An Autumn Affair

by Alice Ross

  A wife completely unlike Julia.

  On all fours on the living room floor, Julia paused her Pilates DVD and sat back on her heels. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps she should have supported Paul more. Rather than wallowing in her own misery, beating herself black and blue for her disastrous life choices, she should be making the best of her lot. For all she and Paul had never – and would never – experience the chemistry that sparked between her and Max, Paul was a good man, and a good husband and father.

  Maybe then, if Julia made more effort, rather than harbouring ridiculously fanciful notions of reigniting her relationship with a lover of twenty years ago – and imagining she could regain her body of twenty years ago with a few Pilates DVDs – life at Primrose Cottage would be a whole lot better.

  *****

  ‘Oh, Annie, it’s amazing.’

  In the centre of Buttersley High Street, in her tiny cake shop, Crumbs, Annie O’Donnell flushed pink and blew out a breath of relief. ‘Phew. I’m so pleased you like it.’

  ‘Like it?’ gasped Miranda, beaming at the cascade of tennis ball cupcakes which formed Josie’s eighteenth birthday cake. ‘It’s fantastic.’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly one of my more original creations,’ giggled Annie. ‘I love the theme for the party, by the way. It sounds amazing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Miranda felt her own cheeks warming. She wasn’t used to praise but, she had to admit, it felt rather nice. Especially from someone who seemed as grounded as Annie O’Donnell. She’d never had much to do with Annie before. She and her husband, the famous author Jake O’Donnell, mixed in completely different circles. But, on the rare occasions their paths had crossed, Miranda had always found Annie to be extremely pleasant, and she’d been an absolute star about Josie’s cake, particularly given the short notice.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you come along to the party?’ she suggested. ‘And bring Jake and the children. It would be lovely for you to hear the compliments about the cake first-hand.’

  Annie’s smile widened. ‘Thanks. I’d really like that. But I’m not sure about bringing the rug rats to your lovely house. Not if you want it to remain lovely. Thomas is crawling now, which means he’s into absolutely everything. I’m sure Jake would love to come, though. It’ll be an excuse for him to escape the laptop for a while. This latest novel of his seems to be taking forever.’

  Miranda silently kicked herself. How could she have lived beside such interesting people for so long and know so little about them? A sudden urge to change that overtook her. ‘It must be exciting being married to a famous author,’ she said.

  Annie snorted with laughter. ‘I’m not sure “exciting” is quite the word I’d use, but it’s certainly never dull. Do you know, just before the launch of Jake’s last book …’

  ‘Well, well, well …’

  At the sound of Lydia’s whining voice, Annie broke off.

  ‘ … if it isn’t the elusive Miranda Cutler,’ continued Lydia, strutting into Annie’s shop in skin-tight orange leggings, towering gold stilettoes, and a brown leather flying jacket. ‘I was beginning to wonder if my best friend had emigrated without telling me.’

  Miranda cast a pleading look at Annie before saying, ‘Of course not. I told you, I’ve been busy with Josie’s party preparations. Look at the fabulous cake Annie has made for her.’

  ‘Yes, well, Annie is quite the little baker,’ retorted Lydia, without even glancing at the cake. ‘Some women’s talents lie in the kitchen, while others are more suited to other parts of the house. If you know what I mean.’ A tossing back of long, overly highlighted hair accompanied her cackle.

  Irritation pricked Miranda. How rude! Annie had worked so hard to ensure the cake was just right, and within such a tight timescale, and Lydia couldn’t even be bothered to look at it.

  ‘I doubt there are many people with Annie’s patience and talent,’ she remarked coolly.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ cut in Annie, flashing Miranda a conspiratorial look. ‘But I think my work requires a lot less stamina than Lydia’s.’

  At the furious look on Lydia’s face, Miranda bit back a smile. Annie might look like butter wouldn’t melt, but she could obviously hold her own against an adversary like Lydia. Miranda knew the two women had history, but didn’t know all the details. At some point in the past, though, Lydia had set her sights on Annie’s now husband, Jake, with Annie obviously being the victor in that battle.

  ‘Well,’ huffed Lydia at length, ‘I was going to buy something for Eduardo to nibble on as a little treat but I’ve now decided to go into Harrogate. There’s bound to be a much better selection there. These little village shops are all very well, but when one wants superior quality and choice, I’m afraid only a trip to Harrogate will suffice.’

  And, sticking her nose up in the air, she whisked around and strutted out of the shop.

  No sooner had the door closed behind her than Miranda’s lips began twitching. She looked at Annie, whose lips were also twitching. Miranda could contain herself no longer. Nor, it seemed, could Annie. They both burst into laughter.

  Back at Buttersley Hall, Miranda felt happier than she had for a long time. Okay, so she still had the dreaded termination to deal with, but she couldn’t do anything about that until she knew when Doug would be safely back in Dubai. In the meantime, she’d mentally filed the ordeal away, pouring all her energies into Josie’s party preparations.

  Much to Miranda’s own amazement, the preparations were not only proving a pleasant distraction, but she’d found herself rather enjoying the process. From her initial concept, to the making of copious lists, the compiling of spreadsheets and timetables, and the mountain of daily telephone calls and emails, she was loving pulling the whole thing together. Plus, she’d met some very charming people along the way. Happy, relaxed, confident-in-their-own-skin people like Annie O’Donnell – a little of whose positivity, Miranda was convinced, had rubbed off on her. Even a short time in Annie’s upbeat, laid-back company had made Miranda realise just how draining it was spending time with Lydia and her ilk.

  Still thinking about Lydia, Miranda stalked up the winding marble staircase and headed for her dressing room. Whipping open the wardrobe doors, the collection of garish colours, flimsy fabrics and tight-fitting garments on display filled her with distaste. She strutted over to the shoe cupboard. Rows and rows of skyscraper heels stood to attention. Not a pair of flats in sight. A vision of Annie O’Donnell flashed into her mind. The two of them would be around the same age, but light years separated them on the style front. Annie’s cute outfit of khaki combats, white T-shirt and red pumps had highlighted the absurdness of Lydia’s. And while Miranda didn’t – thankfully – rank anywhere near Lydia on the scale of glamour and artifice, her look could hardly be described as ‘natural’. She turned to the mirror and examined her reflection. Gathering up her hair, she held it away from her face. She could scarcely remember a time when she hadn’t had long hair. Maybe now was the time for a change. Maybe now was the time for her to grow up.

  *****

  Since her epiphany of a few days ago, and her resolution to improve her relationship with her husband, Julia had done her utmost to clear her head of Max. No easy task, given thoughts of him popped up with more regularity than the very frequent local buses. Nor were his parting words to her, following their evening in the pub, helping matters:

  ‘I’d really love to see you again, Julia, but the ball’s in your court. Call me whenever you like. I’ll be there for you.’

  No pushing. No pressurising. So typically Max. And the soft kiss he’d pressed against her cheek before she’d climbed into her car had spoken volumes.

  Of tenderness.

  Of promises.

  Of caring for her.

  But Julia refused to dwell on Max’s many positive attributes. The man was a fantasy. A dream. Despite all his wonderful words, he couldn’t possibly be interested in her. He’d moved on with his life. While Julia had remained stock-still. Well, p
erhaps not stock-still. She did have a husband and two children to show for the last twenty years of her life. Precisely the reason she’d decided to focus on her marriage. Make more of an effort. With immediate effect.

  ‘How about we go out for a meal next week? ‘ she proposed over breakfast that morning.

  Lifting up his head from the newspaper, Paul furrowed his brow. ‘Go out for a meal?’ he echoed incredulously.

  ‘Yes. You know … where you go to something called a restaurant and, in return for a ridiculous sum of money, they bring you a couple of plates of food.’

  The clarification seemed only to confuse Paul more. He wrinkled his nose. ‘What do you mean “we”?’

  Julia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. ‘We – as in the two of us.’

  Paul nodded. Very slowly. ‘Oh. Right.’

  Julia briefly wondered if he would have sounded any less enthusiastic had she suggested pouring a bowl of cold custard over his head. But she refused to be rankled. It was, after all, several years since she’d suggested such a thing. She’d obviously caught him unawares.

  She watched as he picked up his mug of coffee and regarded her intently for several seconds.

  ‘Well, um, okay then,’ he eventually conceded. ‘Where would you like to go?’

  Julia had done her preparation. ‘How about that new place in Harrogate featured in the paper last week? Finnigan’s, I think it’s called.’

  Paul almost choked on the mouthful of coffee he’d just imbibed. Julia waited patiently. After a great deal of coughing and spluttering, he said, ‘Er, right. Do you want me to, um, reserve a table?’

  Julia bit back a sigh of relief on having, finally, reached that stage. ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Later that morning, having made the restaurant reservation, Julia decided to wander down to the village. The bright day carried just a hint of an autumnal nip in the air. Julia walked briskly. She felt good. As though, for the first time ever, she was in control of her life. Influencing its direction rather than aimlessly drifting along. Not for the first time that morning, an image of Max popped into her head. Not for the first time that morning, she batted it down. If she allowed these images so much as an inch of headroom, they’d spiral out of control, obliterating every other thought. No. She had to concentrate on the task in hand: try to save her marriage. It was, without a doubt, the right thing to do.

  Reaching the high street, Julia headed straight for Annie O’Donnell’s cake shop. With its buttery-yellow walls, shelves of colourful ingredients, and the constant mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked goodies, the shop was a huge favourite of Julia’s. Had it been bigger, she had no doubt Annie could have made a fortune with the addition of a few tables, a coffee machine, and the daily newspapers. Julia, for one, could happily have spent hours in there with a frothy latte and a couple of Annie’s famous cookies – the very same cookies that had inspired her trip to the village that morning. Paul had long since declared Annie’s chocolate and coconut variety the best he’d ever tasted. Precisely why Julia intended buying him a bag as a little treat.

  ‘Good morning,’ she sang upon entering.

  From behind the little counter, a very pretty Annie O’Donnell swiped a lock of blonde hair from her face and beamed at Julia. ‘And a very good morning to you too. You’re looking very well.’

  Julia broke into a wide smile of her own. ‘Thanks. I’m on a bit of a high actually. I’ve just booked a table for Paul and me at that lovely new restaurant, Finnigan’s, in Harrogate.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fabulous,’ gushed Annie. ‘Paul’s probably already told you how the food is to die for. But tell him, when you do go, that he really should try the duck. When Jake and I saw him there last week, he was dithering between that and the sea bass.’

  Julia’s smile dipped at precisely the same moment as her good mood. The fact that a) Paul had already been to the restaurant, combined with b) he hadn’t mentioned it, did not bode well. And she had a strong suspicion why. Forcing the corners of her mouth upwards again, she asked, in as nonchalant a tone as she could muster, ‘Oh, you saw him there last week, did you?’

  ‘We did,’ confirmed Annie, slipping on an oven glove and turning to the oven behind her. ‘With his assistant. Nadia, is it?’

  ‘Natalia,’ muttered Julia, scarcely noticing the delicious smell that pervaded the air as Annie pulled open the oven door.

  ‘That’s it,’ chuckled Annie, spinning around with a tray of golden biscuits. ‘Goodness. I really am hopeless with names. They were discussing budgets or something, Paul said.’

  Julia determined not to let her façade slip. ‘Oh yes. Paul did mention something about budgets.’

  ‘Well, I’m so pleased he’s taking you there,’ continued Annie blithely, setting down the tray on a rack on the counter. ‘It’s far too nice a restaurant to waste on work colleagues. Anyway, I don’t suppose you’ve come in here to listen to me wittering on. Would you like to buy something?’

  Julia’s gaze dropped to the tray of freshly baked cookies. Chocolate and coconut cookies. Paul’s favourites. They looked divine and smelled sublime.

  ‘I’d like …’ she began, as an image of Paul and Natalia huddled together over the restaurant table ‘discussing budgets’ leaped into her head, ‘… half a dozen scones, please.’

  Following Annie’s unwitting revelation, Julia couldn’t face doing any more shopping. Instead, she headed straight back to Primrose Cottage, where she dumped the scones on the kitchen bench and plumped down on a stool. What a fool she’d been, thinking she could save her marriage. She’d left it far too late. Probably eighteen years too late. And now, with a goddess like Natalia on the scene, she didn’t have a hope in hell of reviving Paul’s interest. Not even if they went out for dinner seven nights a week, and she did Pilates every day for the next two years. No, her marriage was over. Which begged the question … what on earth should she do now?

  Chapter Ten

  Sitting in his office, Paul scratched his head and leaned back in his chair. He honestly couldn’t believe it. Of all the places Julia could have suggested they go for a meal, it had to be Finnigan’s. The restaurant he’d been to with Natalia only days before. Which led nicely to another unbelievable point – the hideous timing. It was an age since Julia had suggested doing something as a couple and now … now that he’d …

  Well, he hadn’t done anything

  Not really.

  Apart from lie there while Natalia had …

  Paul couldn’t think about it. Every time he relived the scene – Natalia perched on his bed in his room in Paris while he made a great pretence of trying to fix her computer. The way she’d crossed one silky bare leg over the other. The way she’d bent forward awarding him a first-class view of her breasts as her shirt gaped open. The way she’d looked at him – with those huge Bambi eyes. And to top it all, the smell of that musky perfume which, on its own, made him as hard as concrete. The combination had been unbearable. While he’d waffled on about the laptop, barely managing to string two words together, his hands had been shaking so badly, he thought he might be having some kind of fit.

  At a loss as to what to do with those same hands now, he swiped up his stapler and began fiddling with it.

  Natalia, needless to say, hadn’t been fooled for a minute. Obviously aware of the effect she was having on him, she hadn’t wasted any time. Within minutes, the computer was on the floor, and Natalia was on him. Right on top of him. Snogging the face off him. She had been hot to trot. In that flimsy shirt – and barely there pink lace panties. And Paul in nothing but his fluffy white robe.

  God! It had been incredible.

  Totally, mind-blowingly awesome.

  And how easy it would have been just to …

  But he hadn’t.

  As much as he’d wanted to, he’d pulled back from the brink just in the nick of time. Heaven only knew how, though. He’d never wanted anything more in his entire life.

  Th
ankfully, Natalia hadn’t been fazed by his – rather pathetic, admittedly – objection.

  Instead, she’d trailed a line of teasing kisses down his chest and over his midriff, only stopping when she …

  ‘Cream horn, Paul?’

  Paul dropped the stapler. ‘Wh … what?’

  ‘Cream horn?’ repeated Sheila, one of the secretaries. ‘It’s my birthday. I’ve brought in cream cakes.’

  ‘Oh. Right. Er, no thanks, Sheila. Trying to watch the old weight.’ He contorted his features into what he hoped was a regretful expression and patted his stomach.

  As she shuffled off, Paul reclined back in his chair again, and blew out an enormous sigh of relief. God. He was a nervous wreck. And he could only attribute it to the guilt sloshing about his veins. He’d thought he might die of a severe case of it when he’d arrived back from Paris to find the entire family sitting around the kitchen table. Then Faye had made the whole thing a bazillion times worse by questioning him about the Eiffel bloody Tower. So under scrutiny had he felt, and so incredibly guilty, that at one point he’d thought his legs might cave.

  So, he’d subsequently resolved to put an end to this ‘thing’ with Natalia. Hence the dinner at Finnigan’s. He’d fully intended telling her that it had to stop before it had even started, but then Annie bloody O’Donnell and her husband had appeared.

  Feeling like a rabbit in headlights, Paul had mumbled some rubbish about discussing budgets. Whether or not they’d believed him, he had no idea. The rest of the meal had passed in something of a blur, him conscious all the while of his neighbours being merely feet away.