by Tanith Morse
‘And how are the other staff taking it? I bet they’re slagging off management no end.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t really get involved in office gossip.’
He laughed softly. ‘Yes of course, I forgot you’re one of the quiet ones.’
Outside it had started to rain. I focused intently on the little droplets of water drizzling down the shop window. A woman raced past holding a newspaper over her head for cover.
‘Have you lost weight?’
‘No.’
‘What have you done then? You look so different, Maddy, it’s incredible. You look incredible.’
‘Thank you.’ Did a haircut and a bit of make-up really make such a difference? Still, I supposed he was trying to be complimentary in his own shambolic way.
I took a massive gulp of my coffee. Almost choked on it.
‘Angela tells me you did a pretty good interview for that management position.’
‘Did she? That’s nice of her. I guess I wasn’t quite good enough though.’
‘I think you should keep at it Maddy. Like I said before, I can see a lot of potential in you. If I hear of any more positions coming up I’ll let you know.’
‘Thanks.’
William sipped his Latte and fixed his sallow eyes on me. The foam from the coffee had left a little white moustache above his lips.
‘You’ve got a bit of . . .’ I pointed to his mouth.
‘Oh, right.’ Flustered, he wiped it clean with his napkin. Then he grinned at me. ‘I just want to let you know that I’m always here to help out. If you need any advice, any help with filling out applications, I’ll be happy to assist you.’
‘That’s really sweet of you William. Thanks.’ I tapped my foot nervously under the table. Glanced at my watch. I needed to get away from him - fast. I racked my brain to think of an excuse.
‘Do you like opera?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Opera?’
‘Yeah you know, Pavarotti and all that.’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘There’s a production of Carmen coming to the O2 next week. That’s not far from where you live, is it? Greenwich. You live near Docklands, right?’
‘Um, yeah, that’s right.’ I could now guess where the conversation was heading.
‘Well, the thing is, I’ve got a pair of tickets to the show next Saturday. Since I’ve no one else to go with I wondered, if you weren’t busy, if you’d like to come with me?’
Oh God no. No!
I looked up at him with a sheepish grin. ‘I’d love to, really I would, but I’ve got to babysit my niece that Saturday. Thanks for asking me though.’
William looked down at the table and studied his snow-white knuckles.
‘Backstreet Boys?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Backstreet Boys?’
‘Do you fancy seeing Backstreet Boys instead? They’re at the O2 next month.’
‘Tempting. But I think I’ll give it a miss.’
‘Oh right. I see.’
The rain hit the window hard, transforming the traffic outside into a beautiful coloured mosaic. I squirmed with embarrassment.
‘God, is that the time already?’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘My lunch is almost up. I forgot I only get half an hour.’ I stood up and hurriedly started putting on my coat.
William looked at me dejectedly. ‘My, how the time flies when you’re having fun.’ For a second we stared at each other. There was a glimmer of desperation in his face. I felt a terrible pang of guilt. I hated upsetting people, but I couldn’t possibly accept his invitation. It wouldn’t be fair to David. Plus, I didn’t fancy him in the slightest.
‘What about just going for dinner one night?’
I exhaled slowly, quietly. The man really wasn’t getting the hint, was he? ‘To be honest William, I’m kind of seeing someone at the moment, so it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Thanks for the coffee, though. I’ll see you back at the office.’
Without another word, I buttoned up my coat and stepped out into the pouring rain.
Chapter Sixteen
Christmas was a very fraught affair. Despite me wanting to spend it alone, Beth insisted I spend it with her. She had invited Phil to move back in with them, and as this was to be their first post-affair Christmas, she said she needed some moral support. Reluctantly, I agreed - fully aware of the potential nightmare ahead.
The house was like a battlefield. Neither spouse addressed the other directly; rather, I served as the go-between in an awkward three-hander. If Beth wanted Phil to lay the table, she’d ask me to do it instead of approaching him herself. If Phil wanted to know if she’d bought any cranberry sauce, he’d shout the question out to me, making sure she heard.
I felt like I was torn between two tribes, a headless chicken being dragged from pillar to post – Phil wanting to know if Beth had seen anyone else during their brief separation, my sister wanting to know if Phil seemed genuinely remorseful for his adultery. Meanwhile, in the midst of it all was poor Vicky, banging her little fists against the dining table in the throes of one of her violent tantrums.
At one point I felt like telling them all to pack it in. Telling them all to get a life. My nerves were shattered, and I acquired a constant throbbing headache. Even when things eventually quietened down on Christmas night, and we settled down to watch some festive TV, there was still tension in the air - a constant threat that the volcano could erupt.
I was so relieved when Beth drove me home on Boxing Day. All the way back she tried her best to convince me to stay, but I was having none of it. No, I told her, it was best for her and Phil to have some private time to resolve their domestic issues. I was just an obstacle, a thorn in the side of their peace negotiations.
I spent the rest of the week in blissful isolation. I had booked the entire week off work so was free to indulge my favourite pastimes – watering my plants, cooking, watching Bret Vincent movies and thinking about David.
The night before New Year’s Eve, I was lolling on the sofa, watching Johnny Come Lately for the umpteenth time, when I heard my letterbox slam. Startled, I raced to the door and found a purple envelope addressed to me lying on the mat. Gingerly, I opened it and took out a note.
Dear Madeline,
I’m back. If you’re free tomorrow night, I’d like to take you out to dinner. If that works for you, then I’ll see you at seven-thirty.
Love, David.
‘Yes! Yes!’ I screamed, punching the air excitedly. ‘Yes!’ Then hurriedly, I unbolted the door and stared out into the darkened landing.
Nobody was there.
Seven-thirty seemed to take forever to come. I’d spent the best part of an hour trying to decide what to wear. It had been a toss-up between a shimmery purple number and an emerald green dress from Debenhams. In the end, I went for the green, as I thought the colour went well with my new hairstyle.
I stared at my reflection. My hair shone with vitality and my make-up looked immaculate. Had I overdone it with the red lipstick though? Was it perhaps a little too much?
Then the doorbell rang and I knocked a pot of compressed powder all over my bed. I cursed under my breath. I was so nervy I couldn’t see straight.
With my heart thudding in my ears, I unlocked the front door.
When I saw David standing there, I was swallowed by a tornado of emotions. Letting out a shrill cry, I threw my arms around him. Clung to him in an embrace that seemed to last for eternity.
‘I’ve missed you so much,’ I breathed.
David didn’t answer. He just hugged me closer, like he never wanted to let me go. Then, after a few minutes, we drew apart. He stared at me, completely overwhelmed by my transformation. His eyes wandered from my face, to my dress and then back again, taking in every last detail.
‘What’s this, you’ve changed your hair?’ he murmured, touching the side of my face. ‘And you’re wearing make-up.’
I nodded eagerly, too excited to speak.
‘Y
ou look fantastic,’ he said. Then he took my hand, we locked up and stepped out into the frosty night.
David had booked a table for us in a popular Italian restaurant located within a railway arch under London Bridge station. It was packed to the rafters with people out celebrating the New Year. I counted at least two office parties and what looked like a pensioners’ reunion. It was so busy I considered us lucky to have gotten a table at all. However, there was some consolation to be found in the hilariously cheesy Tom Jones and Neil Diamond covers in Italian being played on the loud speaker.
Our table was at the back of the restaurant, cramped between two couples: an elderly man and his wife and a young Asian couple. I would have liked somewhere a little more private, but understood that at this time of year one couldn’t be choosey.
‘So what do you want to drink?’ David asked after he’d studied the drinks menu.
‘Er, I think I’ll just have an orange juice.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather wine or something? It’s New Year’s Eve, Madeline. We should celebrate in style.’
‘No, I’m fine, really. Perhaps I’ll have a little glass of something around midnight.’
David nodded and called over the waitress. Handing her back the drinks menu, he ordered himself a martini and me an orange juice. Then he turned and smiled at me. I smiled back. There was an intense look in his face, a kind of suppressed hunger that sent a chill through me.
‘So how was Paris? I want to hear all about your escapades, David.’
‘Do we really have to? I’d much rather talk about you.’
‘Oh.’ I paused, slightly taken aback. ‘Well, there isn’t much to tell. London is just as boring as ever. I can’t imagine it being anywhere near as exciting as France.’
David shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised. Anyway, how was your Christmas? Did you spend it with Beth?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had a feeling you would. Have she and Phil resolved their issues yet?’
‘Yeah, I think so. Of course, it’s early, but I think things will work out eventually.’
‘That’s good to hear. Send her my regards.’
‘I will.’
At that point, the waitress returned with our drinks and set them down on the table. I took a moment to study David’s attire. He looked like he’d made a real effort. The shiny grey suit coupled with a smart but casual shirt gave him an element of thrift shop chic. Very snazzy. Perhaps the Paris fashion houses had worked their magic on him after all.
‘Madeline, I can’t get over how different you look,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘If I’d met you in the street I swear I’d have walked straight past you.’
‘Is it a good different?’ I asked.
‘Yes, definitely. The hair, the make-up . . . it brings out your natural beauty.’
My cheeks flushed. His words were like music to my ears. I tapped my foot against the table leg, played flirtatiously with my hair. Grinned like a moron.
‘So David,’ I said, ‘what are the girls like in Paris? Are they really as beautiful as everyone says they are?’
‘French girls are just like everyone else. They’re normal. You get some pretty ones, and some not so pretty ones. Thin ones, short ones, tall ones...’ He spread his hands in front of him. ‘Mind you, now we’re on the subject, some of the models I’ve worked with had absolutely terrible skin. You’d be amazed at how much airbrushing goes on.’
I laughed conspiratorially. ‘Are most French girls skinny? That’s what they’re known for, isn’t it? They can eat whatever they want without gaining weight.’
‘Can’t say that I noticed. But then, I don’t look so much at bodies – more at faces. The eyes are the windows to the soul, you know. And speaking of eyes, Madeline,’ he added quickly, ‘yours are uncommonly beautiful.’
He reached over, touched my cheek. I felt myself melting. I took a massive gulp of my orange juice to calm my nerves.
There was a short silence.
‘So there wasn’t any romance in Paris then?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I mean, no special lady?’
‘How do you mean?’
I rolled my eyes coyly. ‘Well, I just thought perhaps you’d made some lady friends out there.’
‘What? You mean like you?’
‘Uh-huh.’
David peered at me through his spectacles. My face must have betrayed something because the next thing he did was reach across the table and give my hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘Believe me, Madeline - there were no lady friends. No dates. No going out at all. Nothing. Just work, work, work. And anyway, I’ve been to Paris so many times, it doesn’t hold any surprises for me anymore.’
He abruptly took his hand away. I smiled insipidly.
The waitress reappeared clutching her notepad like her life depended on it. ‘Are you ready to order now?’ she asked brightly.
David and I exchanged glances. ‘Do you know what you want, Madeline?’
I hadn’t even bothered to look at the menu so I just blurted out Spaghetti Bolognese, which was the first Italian dish I could think of.
‘Don’t you want any starters?’
I stared down at the plastic food menu and deliberated for a second. ‘Yeah, okay I’ll have some garlic bread as well.’
‘Right, we’ll have two garlic breads and then Tagliatelle alla Bolognese and Tagliata all'aceto balsamico for our mains.’
‘Grazie,’ the waitress nodded, clearly pleased at David’s attempt at an Italian accent.
‘What did you order?’ I asked after she’d gone.
‘Steak and grilled vegetables.’
‘Is that nice?’
‘Yes, delicious. Haven’t tried it here before, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s one of those dishes you can’t go wrong with. You should have got something a bit more adventurous than Spaghetti Bolognese, Madeline. Live it up a little.’
‘Maybe next time I will. I’ll probably taste some of yours.’
Our garlic bread arrived shortly, and we sat chewing in silence for a minute or so. It tasted delicious.
‘Actually,’ I said, wiping the crumbs from my mouth, ‘something kind of funny did happen while you were away.’
‘What?’
‘Well . . .’ I began. ‘Oh, nothing.’
‘No, please go on. Don’t leave me in suspense. What happened?’
‘I went to see a psychic about you.’
David chuckled. ‘You don’t believe in all that spiritual hocus pocus to do you?’
‘Yes! Sometimes they do see things, David. Things that have actually come true.’
‘Oh Really?’
‘Yes, really. One time, this guy said I’d receive an unwanted gift, and the very next day I walked under a pigeon.’
David exploded with laughter. ‘You’re something else, do you know that? You’ve got such a crazy sense of humour, but it’s one of the things I love about you.’ His face glowed orange in the flickering candlelight. ‘So what exactly did this psychic tell you about me?’
‘He said that you have a lot of surprises in store for me.’
David grinned mysteriously but didn’t say anything.
‘So,’ I continued, ‘what surprises do you have in store for me? Are you going to start talking Italian like Robert De Niro?’
‘What’s Robert De Niro got to do with anything?’ he asked, looking around the restaurant fearfully. Then, he leaned forward and whispered, ‘What are you talking about, Madeline?’
‘It was only a joke, David. Robert De Niro’s Waiting.’
He continued to stare at me.
‘You know, that song by Bananarama?’
Slowly, David returned to an upright position. He looked greatly relieved. Maybe he just didn’t like Bananarama. Oh well, that had gone down like a lead balloon.
Thankfully, to spare me any more blushes, the waitress returned with our main courses. Mine was bog standard meat and pasta, but David’s looke
d scrumptious: sirloin steak cooked to perfection and grilled vegetables that smelled heavenly. Now I wished I had followed his advice and ordered something different.
‘How’s your food?’ David asked.
‘Yeah, it’s nice, thanks.’
‘Would you like to try some of mine?’
I nodded. He fed me a forkful. It tasted divine. ‘Mmm, I wish I’d got that now.’
‘See, I told you,’ he winked. ‘You need to start being more adventurous, Madeline. In all areas of your life.’
I smiled coquettishly. Was there a hint of a double entendre there? God, I hoped so.
‘So how often do you consult psychics about your affairs?’ he asked suddenly.
‘Not often. Only if there’s something on my mind. Something important that I need guidance on.’ I slurped a forkful of spaghetti louder than I would have liked. ‘I take it you don’t believe in that sort of thing?’
David shook his head. ‘No. I think all fortune-tellers are charlatans. They’re just very well-rehearsed confidence tricksters.’
‘I don’t agree. I mean, if you ever met this guy Gerry, he’s amazing. He’s told me things about myself I’ve never told anyone. There’s no way he could know so much if he wasn’t in touch with the spirit world.’
‘Rubbish. Have you ever read Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Yes, when I was a kid.’
‘Well, there’s your answer. You know how Sherlock uses his powers of deduction to solve cases - that’s exactly what those charlatan fortune-tellers do. They’re masters of deception. They know how to read people. They tell you they’re reading your palm but what they’re actually reading is your clothes, your demeanour and your bank balance, trying to work you out and make a bunch of lucky guesses. There’s nothing supernatural about it whatsoever.’
‘I disagree. Okay, so maybe some of them are con artists, but not all. I mean, if you could just see this guy Gerry, he’s unbelievable. It can’t be that easy to fake!’
‘I’m telling you it is. Anyone can do it if they really put their mind to it. For instance, I look at you and there’s so many things I could tell you about yourself and I know I’d be spot on.’
