by Helen Warner
‘Dad, we need to go to school,’ Mimi said in a stern voice that always reminded him so much of Martha. ‘We don’t have time to continue this extremely important debate now. If necessary, we can return to it after school.’
‘Around the table that is yet to be named?” Jamie countered.
‘Grow up, Dad,’ Mimi replied, coming over to kiss him before heading upstairs to brush her teeth.
‘OK, buddy,’ Jamie said, turning to Tom and ruffling his blond mop. ‘Time to brush those teeth.’ Tom pulled a face but trudged reluctantly towards the stairs.
Jamie watched his son’s retreating back affectionately. Tom was a good kid but he would happily never shower or brush his teeth if he was left to his own devices. Jamie couldn’t be cross with him as he knew he’d been much the same at that age.
After he had cleared away the breakfast things, Jamie set about making the children’s packed lunches. He had got into the habit of putting little riddles and notes into each of their lunchboxes and it was becoming an increasingly elaborate process. To begin with, he used to scribble something silly on a bit of scrap paper. Now he found himself planning in advance what he was going to do and would print it out the day before. Sometimes, if the children couldn’t figure out the answer, the three of them would work on it after school until they came up with the solution. Martha laughed at him for making such a big deal out of it, but Jamie loved challenging them and it gave him a small purpose each day.
His role as a stay-at-home dad was the obvious solution for the Lamont-Smith family. Martha earned considerably more than Jamie would if he worked full-time, and she got to spend more time at home between assignments than he would have done, so it made perfect sense. They had agreed early on that they didn’t want to employ a nanny while they both worked because they wanted the children to have at least one parent at home. And as they lived an hour outside of London, meaning a long commute, and both worked odd hours, it would have been impossible with a nanny anyway unless she lived-in, and neither of them wanted that invasion of privacy.
Over time, they had found a way to make it work, but it hadn’t been easy. In the beginning, Jamie had felt emasculated and impotent earning so little money and having to rely on Martha. But Martha had made it easier by setting up a standing order so that half of her money was paid directly into Jamie’s account each month, meaning he could take responsibility for paying the household bills.
Jamie was therefore in charge of the family’s finances, which helped him to feel more in control. For her part, Martha struggled being away from him and the children, so he wanted to do all he could to make it work for her. He never called her when there was a problem, unless absolutely essential, like the time he had had to take Tom to hospital when he thought he had meningitis, and he never let her know if the children cried because they were missing her.
In return, Martha had learned not to complain that the house was a mess or that the children had had pizza again for their dinner, because all that really mattered was that they were happy and healthy. And they were, Jamie thought proudly now, as he put their lunchboxes in the hall beside their book bags. They were such interesting, intelligent and well-balanced children, and he knew that he had played a major role in making them that way. Whatever else he achieved in his life, nothing would compare with making a success of bringing up his children; he had a bond with them that he knew was rare and was borne of spending so much time in each other’s company.
Mimi was the first to come down the stairs, now wearing her regulation summer uniform of navy blue skirt and pale blue polo shirt. Her long hair was loose and in her hand she clutched her favourite silver scrunchie and a large hairbrush. ‘Will you do my plait, please, Dad?’ she asked, handing him the brush and scrunchie and spinning around so that she had her back to him.
‘You betcha!’ Jamie grinned at her and thought, just as he did every day, how very beautiful she was becoming. He brushed through her hair and deftly tied it into a thick plait. ‘How’s that?’ he turned her so that she could look at herself in the large hall mirror.
‘Fab, thanks, Dad,’ she replied, bending to pick up her lunchbox and book bag. ‘See you later, love you – oh, and do put some clothes on,’ she added, kissing him on the cheek, before setting off in the direction of the school, which was just five doors down the street.
Jamie watched her go, smiling to himself. She was so like her mother. He and Martha had met fourteen years previously when they had both been taken on as trainees on a national newspaper. Jamie had fancied Martha immediately, but she wasn’t so easily won over. She had a boyfriend from her university days, and although she seemed to like Jamie and was friendly towards him, she appeared to be impervious to his charms.
As a tall, handsome, Scandinavian-looking blond, Jamie was used to women falling at his feet, and so it came as a shock when Martha resolutely refused to do so. He tried absolutely every tactic, from trying to make her jealous by getting off with the editorial secretary at the Christmas party, to taking her out and getting her drunk, but nothing seemed to work. The boyfriend was apparently there to stay.
In the end, deciding he had nothing to lose, Jamie got drunk himself and declared his undying love for her, asking her outright if she would leave her boring boyfriend and go out with him instead. To his astonishment, Martha told him in a very matter-of-fact way that she had already finished with her boyfriend because she had fallen in love with Jamie, and that if he asked her again in the morning when he had sobered up, the answer would be ‘yes’. The next morning, in between bouts of retching and endless cups of black coffee, Jamie repeated his declaration and asked her again. True to her word, she said ‘yes’, and they had been together ever since.
Their relationship had worked so perfectly from the start that it was clear that they were meant to be together. They rarely argued and were both placid and easy-going personalities, but there was also an intense, enduring passion between them. Even after two children, their sex life was as strong as ever and Jamie still found himself hardening at the merest thought of Martha naked. She had an incredible body, with surprisingly large breasts and a perfectly rounded bottom, despite her slenderness. Her long, dark hair and flawless skin meant that she turned heads wherever she went and Jamie always felt proud that this gorgeous creature was his wife.
‘Bye, Dad!’ called Tom, interrupting Jamie’s lustful musings, as he came down the stairs in his uniform. Tom grabbed his bags before cheerfully making his way down the road after his sister, his messy blond hair glinting in the sunlight.
‘Bye, Tom. Love you!’ called Jamie, earning a scowl from his son, who pretended to despise any such public displays of affection in front of his friends. ‘To infinity and beyond . . .’ he added, just as he always did.
Jamie closed the front door and took a deep, contented breath. He loved the children’s company, but he also loved being at home alone. It meant he had a whole, inviting day stretched out ahead of him. It also meant he had ample opportunity to have uninterrupted sex with his mistress.
Chapter 3
Charlie Simmons was woken by the sound of his mobile on the bedside table. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to make sure that he wasn’t still dreaming, but the phone continued to vibrate angrily and play the theme tune to The Sopranos. He tried to swallow as he reached for the handset but his throat was too dry.
‘Hello?’ he rasped, silencing the noise.
‘Charlie, it’s me . . .’ said an unfamiliar voice.
Charlie shook his head to try to wake himself as he bunched the soft, goosedown pillows into a pile behind him and sat up. ‘Who’s me?’
There was a dry, husky laugh. ‘Well, I guess I sound as bad as I feel if you don’t know my voice.’
Recognition dawned and Charlie smiled to himself, groping with one hand for the bottle of mineral water he had half-drunk the night before. ‘Hi, Louisa. You sound bloody terrible,’ he said, taking a grateful gulp.
‘I know. You don’t s
ound great yourself. Anyway, look, I’m really, really sorry but I feel like shit. I’m not going to be able to come this morning.’
‘What’s this morning?’ Charlie closed his eyes again and rested his throbbing head against the headboard. He had drunk way too much last night, but he couldn’t remember why or what the occasion had been.
‘It’s the first interview with Martha Lamont. You know, the one I’ve lined up to ghost your memoirs?’
‘Oh, right.’ Charlie tried to recall whether Louisa had told him about this and he had forgotten, or whether she hadn’t told him in the first place. He must have forgotten, he decided. Louisa was a brilliant PR and ruthlessly efficient. There was no way she wouldn’t have told him about the interview, and equally there was no way she would miss it unless she was feeling really ill.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll deal with it myself,’ he said. ‘What time, and is there anything I should or shouldn’t do?’
‘Eleven o’clock. Don’t sleep with her,’ Louisa managed to croak, before descending into a coughing fit that sounded as if she was about to die right there on the end of the phone. Eventually the cough receded and Louisa came back on the line. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘Got to go.’
‘Get well, sweetie,’ Charlie replied, before hanging up.
He sat in the gloom of the blacked-out hotel room, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the darkness. He wondered what time it was and pressed the home key on his mobile. 09:34. Immediately he calculated eight hours back, to work out what time it would be in Los Angeles, just as he always did whenever he looked at a clock. It would be 01:34 and his son, Felix, would be asleep in his vast bedroom at the home he and his mother shared with her boyfriend.
The ache Charlie felt whenever he thought about Felix had not lessened in the four years since his mother had taken him to live on the other side of the world, and Charlie had realised long ago that it never would. Losing his beautiful, angelic boy, who looked so much like him, was a pain more devastating than any other heartache he had ever experienced – even that of losing his wife to another man.
He flew to LA as often as he could and he spoke to Felix most days on Skype, but it wasn’t the same as spending day after day with him, doing all the normal things a dad does with his son. Charlie had spent the first two years of Felix’s life looking after him full-time, so the bond they had was closer than most and made the wrench of losing him that much worse.
He groped for the lamp switch and clicked it on. The room was bathed in a soft tangerine glow and Charlie sighed heavily as he looked around indifferently at the splendour of his surroundings.
He was living in the hotel at the moment, having finally sold the little cottage in Surrey he had shared with Felix’s mother. He hadn’t got round to buying anywhere new yet, as he had resigned himself to the fact that his next home would need to be in Hollywood if he wanted to be closer to Felix. And he did want to be closer to him. He had had enough of being a long-distance dad and had started to investigate the possibility of applying for custody. He knew he wouldn’t have a hope if he stayed in the UK, but if he lived in Los Angeles, he couldn’t see any reason why Felix shouldn’t live with him. His mother had had it her own way for long enough.
He had several meetings lined up in LA the following week, which would confirm his next role, and with it his permanent move to the US. He very much hoped his days of being an occasional father were finally coming to an end.
Charlie swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, his feet sinking into the plush pile of the carpet as he did so. Stretching and yawning, he walked to the window and pulled back the heavy blackout drapes, flinching as the bright morning sunshine seared his eyes. From his vantage point overlooking Hyde Park, he could see people already out enjoying the warm weather. Mothers and nannies pushed achingly trendy prams between the over-flowing flowerbeds, while joggers and skaters did their best to dodge them. Usually, Charlie liked to go for a run first thing, but with this journalist due to arrive soon, he didn’t have enough time today. Giving himself a shake, he picked up the phone and dialled the number for the hotel kitchen.
‘Good morning, Mr Simmons,’ said the voice of Sara, one of the girls who worked there.
‘Call me Charlie, I keep telling you,’ he smiled despite his inexplicable feelings of irritation.
‘OK, then, Charlie,’ Sara began, and Charlie could detect the note of amusement and mischief in her voice. ‘What can I do for you? Are you going to be joining us again this morning?’
Recently, Charlie had begun to cook for himself in the hotel kitchen, much to the bemusement of the staff. He wanted to explain to them that he missed preparing meals for himself, that living in the hotel made him feel rootless and he yearned for a real home again. But there was no point. He would only sound spoilt and ungrateful. So instead, he just let them think he was an eccentric control freak.
‘Not this morning,’ he said. ‘More’s the pity.’ Instead he ordered a room service breakfast of porridge and toast and lay back down on the eight-foot bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling.
He was dreading the arrival of this wretched journalist, Martha Lamont, and was regretting that he had ever let himself be persuaded to do his memoirs at all. He knew that Louisa wouldn’t have lined the woman up if she didn’t trust her implicitly, but Charlie still had an innate mistrust of all journalists, having been badly bruised by some of the things that had been written about him in the past.
Louisa had convinced him that it would be a chance to tell his side of the story and rectify some of the lies that had been printed about him. But the clincher for Charlie had been when she suggested that all proceeds could go to charity. His grandfather had died of Alzheimer’s the previous year and, ever since, Charlie had done anything he could to raise money for research.
So here he was . . . and he would have to open himself up entirely to this woman if she was to have any chance of doing his memoirs properly, meaning he would have to relive the pain of losing Liv and Felix all over again.
He wanted to hate Liv, but not only could he not do that, he couldn’t stop loving her either; he had never met anyone he felt as connected to as he had with her. Before their split they had been everything to each other, and he still missed hearing her girlish laugh or watching her sleeping with her thumb resting on her lower lip like a child.
He had had plenty of offers and even a few brief relationships but, for him, no other woman had ever come close to her, and he had resigned himself to being single for the rest of his life. He would devote himself to his son instead.
Taking a deep breath, he thought about cancelling the interview, saying he wasn’t feeling well. But Louisa would be furious with him if he did and he didn’t want to upset her when she was feeling so ill. He got up and headed for the shower, his shoulders hunched with a feeling of impending doom. But maybe, he told himself, this Martha Lamont would be different to all the other journalists he had met. Maybe she would be the one to prove him wrong about her profession.
Chapter 4
As usual, the train into London arrived late, so Martha ended up racing to the hotel where she was supposed to be meeting Charlie Simmons. By the time she got there, she was sweating profusely, out of breath and desperate for a wee. She wasn’t overly concerned though; she knew from long experience that celebrities were rarely ready on time. She would have a chance to visit the ladies and sort herself out before being called to his room.
But to her dismay, the receptionist greeted her with a dazzling smile and told her that ‘Mr Simmons is ready for you now,’ directing her to a room on the eighth floor. Martha hesitated. Should she risk incurring Charlie Simmons’ wrath by being late, or should she use the loo? By now she was really desperate and worried that she might actually wet herself. She took a deep breath and decided that she couldn’t be late. She would get to the room and immediately excuse herself to use the bathroom.
The lift chugged listlessly to the eighth floor. When the do
ors opened, Martha was surprised by the old-fashioned chintziness of the décor. She knew that this particular hotel charged in the region of £5,000 per night, so she would have expected it to look a lot more glitzy. But then, she reasoned, walking along the corridor towards the room number she had been given, maybe the people who could afford it liked this type of faded English splendour.
As she arrived at room 802, she knocked on the door and pasted on her brightest smile, despite the fact that she was now having to hop up and down on the spot to distract herself from her insistent bladder.
Then the door swung open and to Martha’s intense shock, there stood Charlie Simmons himself. She had been expecting Charlie’s PR, who had booked her. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, her heart hammering at the sight of him and her desperation to use the loo momentarily forgotten. Martha was used to meeting handsome film stars and she rarely found them attractive, but Charlie Simmons really was breathtaking in the flesh. He was well over six foot, with unruly dark curls that framed his slightly stubbled square jaw and eyes that seemed to her like deep pools of dark chocolate.
‘Hello! I was, er, expecting Louisa . . .?’ she tailed off, feeling herself redden as the desperate urge to use the loo returned.
‘Louisa’s sick,’ Charlie said, proffering his hand, which Martha took and shook as firmly as she could, to compensate for what she knew would be horribly sweaty palms. ‘So I’m afraid you’ve just got me.’
Martha blanched slightly at his tone. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered, ‘I should have introduced myself. I’m Martha . . .’
‘. . . Lamont,’ he finished the sentence for her, standing aside to allow her into the room. ‘Great name,’ he added. ‘Sounds like you should be an actress yourself.’
Martha beamed despite herself. She had always loved her name and hadn’t changed it when she got married, protesting that Jamie’s surname, Smith, was far too boring. Their children had subsequently taken both names in what her mother always referred to witheringly as a ‘trendy double-barrelled surname’.
