauty. Connie is yummy. That’s one thing I haven’t been deceiving myself about. She is slim, with high enough tits and ass; kid-bearing hasn’t plundered her body as it does so many. Her eyes are clearer than I remembered – less anguished. Her skin is, what’s that word they use? It’s an old-fashioned word. I know, radiant. That’s it. She’s luminous. Because she’s happy.
I look at her and see possibility. But she’s not my possibility. And Andrea is not my possibility. Not any more. But I know it’s out there. Somewhere.
‘I can manage this on my own if you want to take off,’I offer. There really is no point in her staying with me. ‘The damage you might cause with the saw will only serve to ruin all the good work you’ve done with Craig, thus far,’I joke.
Connie understands, ‘Oh, OK. If you think you can cope. Maybe I’ll go and see how the others are getting on with making the crowns. Even I can glue glitter on to cardboard.’
I nod.
Connie walks away. She wanders back to the gaggle of mums at the far end of the hall. They are crouching around a roll of gold material and debating how best to get three wise men costumes out of the modest piece of cloth. Connie can’t resist, she peeks over her shoulder to check if I’m watching her. I am. We catch one another’s gaze and I smile. She beams at me. And I almost love her.
46
Wednesday 6 December
Lucy
I am at my desk by 7.45 a.m. I check the Dow, the FTSE and the Nikkei. I linger on the Bloomberg site to get a measure of what the markets have been doing overnight. I keep wondering if I heard her correctly. She did say Joe, didn’t she? A post-coital cigarette with Joe… Spurred traders to scale back bets on how far the Federal Reserve will raise interest rates this year…But how could she know? What possible connection could Joe and Rose have? I take a gulp of coffee. The advance sent the yield on the 10-year note down to its lowest this month. Speculation mounted in the US…Bloody London, everyone knows everyone. It’s a lousy village…central bank will not lift borrowing costs as far as… he has a mouth the size of Bush’s arms programme …
‘Lucy, Lucy, are you OK?’
I look up and realize that Mick is leaning over my desk and is talking to me.
‘Sorry, I was just reading about the markets.’
‘You seemed miles away.’
‘It’s fascinating stuff.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’Mick, ever the professional, assumes something major has happened in the markets. Not unreasonably he thinks that would be the only thing to work me up into such a state.
‘Nothing much, actually,’I sigh.
Mick looks confused. A crease appears above his nose.
‘Are you OK, Lucy?’
‘I’m –’I’m about to say I’m fine. I’m about to issue the statement of contentment that I use to ward off all personal questions and that I have used repeatedly to Mick in the past month. But at that
moment a messenger pops on to my screen. It’s from Joe.
Sweetheart, I don’t want to appear stuffy but I’m watching you flirt with Mick Harrison and I don’t like it. I’m your man.
xxx
I slam my laptop closed and look across the floor to Joe’s desk. Normally I avoid his gaze, although I can feel his eyes on me pretty much constantly. Joe issues what he probably considers a sexy smile – it’s one hundred per cent creepy.
‘Have you got time for a coffee?’
‘For you Princess, I’ll make time.’
There are about a thousand coffee houses within spitting distance of GWH but I lead Mick at least half a mile away from the office because I’m becoming paranoid about who knows who, who’s listening in to my conversations and who they are going to repeat those conversations to. I’m beginning to get a hint of the fear that must have prevailed during the McCarthy era.
Mick waits until we are seated in the corner of the quietest, dingiest café I can find and then says, ‘I’m glad you’ve agreed we need to talk.’
I start to empty sachets of sugar into my double espresso. When I’ve emptied a fourth packet Mick puts his hand on mine and says, ‘You don’t take sugar.’
We sit in silence for a few more moments. There’s so much I want to say to Mick but at the same time I don’t want to say anything at all. If I apologize for my clumsy attempt at seducing him at the party, we will have to discuss the fact that we’ve nurtured a low-grade flirtation for many months now – a flirtation that I took seriously and he didn’t.
If I tell him that Joe is stalking me and making my working life impossible I will have to confess to having had sex with Joe. It’s too horrible. Too demeaning. I can’t imagine Mick ever calling me Princess again. Besides, do I trust him? He might run straight back to the office, take all the men out for lunch so he can spread the gossip and by close of play today my reputation around the City’s financial markets will be in tatters.
If I tell him that my husband’s ex-wife is threatening me, possibly about to blackmail me, I’ll have to allude to the fact that my marriage is in trouble. Although arguably points one and two say that much, fairly clearly, anyway.
‘Lucy, I would like to apologize for my behaviour at the office party. I was wondering if we could put it behind us. To be honest my recollections of the evening are fairly vague. I was quite drunk too. So if either of us said anything or did anything that either of us is embarrassed about, we needn’t be because I don’t remember it.’
Mick has clearly practised that speech. The speed with which he delivered it suggests he is keen to plummet through his rehearsed apology as efficiently as possible. It is very brave of him to deliver it in the first place. I’m sure he doesn’t want to have to linger or repeat himself.
I smile at him with a true sense of gratitude. Mick was not drunk at the party. He was as sober as a judge. His claim that he can’t remember much is undermined by the fact that he can remember I was drunk. He said that he was drunk too. However, I can see that Mick has given our situation a lot of thought and decided that sweeping the incident under the shagpile is the kindest option. I’m grateful. It shows that he is a genuine friend. I beam at him.
‘Oh, Mick, we both know that it’s not you who owes me an apology. It’s the other way round. I was the one who was totally out of order. I’m sorry that I put you in an awkward position.’
Even though his apology has made me feel I’m sloshing about in the milk of human kindness, I struggle to be too much more explicit. It’s degrading.
‘I was very drunk and not thinking clearly. I am sorry that I –’
‘Tried to get me into the sack.’
‘Mick!’I glance hastily around the café. He’s grinning. I guess it’s better if we can laugh about it.
‘That’s what I’m offended about, Lucy. You had to have your beer goggles on before you’d make a move on me.’
He’s still grinning but we both know that there is an element of truth in what he’s saying. I’d never have tried to seduce Mick if I hadn’t gotten so blinding. My drunkenness is at once the get-out clause and the insult. It’s a complicated situation. Luckily, Mick is a simple man and defuses the potential intricacies of hurt feelings, loose morals and tricky consequences by laughing at me.
‘It’s me who should be offended you turned me down,’I joke back.
‘I like you too much to shag you. I rarely shag women I actually like.’
And with that compliment and testament to our friendship we agree to let the matter lie.
‘So, we’re good now, hey?’asks Mick.
‘We’re good,’I assure him.
‘You can get back to being ball-breaking Lucy and cutting thrusting deals and earning big bonuses for us all. All of that. Hey? Because to be straight, Lucy, people are beginning to notice that you’re not quite yourself, right now. Your eye is so far off the ball, you seem to be playing a totally different game. I mean I respect your family thing and I know that you’ve said you want to spend more time with Auriol. That’s cool. However, if you’re planning on spending less time in the office you’re going to have to be more efficient when you are there.’
‘How serious is the gossip? I’m asking you because you are my friend and I think you’ll be honest with me.’
‘Sorry. It’s serious. The other day Ralph asked me if everything was OK in your world.’
We stare at one another, aware that this is an issue. Ralph should not have reason to discuss me with other members of staff and even if he does do so then why has he chosen Mick? The answer is transparent. Everyone assumes we are shagging, or have been shagging and that we’ve now broken up. I realize that I’ve compromised us both.
‘I’m so sorry, Mick. Point noted.’
‘It’s not like it’s all your fault. My reputation doesn’t help,’admits Mick gallantly.
Mick reaches for his coat. His work is done and he’s conscious that we both need to get back to work. I put my hand on his arm.
‘You’re a good mate, Mick.’
‘I am, Princess.’
‘So I have to tell you something.’Mick flops back into the plastic seat and settles at the ugly Formica table.
‘Do you need more coffee?’
I shake my head; if I have a distraction I might lose my nerve.
‘It’s a shame that people are gossiping about you but I deserve it. I did shag someone.’
Mick actually gasps. I’ve shocked him, or disappointed him, or maybe he’s scared for me.
‘Things had been pretty gloomy at home, between Peter and me. Well, you know that much. I was feeling old and used.’
‘Used?’
‘Used by the whole maternal and wifey bit. I’m not a natural at self-sacrifice. I was bored and I felt neglected. The whole formula.’
I’m lucky that I’m justifying myself to Mick; he’s pretty egocentric too and tries to sympathize with me. Some would be livid with my miserable little excuses.
‘So you did it to shake things up a bit?’
‘I did it because I was absolutely pissed. It was the night of the party. After you left.’
‘I see.’
Mick’s lips disappear as he sucks them into invisibility. He stays absolutely still and silent for an age. I realize that I’ve hurt him. Perhaps only his pride is wounded, but maybe evidence of my indiscriminate sexual offers that evening are genuinely distasteful to him.
‘Who was the lucky man?’he asks at length. His tone betrays irritation and curiosity.
For the first time I can’t bring myself to hold his gaze. I drop my head into my hands and mutter.
‘Joe Whitehead.’
‘What? Did you just say Joe Whitehead?’
I nod and drag my eyes back to Mick. I might as well look at his disgust square on – I face mine in the mirror every morning.
‘That snivelling, stupid, sneaky shit?’
‘Yeah, you’ve got him.’
Mick pushes his chair bac
k and for a moment I think he’s going to storm out of the café like a jilted lover. Instead he goes to the counter and orders more coffee.
He slams the tiny cups on the table. ‘I wish there was whisky in these,’he says. ‘Joe Whitehead is so beneath you, Lucy.’
‘Apparently not,’I comment.
I have the decency to face the fact that we are as low as those we lie with. And while Joe has got a terrible and fast-depreciating record at work for being irresponsible, a brown-noser, a loner, a shirk and a fool, I do not believe I can take any moral high ground.
‘Best put it behind you, Luce. Just forget it,’says Mick.
It’s obvious from his expression that he wishes to put the thought right out of his mind. I understand. I almost balk when I think of Joe Whitehead’s fat little hands grabbing, inexpertly, at my flesh.
The sex was the worst I have ever known. A grunting, derisory grapple punctuated with pungent whiffs of stale sweat and the sound of his excited panting. It was all over in a few minutes. Almost not long enough for me to realize what was happening. Not that I’m suggesting I was forced, I wasn’t. I didn’t say no, but then nor did I say yes.
After Mick had left, Joe and I had several more drinks in Wasp bar. Joe suggested we go on somewhere else. I said no, I needed to get home. I was in a hideous state, wobbling and slurring, I did not want to be seen that way. Joe agreed to get my coat and rushed off quite helpfully. He was gone for ages. When he finally returned, he dragged me up from the daybed and led me out of the main room.
‘Aren’t we going the wrong way?’I slurred. I wasn’t sure. The mirrors were disorientating and I could hardly stand, let alone navigate.
‘I know a back door, it leads to the main road. It will be easier to get a cab.’Then Joe put my coat over my head. He thought he was being funny and he kept saying, ‘No one can see you are with me now, Lucy, so don’t worry.’Which, even at the time, struck me as peculiar. He knew I didn’t want to be with him.
I didn’t like having the coatsee where I’m going. I grabbed over my head, I felt claustrophobic and vulnerable. I never liked wearing a blindfold, not for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey as a kid or even in bed with Peter. I like to see where I’m going. I grabbed at the coat and tried to put it on properly but Joe just laughed and held it tightly over my head. I told him to stop it, that he was messing up my hair, but I didn’t make too much of a fuss, I didn’t want to draw attention to our departure. He was right, I didn’t want to be seen with him. The exchange took just a minute or so but when he took the coat off my head we weren’t outside, we were in a tiny private room.
