More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  I spend a nano-second wondering who the guy was who answered the intercom: the interior designer, perhaps? But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I intend to be in and out of this place as quickly as possible.

  The doors slide open and I step into the interior design equivalent of a black forest gateau. The previous inoffensive beige decor has been replaced by deep red velvet drapes, purple-black wallpaper and weird rococo flourishes like swirls of whipped cream. It’s a migraine waiting to happen. I’m no expert, but if they’re trying to sell this flat, I’d say the original neutral colour scheme would be a much safer bet than this. I can’t imagine many people would actively go for this ‘Dracula visits a bordello’ vibe.

  I glance around for the man who answered the intercom, but there’s no sign of anyone.

  ‘Um – hello?’ I call. ‘I’ll just get started, shall I?’

  A voice comes from the direction of the bedroom. ‘Sure, be with you in a sec.’

  I set up my camera with a heavy heart. This job is going to take far longer than I thought, as the thick curtains and autopsy colour scheme have killed off any natural light. I eventually find a control panel with at least a dozen buttons and gradually work through them, turning them on and off, trying to find the best combination of up-lighting, down-lighting and gothic-chandelier-lighting. I can’t imagine what Karl is going to say when he sees what Serena has done to this place. So much for a quick and easy sale . . .

  ‘Hello again.’

  I spin round at the sound of the voice behind me and the breath whooshes out of me like I’ve been punched in the guts. Standing there, smiling as if this isn’t at all massively, bowel-clenchingly awkward, is Brad Michaelson.

  Except, obviously, it’s not Brad Michaelson.

  I open my mouth to speak, then shut it because nothing comes out, then open it again and manage a strangulated ‘Hi’.

  ‘It’s nice to see you,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, you too.’ I plaster on a smile, desperately trying to remember my speech, but my mind has gone blank. Fuck, what was it I was going to say? Something about allergies . . . ? I take a deep breath and then suddenly, as if my engine has just been jump-started, the words begin to pour out.

  ‘I am so, so sorry about what happened the last time I was here. To be quite honest with you, I was drunk.’ What? No! Tell him about the allergies! ‘The thing is, I’d just had an argument with my boyfriend earlier that morning – well, ex-boyfriend, actually, it’s all horribly complicated – and it was chucking down with rain that day and I ended up making some really bad choices because I was upset and then . . . well, you know what happened next. I totally misread the signs because – like I said – I was drunk.’

  Jesus. It’s like I’m standing outside myself, watching as I jabber away, and although I’m mortified by what’s coming out of my mouth I’m powerless to stop it.

  ‘Anyway, I’m not the sort of person who usually drinks during the day, honestly. My judgement was obviously significantly impaired by the alcohol and I did some stuff that was out of character – very much so – which I wholeheartedly regret and apologise for.’ I stare at my feet. ‘This is all quite embarrassing for me,’ I mumble at my shoes.

  ‘Honestly, there’s no need to be embarrassed,’ says the man, his voice kind. ‘As far as I remember, there were two people involved in that kiss.’

  I look up, surprised. ‘But I threw myself at you.’

  ‘You were quite assertive, yeah, but I don’t remember doing anything to stop you. And then you ran off like Cinderella.’ He looks a bit bashful. ‘That’s how I’ve been referring to you – as Cinderella.’

  ‘Cinderella wasn’t a pisshead,’ I say – although inside I’m thinking: He’s been talking about me? Is that a good thing?

  ‘No, that’s true.’ He laughs. ‘Or perhaps she was a pisshead, which would explain why she ran off without her shoe. I don’t want to be sexist, but I don’t know many girls who’d leave expensive footwear behind.’

  I smile, and begin to relax a little. Meanwhile, the more primitive part of my brain registers that he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and is looking fine.

  ‘Hey, I don’t think I ever introduced myself.’ For the second time this morning, a man offers me his hand to shake – although this time I take it far more enthusiastically. ‘Sam Whittaker. I’m a friend of Brad’s. I’m working in London for a while and he was kind enough to let me stay in this ridiculous place of his. He pops over every now and then, just to check up and keep me on my toes.’

  ‘Annie Taylor. As you know. But fully in control of myself this time, I promise.’

  ‘Shame,’ he says with a grin. My heart does a little leap, but I tell myself firmly that he’s one of those people who are just naturally flirty. ‘So what do you think of the new decor?’

  ‘Oh, I’m no expert on interiors.’

  ‘Hideous, isn’t it? Serena’s choice, I think. That’s Brad’s girlfriend – well, fiancée now.’

  ‘It certainly makes quite a statement,’ I say, gesturing at a metal sculpture that looks like an enormous pair of buttocks. ‘But then if I’ve learnt anything in this job, it’s that rich people really like statements.’

  As soon as I say this, I regret it. For all his easy, down-to-earth charm, this guy might well be loaded too; he certainly has that air. Thankfully, though, he nods. ‘Yeah, just because you can afford to make your apartment look like the Playboy mansion, doesn’t really mean that you should.’

  We smile at each other and I’m reminded of the easy rapport we had together the last time.

  ‘Well, I should let you get on,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything. Can I get you a drink? Vodka?’

  Touché. ‘No, thanks, I’m fine. I’ll just zip round and then be out of your way.’

  Well, that was remarkably painless. I can’t believe he was so nice about it! As much as he claims there were two of us involved in the kiss, from what I remember he wasn’t exactly putting his heart and soul into it. There was definite tentativeness on his part. So, all in all, extremely gentlemanly of him.

  It takes me nearly an hour to finish the photos this time because: a) I’m trying to look as professional and hard-working as possible to make up for my previous misdemeanours, b) I have to keep moving stuff around and tampering with the lighting to minimise the worst design excesses, and c) – especially c), to be honest – Sam keeps dropping in and out to chat as I work, and I’m really enjoying hanging out with him. We just seem to have a natural affinity. I learn that he works in finance, has a dog called Seymour (he shows me the photo of him that he has as his screensaver) and that he lives in Brooklyn but originally comes from Toronto. He even spends quite a long time demonstrating the difference between American and Canadian accents, which is both informative and a turn-on, because it gives me a valid excuse to stare at his mouth.

  After I’ve spun out the job as long as I feasibly can, I reluctantly start to pack away my camera.

  ‘So that’s me done,’ I say, shouldering my bag. ‘The agency will email Brad the photos for his approval in the next few days.’

  ‘Great,’ says Sam, digging his hands in his pockets.

  ‘Well, I’ll get out of your way then.’ I smile at him, but a fug of awkwardness has descended over us again, clouding the easy connection we had a moment ago.

  ‘Sure.’ Sam bites his lip. ‘Annie, I, uh, don’t know that many people in London, apart from work colleagues. Would you like to get together for lunch sometime?’

  I just stare at him, too surprised to respond.

  ‘Obviously if it’s complicated with your current personal situation . . .’

  ‘No!’ I virtually screech. ‘No, I’d really like to. Thank you. That would be nice.’

  ‘Great. So . . . should I give you my number? Or take yours?’

  As we exchange details, I feel that thrill you get when you meet someone really fantastic and they seem to like you, too; the intoxicating buzz of
what might happen. But at the same time, like the ticker on a really negative news channel, there’s a commentary running through my mind: He’s only asking you out because he thinks you’re easy. You’re just a convenient booty call. A holiday romance without the romance. Well, if that’s the case I’m afraid he’s going to be extremely disappointed when he finds out about my wind-sock vagina and the fact that my ginormous boobs are misshapen and lumpy with milk.

  As I put his number into my phone, I realise that I’m angling it away from him so he can’t see my screensaver, which is my favourite photo of Dot. I feel a nauseous lurch of guilt. What kind of mother am I, hiding the existence of my daughter to appear more – well, more what? Sexy? Available? Whatever the reason, I feel like a total shit for doing it.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ says Sam, pressing the button for the lift, and then he leans forward and kisses my cheek, and the swirl of anticipation and lust his touch stirs up inside me makes me think that perhaps it isn’t such a big deal if I don’t mention Dot to him after all.

  24

  ‘Thank you so much for coming with me to my scan today,’ says Tabitha, as we leave the hospital arm in arm. ‘Jon would have cancelled his business trip like a shot, but I told him I’d be absolutely fine going with you.’

  We step out into brilliant sunlight, as dazzling as a torch shone straight in the eyes. After months of gloom and drizzle, the warm spring weather acts like Red Bull for the soul – strangers smile at each other and people shrug off their coats – nevertheless, it’s going to take more than sunshine to lift the clouds that are currently hanging over Tabby. I glance at my sister, who has her hands cradled around her bump as we make our way towards the tube station.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I say to her. ‘I’m just so glad you asked me to come with you. I want to do whatever I can to help, plus I loved getting a sneak peek at my nephew.’ I smile at the memory of the squirmy little black and white tadpole on the screen. ‘He definitely has your nose, Tabs. He’s going to be so handsome.’

  Tabby smiles that same tight, sad smile again, and my heart aches for her. I can well imagine what’s going on inside her head – the worry that the doctor’s words must be causing her – and I just wish I could think of the right thing to say that would make her feel a bit better. I’ve got to at least try.

  ‘Hey, just stop for a second.’ I guide her over to the side of the pavement out of the flow of pedestrians. ‘Tabby, you’ve got to remember that these scans aren’t an exact science. I know the doctor said the baby is measuring small, and that he wants to keep a close eye on your pregnancy from now on, but odds are the baby will be right on track when you have the next scan in a couple of weeks, and if he isn’t, well . . . maybe he’s just a small baby. At one point they were concerned about Dot’s growth too, and look at her – she turned out to be a right heifer!’

  Finally, I get a genuine smile in reply. ‘I just want everything to be completely fine, you know?’ she says.

  ‘Of course you do. Being pregnant is a uniquely worrying time, and if it wasn’t this, you’d be stressing about something else. And don’t forget that you’re basically ninety per cent hormones right now, which is bound to make you more anxious. But you heard what the doctor said: all the signs are good, they just need to keep a close eye on the baby’s measurements for the next few weeks. Come here.’ I wrap her in a hug and we stay like that for a moment. ‘It’s going to be okay, I promise you,’ I murmur into her hair.

  I shouldn’t have said that. If the last few years have taught Tabby and me anything, it’s that sometimes things aren’t okay; sometimes, the worst does happen. What I should have said was: ‘It probably will be okay, but if it’s not, I promise I’ll be here to support and love you and we’ll get through it together.’ But I’m guessing that isn’t what Tabby needs to hear right now.

  ‘Thank you, my love,’ she says, as we start to walk again. ‘Anyway, what’s going on with you? You seem . . . different.’ She glances at me. ‘Happier.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a sort of lightness to you, which is really lovely to see. I’ve been so worried about you since Luke . . . well, you know. Things going well, are they?’

  I’m dying to tell her about meeting Sam at the penthouse the other day and him asking me out, but I’ve decided that right now it’s probably sensible if I don’t mention our possible date to anyone. As much as I’d love to see Sam again, I lay awake last night agonising over whether it would actually be a terrible idea. Sure, Luke betrayed me in the most horrible way, but if there’s still even a small chance of mending our relationship, then I probably shouldn’t be going on a date with somebody else, no matter how much I fancy them. And anyway, is some casual, meaningless sex really going to make me feel better about myself? At least for now I’ve firmly got the moral high ground. If I go ahead with this date, I’ll be heading into very murky waters, what with me not telling Sam that I have a child, or that I’m still with the child’s father (or am I? God, that’s even murkier) and I’m not sure I want Tabby or anyone else telling me I’m making a mistake until I’ve actually had fun making it. Besides, it’s been nearly a week and I’ve heard nothing from Sam, so it may well be that he’s changed his mind anyway . . .

  So I say to Tabby: ‘I guess things are going well. I’m enjoying the new job and Dot’s settled into our new routine – and she’s sleeping okay at the moment, which makes a big difference to how I’m feeling.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘You’ve got all this to look forward to in a few months.’ I smile.

  ‘I know, I’m going to be constantly calling you up, asking questions. It’ll be like 2 a.m. and I’ll be on the phone: “But how do I get him to sleep?”’

  ‘And I’ll be like: “Sorry, Tabs, but I’ve no fucking idea”.’

  We laugh and I feel a huge surge of love for her, and I’m reminded just how lucky I am to have her as my sister.

  We’re now approaching the station where Tabby can catch the bus home to Fulham, and I’ll get the tube and then train back to Jess’ place in Streatham.

  ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea?’ Tabby nods at a café across the road with a display of cakes in the window. ‘We haven’t seen each other properly in ages, and it would be great to hear more about Dottie and the job.’

  I glance at my phone: it’s already five o’clock. As much as I’d love to spend more time with her, I’m conscious of the fact that time’s ticking on.

  ‘Don’t worry if it’s difficult,’ adds Tabby quickly. ‘We can catch up another time.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t want to be late collecting Dot . . .’

  ‘Of course, I totally understand. And I so appreciate you coming with me today.’

  We hug again and I kiss her cheek and tell her that she must call me straight away if I can do anything at all, and then she sets off towards the bus stop and I duck into the station. With every guilty step, it feels like I’m getting closer to hell. This is the second time today that I’ve lied to my sister, and whereas the first time – ‘it’s going to be okay’ – was arguably a constructive lie, this one is inexcusable. The truth is that Claris is collecting Dot from the childminder and having her for a sleepover tonight, and the real reason that I’m keen to get home is to give me extra time to get dressed and ready for my night out with Riva. And yes, I’m sure Tabby would have understood if I’d explained that I’m really nervous about meeting up with Riva and the old fashion gang tonight, and that the longer I can spend on my hair and make-up, the more confident I’ll feel, but after the worry caused by the scan it doesn’t reflect well on me to put my vanity before my sister’s sanity.

  As I get on the tube, I make a vow to myself to be a better sister. I’ve been so caught up with my own troubles recently that I’ve neglected her, but from now on I’m going to make sure I check in with her more often. I know she’s got Jon, who couldn’t be a more doting husband, and Jon’s lovely parents have adopted he
r as one of their own, but since our own parents died, we’ve only had each other and now, more than ever, she needs my support.

  25

  Three and a half hours later I’m standing outside the unremarkable-looking black door of a Georgian townhouse in Soho, behind which lies an exclusive private members’ club. The last time I was here, about six years ago, was with a then red-hot Irish actor (renowned for his boozing and blue eyes) whom I’d just been working with on a shoot, and although my memory is hazy, I think we ended up kissing in the ladies’ loo. Just another average Friday night for me back then.

  Tonight, however, feels like A Very Big Event. My outfit for the night is Jess’ red trouser suit with a plunging lacy black camisole; my cleavage levels are hovering somewhere between TOWIE and Made in Chelsea, but I think I just about get away with it because the rest of the outfit is fairly modest. My lipstick (chosen by Jess) exactly matches the colour of the suit, and I am wearing false lashes that took me half an hour to apply but were totally worth it. When I look in the mirror a stranger stares nervously back, but I’m confident that I’m looking good – which is the only way I’d be able to go through with this, as my nerves are ridiculous. My finger is actually shaking when I lift it to press the entrance buzzer.

  After a moment the door clicks open and I head up to the reception desk, where a girl with a bleached wavy bob, who was probably still in school when I was last here snogging in the toilets, looks me up and down and asks who I’m here to meet, having clearly decided I’m not enough of a somebody to waste a smile on. When I mention Riva’s name, however, she thaws dramatically.

  ‘Oh, you’re with Riva!’ she gushes, like I’m now her BFF. ‘Her party’s just arrived. Head straight up, babe, she’s on the roof terrace.’

  The terrace is packed, but I spot Riva’s curls immediately. She’s sitting at a large table with at least a dozen other people crammed around it, all chatting and laughing, their expansive body language and loud voices suggesting they rule the place. So much for the ‘quiet little get-together’ Riva promised in her text to me earlier. Riva’s crew are all so fabulous-looking that even a total stranger would know that out of all the groups here, this is the ‘It’ table, the one at the centre of the action. Was I once this intimidatingly cool, too? With a jolt I spot a few familiar faces among the crowd, people I haven’t given a second thought to in years – although once upon a time would have known every minutiae of their lives. Tomo, however, isn’t among them. Before I can decide if this is a good thing or not, Riva catches sight of me.