A Minor Indiscretion

by Carole Matthews

  He held his hand aloft. “Everyone ready then? Stand up tall. Sit up straight. Nice smiles. After me! S-m-e-l-l-y-s-a-u-s-a-g-e-s!”

  All of Year Two leaned forward. “SMELLY SAUSAGES!”

  Before he could take the photo, his mobile rang. “Fuck,” he said, wishing he’d turned it off and ignoring the echoing chorus of fuckfuckfuck that had started in the front row who no longer had their arms folded.

  “Neil Kingston.”

  “Hi, Neil. It’s Jemma.”

  Neil turned away from the children and tried to look suave down the phone. “Hi, Jemma.”

  “Neil. Is this a bad time?”

  “No. No. No. Not at all.” He glanced back at the children. “I was just doing a cover shoot for a magazine. Take five,” he said nonchalantly to the class of perplexed pupils, who had momentarily been replaced by a vision of Liz Hurley, chenille throws and a chaise longue. “What can I do for you?”

  “Neil, I’m worried about Ed and Ali.”

  “Me too,” he agreed sympathetically.

  “This is a stupid, stupid situation.”

  “I know. I told Ed exactly that yesterday.”

  “And I told Alicia.”

  “Good. Good.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “I don’t know. Only the pair of them can sort it out.”

  “We can’t just sit back and watch them make such a mess of things.”

  “We can’t?” Neil paused. “No. No. We can’t.”

  “We must do something,” Jemma urged.

  “You’re right. We must.”

  “Let’s have dinner tomorrow night and decide what,” she said.

  It had taken him several expensive dinners and months and months of smooth-talking to persuade one of the pretty bridesmaids he’d met at an unseasonal winter wedding to pose topless for him. He knew she’d be brilliant because when she was shivering in the cold outside the church, her nipples had stood out like champagne corks beneath her bridesmaid’s dress. It had taken all his concentration to even worry about getting the bride in the photographs. This was going to be the start of his burgeoning glamour portfolio and hers. His big chance. The appointed time she was going to get her bra off was tomorrow night at eight o’clock.

  “You hadn’t got anything else arranged, had you?”

  “N-n-o,” Neil stammered. “Dinner would be nice.”

  “We’re not doing it to be nice, Neil. We’re doing it to save the marriage of your brainless brother and my stupid sister because they haven’t the sense to do it themselves.”

  “Yes,” Neil said.

  “Come to the shop at six o’clock. We can go across the road to Calzone’s or somewhere.”

  “Right,” he agreed, entertaining the thought that if he really, really bolted down his food he might be able to have one bird in the hand and another one in the bush of his photographic studio. But then the bird in his hand would definitely be worth two in the bush, and his photographic career could go to hell for yet another night. Would Patrick Lichfield be so easily bought? Possibly not. Nevertheless, he would phone the accommodating bridesmaid, citing family crisis of the most extreme emergency, and hope she would understand and agree to get her bra off next week instead. Yeah, right.

  “Thanks, Neil,” Jemma said. “You’re a darling.” And she blew a kiss down the phone just before she hung up.

  Every cloud has a silver lining, they say. And Jemma might just be his. God, she was a wonderful woman. Vibrant, dynamic, successful and more than a little horny to boot. Every so often something surprising would occur, right out of the blue, that would lift you out of the mundane and ordinary and onto a slightly higher, more pleasant plane. He might be having dinner with Jemma to try to stop his brother and sister-in-law divorcing, but he was having dinner with Jemma, and that could only be embraced as a positive thing.

  With a silly grin still plastered to his face, Neil turned round. Year Two had disintegrated into some sort of after-hours street brawl—the sort that usually happened on a Saturday night outside bars called The Shamrock or McLafferty’s. The boys on the back row were kicking the shit out of each other. The girls in the middle row were tearing each other’s hair out in handfuls. And the front row were all crying loudly due to misdemeanors that had been perpetrated while his back was turned. The headmistress, meanwhile, was heading across the playground to see what all the noise was about. And he’d still got this to go through with Year Three.

  Neil closed his eyes and wished with all his being that he were somewhere else. When he opened them, he was still on a school playing field, camera poised and knee-deep in howling children. Just then, the sun went behind a particularly big, black cloud and it started to rain.

  “Smellyfartingflippingfuckingsausages,” Neil muttered to himself.

  CHAPTER 36

  Christian has very strange CDs. They are stacked up in a Pisa-esque tower on the floor by his bed. They include: The Friends of Rachel Worth by The Go Betweens, Art & Life by Beenie Man, Tourist by Saint Germain, In the Mode, Ronnie Size & Reprazent and The Marshall Mathers LP by Eminem. I have never heard of any of these except Eminem, and I’ve only heard of him because the Daily Mail said he should be banned—or was it hung, drawn and quartered? Anyway, I dutifully banned Tanya from buying any of his records. She told me I was pathetic and that all her friends had them anyway because her friends’ parents weren’t neurotic fascists. I’m going to stop buying that bloody newspaper.

  I do hope that you haven’t heard of any of them either—otherwise I will feel totally uncool and lacking in hip. The last CD I bought was White Ladder by David Gray. This is the CD that all thirty-something people have in their collections at the moment. Much like Brothers in Arms by Dire Straits was the 1980s must-have album, which was there to be displayed rather than played. We also possess, along with 99 percent of my age group, Nigel Kennedy’s The Four Seasons and Songs from the Blue Turtle (which I always thought was a ridiculous title) by Sting. I’d never heard White Ladder when I bought it, but someone said I should get it. Probably the Daily Mail. So I did. I’m still not sure if I like it. Tanya said it’s sad, old gits’ music. I think she might be right.

  This is not the normal bedroom of a young man, I would suspect, apart from the cheese-fragrance sheets, which we’ve now removed for fumigation. The furniture is heavy, ornately carved mahogany, massive pieces that sit easily in the vast space of the room. The new duvet is best described as army combat camouflage in design—muted shades of khaki, beige and sludge green. It looks ill at ease on the four-poster bed, but then there is a commando bursting forth on the ceiling only marginally hampered by the Edwardian plaster ceiling rose, which doesn’t look like a polystyrene replica from B&Q. You could say it picks it out quite nicely. There is a Sly Stallone–type figure lurking on the wall near the tallboy of sturdy drawers, bare-chested, bandanna-ed and brandishing a machete. I feel like I’m going to be stabbed every time I reach for a pair of knickers. The words aaargh, eeeeow, et cetera, drawn in bloodred, are plastered all over what looks to be ferociously expensive Farrow & Ball paints in traditional country house colors—magnolia with a hefty price tag. Despite being a designer, I imagine Kath Brown’s corsets would ping at the sight of Christian’s creation. I can feel my own stretching at their constraints. Only an artistic mind could see this “working.” I must make more attempts to quash Elliott’s desire for drama or he’ll be wanting to do this to his bedroom, and I’m happier for him to stick with his Bob the Builder motif just now. Despite the shock of it all and the fact it isn’t the most relaxed color scheme I’ve ever seen in a bedroom, it’s fantastically painted and it’s clear that Christian truly does have talent—or is completely warped.

  The most disconcerting thing about the room, though, is that there is a drawing of Rebecca hung above the bed. At least I think it’s Rebecca—I daren’t look too close and I haven’t the nerve to ask Christian. She’s nude, in the drawing. Not soft nude like Rubens’s nudes, all
round-bottomed and rosy pink, coyly smiling out from the canvas. No, this is a legs splayed, belly in, breasts thrusting, head thrown back sort of pose more commonly associated with magazines of the top-shelf variety. It’s raunchy, rude and raucous, and I’m pretty sure it is Rebecca. This confirms my suspicion that she and Christian were more than just old friends, and I don’t know if I’m happy about sleeping beneath it. I’ll let you know.

  I should have thought to bring the sketch that Christian did of me in my hastily packed suitcase, lest Ed should decide to pin it up and throw darts at it. I could have propped it up on the mantelpiece so that, at least, I have some sort of presence in this room. I might consider getting it framed so that Christian can hang it up next to Rebecca as a sort of mini-gallery of conquests—it would save him cutting notches in his bedpost, I suppose.

  My new roommate has budged up all his stuff in his wardrobe and mine is hanging cozily next to it. God, even that feels weird. The only closet I’ve ever shared before has been Ed’s, and it takes some getting used to opening a cupboard and seeing your blouses next to strange trousers.

  I feel very uncomfortable here, generally. This morning I couldn’t go down to start breakfast without my makeup on because I’d have looked about three hundred years older than anyone else. The boys both sat in nothing but boxer shorts while they ate their toast, and I tell you, when you’ve reached a certain age, that is a very unsettling way to start the day. Rebecca was, thankfully, fully clothed and came complete with a black cloud. I wonder if Tanya will grow up to be like her—she is definitely showing the potential. I had a terrible stomachache by the time I’d forced down two rounds of toast, and it’s still growling like a demented wolf even now. I’ve no appetite and I feel like throwing up, but other than that I’m great.

  Rebecca is something in advertising. I think it must be something pretty lowly, because she spends an awful lot of time saying how important she is. And important people don’t do that, do they? Important people just bask in it. Robbie has gone off to his shift at an HMV record store, and he gets quite good staff discounts, so maybe that’s why Christian has so many weird CDs. That leaves us here alone. I have a terrible confession to make—yes, another one. I phoned Kath Brown this morning…well, I phoned the studio before I knew she’d be in, and left a message on the answerphone saying I was sick and would be off work for a few days. This is the first time I’ve done this, ever, ever, ever. I feel absolutely dreadful, to the point of nausea, so perhaps I am sick after all. Life has a funny sense of humor sometimes.

  Christian has arranged for an artist friend to take over his pitch in Covent Garden for the week so that we can spend some quality time together. So here we are, doing just that. I’m lying on Christian’s army combat bed and he is snuggled in behind me. We’ve been here for hours downloading each other’s lives and backgrounds, and from this silly shaky start I can feel myself falling more deeply for him. He has such a verve for life and an enthusiasm for so many things that I’m sure I didn’t when I was twenty-three. I’m not sure that I do now.

  I’ve taken my wedding, engagement and eternity rings off, because it just didn’t feel right wearing them while I’m in bed with another man. They’re sitting in a little ceramic dish perched on the bedside table, staring accusingly at me.

  Christian twirls my hair round his finger. “How were the kids when you phoned last night?”

  “Not great,” I say. “Elliott’s missing me desperately. Tanya’s sulking and Thomas is hardly saying anything. He’s the one that worries me most.”

  “They’ll survive,” Christian says reassuringly. “Kids are hardy little beggars.”

  I nod, but I don’t really agree with him. The only knocks Elliott has had to deal with are the ones where he constantly walks into things. “I’m seeing them on Saturday.”

  “That’s nice.”

  I prop myself up on my elbow and turn to Christian. “Would you like to come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “To meet the kids. Would you like to come?”

  Christian backs away from me slightly and holds up his hand. “Whoa!”

  I laugh. “You don’t have to! I thought it would be nice. But you’re right, it’s probably too soon anyway. They’d be happier with just me there. It was a silly suggestion.”

  “No. No,” Christian protests. “You’re right. I should meet them. I just hadn’t thought this through. I mean, it stands to reason that if you’re going to be part of my life, then they will be too.”

  This sounds far too complicated and I wish I’d never started this discussion. I’ve been part of a family for so long that it never occurred to me that it would be a big deal for someone who hasn’t.

  “There’s one thing I ought to tell you, Ali.” Christian grimaces. “I hate kids.”

  “How can you hate kids?” I say. “You are one!”

  Christian looks hurt. “That’s not fair, Ali.”

  “I’m sorry.” I kiss his lips. “You’re a big kid!”

  We have a tickle fight for ten minutes just to prove it, but he forgets I’m a mother of three children and can, therefore, tickle anyone under the table, and Christian eventually concedes defeat. We both lie spent and breathing heavily.

  “My kids are different,” I say. “They’re lovely. They’re the best kids in the world.” And a lump the size of Birmingham lodges in my throat.

  Christian holds me to him. “I’ll come and see them.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He smiles that knee-trembling smile that can make you believe anything. “I want to.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. There’s just one condition.”

  “Name it,” I say.

  “On no account must we go near a McDonald’s.”

  “I can assure you, the last place on earth my children will want to go if there’s a free meal on offer is McDonald’s.”

  Christian snuggles behind me again and starts to kiss my neck. I have a very good feeling about Saturday. Thousands of single-parent families do this every week, and it doesn’t do them any harm. Does it? I shake any negative thoughts away. The sun will shine, the kids will be adorable, they’ll love Christian and we’ll all have a great time together. And there won’t be a hamburger in sight.

  CHAPTER 37

  Orla was bossing everyone around as Ed jogged as fast as he could down the uneven towpath without falling into the Grand Union Canal. She was tapping her foot and pointing her pen at Trevor, who was looking very hangdog. The rest of the crew were lurking by the canal gates with polystyrene cups of coffee, cigarettes and cowed expressions. It looked as though they had all been troubled by what had become known in the company as Orla’s Disease—fleas in the ear.

  “Damndamndamndamn,” Ed muttered, banging his best aluminum briefcase against his knees as he ran.

  Wavelength were making a video about safety for the British Waterways Authority, with the enthralling title Walking the Inland Waterways in Safety and he should have been here an hour ago. It was set just north of Watford, where the canal meandered through a landscape that was pleasantly rural rather than the grimy, grubby urban backdrop that London provided. It was a promotional feature that had taken a disproportionate amount of time to set up in comparison with their meager budget, and Ed wanted to get it finished as soon as possible and pack up. This was also due to the fact that for the past week his days had been governed by the need to get home in time to collect Elliott.

  That he was late was also largely due to his son. Recently, Elliott had decided that he should make some sort of clothing statement about his personality every morning in the manner of Quentin Crisp and spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the bathroom mirror selecting which particular one of his seventeen Pokémon T-shirts he would wear to suit his mood. Ed’s chosen color would have been black. Deep, dark, potentially homicidal black. No amount of cajoling could persuade Elliott to grab the first one that came to hand and just wear it what
ever like real men did.

  To top it all, when the clock had swallowed twenty minutes and Elliott was finally happy with his choice of dress for the day, Nicola Jones was invariably waiting for them at the school entrance as he deposited the fashion-conscious Elliott to her care. She seemed intent, presumably out of sympathy for Elliott’s plight, on keeping Ed talking for ages. It had taken him ten minutes to edge away from her today and that was good going, because what with her fluffy hair, her breathy voice and her singsong laugh, she was quite a difficult person to leave. Subsequently, Ed had been late for work every day this week.

  He was going to have to do something about it—the first thing being to sort out this silly mess with Ali. Orla looked up as he stumbled toward her, breathless. Her face was as dark as her suit, her lips pinched as if she’d been kissing a lemon. Correction, the first thing he needed to do was get back on track with Orla. Alicia and his marriage, at this moment, came a very close second.

  His colleague, and newly acquired confidante, had been very busy this week, rushing in and out of the office at breakneck speed. They’d only managed to snatch snippets of conversation together, which had been restricted to purely work matters because there had always been other people around to overhear and he’d never found discussing his personal life in public very easy. Ed had apologized for standing Orla up, but he hadn’t really had the chance to tell her the full story. And he’d been meaning to phone her every night, but somehow the evenings were eaten away by cooking, washing, ironing, homework and eventual exhaustion.

  Orla pushed back her crisp, buttoned cuff and looked at her watch pointedly. “You don’t mind that we’ve started without you? I thought we might lose the light.” It was ten-thirty in the morning. Orla might not have much of a sense of humor, but she gave great sarcasm.