More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  ‘Great, so, just . . .’ – she waves her spoon in the air – ‘. . . crack on then, yah?’

  And with that she wafts back upstairs again, leaving me none the wiser as to whether Natasha is in fact Mrs Arsehole or Miss Arsehole junior.

  While from the outside the house looks like a bucolic Grade II listed vicarage, inside we’re firmly in Kardashian territory. It’s obvious that an interior designer has been heavily involved throughout: whereas normal people gradually accumulate furniture according to their needs – a sofa here, a coffee table there – and then simply stick these things in the most suitable spot in their home, mega-rich people will engage a designer to create an entire room from scratch, often shelling out on a completely new set of furniture and decor to suit each individual space. As is the case here, this can give each room a ‘themed’ feel: so we have the ‘ancient Roman villa’ dining room, with its mosaic floor and marble urns; the cosy ‘retired professor of history’ study, its walls lined with leather-bound books; and the ‘French chateau owned by the Beckhams’ kitchen, in which a massive Sub-Zero fridge is concealed behind an elaborately carved, faux-distressed armoire.

  This place is a gold mine of Instagrammable stuff – everywhere I look there’s a hashtag waiting to happen – but as I have no idea how many people there are in the house, I have to rein in my urge to get out my iPhone and start snapping. I do manage to sneak a shot of a gold chandelier shaped like a gigantic hot-air balloon, though, and a dinner service decorated with ivy leaves, all laid out on the dining table as if at any moment twenty guests could turn up demanding a banquet.

  Once I get upstairs, the Natasha mystery is solved: she is the daughter, thank God. (I’d have felt a bit queasy if she’d been the wife.) Her bedroom is your bog-standard millionaire teenager hang-out, but it’s the room that leads off her bedroom that’s the real eye-opener. I guess it’ll be described in the property particulars as a ‘dressing room’, but this is a world away from the cramped space that implies. It’s like stepping into a high-end spa: there’s a couple of mani/pedi chairs complete with a full selection of gel polishes, salon-style backwash basins, a massage table and a row of hair and make-up stations, each with its own lavishly spot-lit mirror. Sitting alongside these is an enormous custom-made Louis Vuitton trunk branded with Natasha’s initials. I pull open the lid a fraction and take a peek inside: bloody hell, she’s basically got Selfridges’ entire beauty hall in here! Row upon row of designer make-up, meticulously arranged: an entire drawer of eyeshadows, another of lipsticks and glosses, dozens of pencils, every imaginable shade of foundation (which is odd, because Natasha’s skin is only one colour), brushes of all shapes and sizes . . . basically it’s an Aladdin’s cave, if Aladdin was big in YouTube beauty tutorials.

  After checking to see if the coast is clear, I open the trunk more widely and fire off some photos, but it’s difficult to get the exterior of the trunk in shot as well – which is really the best bit. Perhaps I should take out some of the make-up and put it alongside? Working quickly, I grab handfuls of products and arrange them on top of the trunk. Perfect. And the light in here is amazing thanks to all those spotlights. Right, I’ll just set up one more shot – where was that Nars palette I spotted a moment ago . . .?

  ‘Uh, what are you doing?’

  Natasha is standing in the doorway, her forehead wrinkled quizzically. As I watch in horror, her eyes take in the open trunk, the make-up scattered all over the counter and the palette that I’m still guiltily clutching. But when she looks back at me, instead of fury at my snooping, her eyes are wide with apology.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I had no idea it was such a mess in here!’ Natasha pads over to where I’m standing. ‘Can I help you clear up?’

  Wait – what? This is so different from the reaction that I was expecting I can only manage a nod.

  She goes on: ‘I don’t think the maid’s been in yet this morning and I’m, like, massively disorganised. Mummy would call it lazy, but I just don’t like putting stuff away! Haha! Here, let me give you a hand . . .’

  Natasha obviously hasn’t had much experience of tidying – she’ll idly pick up a lipstick, look at it as if she’s never seen it before, test it on her hand and then drop it back where she found it – but I’m just thrilled not to have been caught.

  ‘You have the most amazing make-up collection,’ I say, once I’ve recovered my composure.

  ‘Yah, I know.’ Natasha has now abandoned all pretence of helping and is examining her pores in a magnifying mirror. ‘Total shame I can’t wear it at school, raaarly.’

  I pack the last few brushes away in the trunk. ‘Well, I’ll be getting on. Thank you for the help.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ says Natasha, flashing a brilliant smile. Clearly, she hasn’t inherited her manners from her father.

  An hour later I’m on the bus back to the office to drop off the keys, and my photo of the Louis Vuitton make-up trunk is already winning Instagram. Delphine, who’s a make-up artist, has commented: ‘omg babe – WANT!!’ with six hearts and a kissy emoji, while someone called PrincessFairyGirl34 has written: ‘Is this yours? Sooooo jel!’ And the lingering guilt I was feeling about raking through Natasha’s stuff fades away as I bask in the warm glow of rapidly accumulating likes.

  When I arrive at the office I’m immediately flagged down by Fiona, who is sitting at her desk talking on the phone. When she spots me she gestures frantically towards the door and mouths: ‘I need to speak to you!’

  I tap my wrist, hold up five fingers and point to the café over the road; she replies with a thumbs up.

  By the time I’ve bought two coffees for me and Fi (and a bacon and egg sandwich for my hangover) and have found a sunny spot on a bench outside the café, Fi bursts out of the office and bustles across the road.

  ‘Hello, darlin’,’ she says, giving me a quick peck and sitting down next to me. ‘Jesus, you look rough. Dottie been keeping you up, has she?’

  ‘Actually, I had a night out yesterday. With the old fashion gang.’

  She turns to look at me in surprise. ‘Did you now? I had no idea you were in touch with that lot again.’ She doesn’t even try to keep the hostility out of her voice. Fi never had much time for my fashion mates; she used to say they were boring and self-obsessed. I guess they can seem a bit cliquey, but I just think she never got to know them properly. Fi goes on: ‘So how did that cosy little get-together happen then?’

  ‘I bumped into Riva the other day and she invited me out.’

  ‘Riva . . .? Was she that stylist with the big hair? Totally in love with herself, right?’

  ‘Come on, she’s really not that bad . . .’

  Fi looks sceptical. ‘Well, I’m guessing it must have been weird, seeing them all again after so long.’

  ‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you? But it wasn’t at all. It was like I was still part of the gang. I actually had a really fun night.’

  ‘Well, don’t you go neglecting your real friends now you’re back in touch with those freeloaders,’ says Fi tartly. ‘Anyway, listen, I’ve got something to tell you. Guess where I’ve been this morning?’

  ‘Mass?’

  ‘No, eejit, I had a viewing at the Westminster Reach penthouse. Crime scene of the Annie Taylor snog-and-run. And’ – she pauses for dramatic effect – ‘yer man was there!’

  ‘You mean . . .’

  ‘Yes! I met him. Your victim!’

  ‘And? What did you think of him?’

  ‘Well, he didn’t seem too badly traumatised by what happened, but I think the intensive therapy has probably been helping . . .’

  I give her a light slap. ‘Seriously, Fi, did you speak to him?’

  ‘Yeah, although he was leaving when I arrived so it was literally just “hi” and “bye”. But I can totally see the appeal.’ She nods enthusiastically. ‘Great shoulders, gorgeous smile, a bit clean-cut for me but still very cute . . . Shame he’s engaged, really, you two would have made a lovely coup
le . . .’

  Fi looks at me with such sympathy that I decide to give her the full picture.

  ‘Listen, I was going to tell you this eventually, but I actually saw him again, about a week ago.’

  She frowns. ‘Where?’

  ‘In the apartment. He was there when I went back to take the new set of marketing photos.’

  ‘What? Why didn’t you mention it at the time?’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘But the thing is, Fi, he’s not the owner – that man isn’t Brad Michaelson. His name is Sam Whittaker, he’s a friend of Brad’s who’s staying in the apartment while he’s in London on business and honestly, he’s so lovely. We had a really nice chat, he was totally cool about the whole drunk snogging disaster, in fact’ – I can’t keep the excitement out of my voice – ‘he asked me out.’

  Her mouth drops open. ‘You are joking.’

  ‘No! I couldn’t believe it. He told me he didn’t know anyone in London and asked if I’d like to have lunch with him.’

  ‘This is amazing! You are totally in there.’

  ‘Yeah, well, but I haven’t heard anything from him since. And he probably only asked me out because he thinks I’m gagging for it . . .’

  ‘Nonsense! Annie Taylor, you are a total catch and you really need to start remembering that. Besides,’ she adds, shooting me a sly look, ‘I thought you were gagging for it.’

  Before I can answer, my phone starts to ring and Fi looks at me triumphantly and says: ‘There you go, that’s probably him now!’

  But it’s not Sam. It’s Nose Guy – or rather, Nose Guy’s office – calling me back, I presume, to book my appointment for my plastic surgery consultation. There’s no way I can speak about my potential nose job with Fi here; I get the feeling she would strongly disapprove.

  ‘Is it him?’ she asks.

  ‘Nope.’ I slip my phone back in my bag. ‘Nothing important, I’ll deal with it later.’

  ‘So you’ll go? On the date?’

  ‘It’s not a date. It’s just lunch.’

  Fi gives an exaggerated huff of frustration.

  ‘Fine, yes, I’d really like to,’ I say. ‘We had such a great chat – it was just easy, you know? We had this natural rapport – I literally could have talked to him for hours and I just know there wouldn’t have been any awkward pauses. Also, of course, I do really fancy him. There was a spark between us, I’m sure.’

  ‘So what’s the feckin’ problem?’

  ‘It’s just everything’s so complicated in my life at the moment. Haven’t I got enough to deal with without adding this to the mix?’

  ‘Oh come on, he’s not asking for your hand in marriage! It’s perfect – he’s only in London for a while. Go on, have some no-strings fun – it’ll do you the world of good.’

  ‘Maybe . . . but – what about Luke?’

  Fi shoots me a savage look and virtually growls: ‘What about him?’

  ‘. . . and Dottie?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t take her with you when you go on the date, but beyond that – honest to God, woman, you’re looking for problems where there aren’t any! I don’t think having a baby disqualifies you from having fun. You owe it to yourself to get out there, have a laugh and get laid, plus it might even help you make a decision about Luke. So will you do it?’

  ‘Alright,’ I say after a moment’s thought. ‘I’ll do it.’

  What I haven’t admitted to her is that there is no way I’ll turn Sam down if he gets back in touch. I just wanted her to tell me that I’m doing the right thing in meeting up with him – so thank God she’s given me the green light.

  27

  Hey Cinderella, how’s it going? If you’d still like to get together for lunch, how does this Wednesday work for you? There’s a place on the river near St Paul’s I’ve been wanting to try. Let me know if you can make it, it would be good to get together. Sam.

  I read the text again to make sure I didn’t miss any subtleties – although having said that, I could probably spend all day trying to analyse the hidden subtext of the phrase: ‘it would be good to get together’. Does that particular choice of words suggest he wants to have meaningless dirty sex with me? Or embark on a committed, loving relationship? Men can be so obtuse . . .

  As over two weeks have passed since we saw each other at the apartment, I’d all but convinced myself Sam wasn’t going to get in touch, but now that he actually has, the initial surge of excitement is giving way to guilt, confusion and, above all, worry. I get the feeling I’m doing something morally wrong by even thinking about meeting him. It doesn’t help that Luke is currently standing just a few feet away, smiling at me like I’m the most wonderful woman on earth.

  We’ve met up at the local playground so I can hand over Dot, as Luke is going to look after her today, and it’s such a lovely morning that when he suggested I stick around for a bit, I surprised myself by agreeing. Dot’s usually at home with me on Mondays, but I have an appointment this morning and Helen the childminder doesn’t have space, so Luke volunteered to take the day off work and spend it with her. I can see how hard he’s trying to be a good dad, and I have to admit that my frozen heart does thaw a little watching them together. Luke is pushing Dot on the baby swing, standing in front of her and tickling her feet every time she swings back towards him, making her giggle like a maniac. I return Luke’s smile without even thinking about it; at moments like this, it’s far harder to remember to stay mad at him.

  He’s the only man in the playground right now – 9 a.m. on a Monday is prime mum-time – and I might be imagining it, but I’m sure I notice some of the other women checking him out. Objectively speaking, I have to admit that he is a good-looking guy. He’s wearing jeans and an old navy sweatshirt and looks as if he’s just returned from two weeks in the tropics – although he’s one of those annoying people who only has to look at the sun on TV to get a tan.

  I glance down at my phone and re-read Sam’s message again. As much as I like the guy (and I know I do, because if I was fully and unconditionally single I would be giddy with anticipation about seeing him again) I’m still worried it could be a massive faff – as well as morally questionable – to venture down this particular road. Plus, I’m already worrying about the number of lies that meeting up with Sam would entail: both to him and of course to Luke. I’m a terrible liar: I get this uncontrollable tic where I start tugging at my right ear. I’m just not cut out for duplicity.

  I slip my phone back in my pocket and decide to reply later; it’s taken nearly two weeks for Sam to contact me, it won’t hurt him to wait a few hours.

  Luke has now taken Dot out of the swing, much to her displeasure, and comes over to where I’m standing with her squirming and complaining in his arms.

  ‘Do you think we can try her on the slide?’ he asks.

  ‘Sure, but you’ll need to hold her.’

  ‘Obviously,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘I’m not a complete novice at this, you know.’

  We stroll across the playground, dodging kamikaze toddlers, and Luke puts Dot at the top of the baby slide and gently whizzes her down – ‘wheeeee!’ – and even though it’s not exactly The Smiler at Alton Towers, her eyes go wide and she pounds her fists in that adorable way she has when she’s massively excited about something.

  ‘Aren’t you a daredevil!’ I laugh, as Dot sits at the bottom of the slide rocking back and forth in her enthusiasm to do it again.

  ‘I told you she’s going to be sporty,’ says Luke with a proud smile, carrying her back to the top.

  We watch our daughter enjoying the slide, both of us absorbed in our own thoughts, and then after a minute Luke asks: ‘So what’s this appointment you’ve got today?’

  ‘Oh, just a routine doctor’s thing.’ My hand shoots up to my right ear.

  ‘Is everything alright?’ asks Luke with a look of concern.

  ‘Yeah, it’s really nothing important. Just . . . women’s stuff.’ My fingers continue to tug at my ear;
I literally have no power to control this pesky tic.

  ‘Well, I hope it goes okay,’ he says – and then he catches sight of something behind me. When I turn to find out what he’s looking at, my heart plummets into my shoes. You are fucking kidding me.

  ‘Mum!’ shouts Luke, waving. ‘Over here!’

  Plastering on a smile, I watch as Lucia Turner bustles through the playground, a fearsome little cannonball of tweed, beige stockings and lipstick, her black hair arranged into a terrifying nuclear cloud that must have taken an entire can of hairspray to create.

  ‘I didn’t know your mum was coming,’ I mutter to Luke as she rapidly closes in on us.

  ‘Yeah, she loves seeing Dottie,’ he replies, a note of defensiveness already creeping into his voice. ‘And I know she was keen to see you.’

  I bet she was, I think, so she can bloody well give me the third degree.

  I haven’t seen Lucia since finding out about Luke’s affair with Sigrid, but let’s just say I will be extremely surprised if she hasn’t worked out a way to blame me for everything that’s happened.

  ‘Cara mio!’ Lucia reaches up for her beloved son’s face and kisses him vigorously on both cheeks. ‘Oh, and Dottie – vita mia!’ She grabs Dot from Luke’s arms and holds her up like Simba at the start of The Lion King. ‘Amore! What a very, very beautiful bambina you are. So like your papa at your age . . .’ And then, clutching Dot to her bosom, she turns to face me, and although she’s still smiling broadly, her eyes slant ever so slightly into a look that says, I’ve got a bone to pick with you, missy. ‘And Annie, it’s wonderful to see you.’ She comes in for a kiss, wafting Elnett and Rive Gauche. ‘How I’ve missed you!’

  ‘You too, Lucia,’ I say, and it would be easy to miss the tiny sceptical arch of Lucia’s eyebrow as she beams in reply.

  ‘So, first things first.’ She thrusts Dot at me. She’s brought with her two bulging Sainsbury’s Bags for Life, which she now holds up; I don’t need to look inside to know they’ll be full of home-cooked meals. ‘Luca, these are for you. I can’t imagine how you’re finding time to cook with your busy job and looking after Dottie and all the other so many important things you have to do!’