Head Over Heels

by Sara Downing

  ‘I suppose it does sound pretty funny when you put it like that,’ I reply. ‘And it's all true too. That's just as it happened.’

  ‘I think that's lovely, Grace, how romantic, and so much nicer than having to admit to pulling each other in a bar, or something like that. It's a great story. And are you still as madly in love now as in those Head Over Heels days?’

  What a question! I know I must look shocked, and feel more than a little put on the spot by his question.

  ‘Of course we are, Tom,’ I protest, just a little too defensively, and look down at the table, averting his gaze. ‘Mark and I are soul mates.’ I can tell the dreaminess has gone out of my voice, it’s all matter-of-fact-ness now. Who am I trying to convince here, him or me? I don't know what’s wrong with me tonight; feeling disconcerted but quite excited about sitting next to my attractive boss, revealing to him our plans for starting a family and my reservations about it all, telling him about how we met, and then finally not being able to say convincingly that I still love Mark as much as the day we had met. Something to do with the conversation I had overheard in the kitchen, possibly?

  ‘What are you two gassing about over there?’ Perfect timing – thank you James for cutting into our conversation and sparing me any more blushes. Susie has nipped off to the loo, Alex is busy getting the cheeses ready in the kitchen, and he finds himself marooned at the head of the table with no one to talk to.

  ‘I was just hearing all about Grace and Mark's first encounter,’ Tom replies, grinning. ‘I presume you've heard how she goes round the country, spearing unsuspecting men on her spiky high heels and luring them back to her den of iniquity for hours and hours of illicit sex?’ What was that about me being spared more blushes? I feel myself turning as pink as the roses in Alex's hearth.

  ‘In your dreams, Tom, I think,’ Mark cuts in, freeing himself up from his discussion with Evie, to leap to my defence. ‘It was much more romantic than that, wasn't it Grace? I still have the scar to show for it, mind you, but it was worth all that pain.’ Mark smiles at me, but there is a slight hollowness in his eyes that I haven't seen before. I am more used to him looking at me as though he can’t resist reaching out and touching me for a second longer.

  ‘I think it beats the rest of us on 'how we met' stories, don't you?’ Tom continues, throwing the topic of discussion open to all, much to my relief at no longer being the centre of attention.

  ‘Well, Susie and I met on holiday in Spain when we were young, free and single in our twenties,’ says Graham, picking up the baton. ‘We were the classic corny holiday romance, both staying in the same hotel with a bunch of mates, then it turned out we didn't live that far apart back home. We got very drunk on Sangria one night, and the rest is history, as they say.’ There is a collective ‘ahhh’ around the table, then Alex, who is back in her seat, chips in with her story.

  ‘Peter and I were at school together, so we go back even further,’ she starts, passing round the plates and cheese knives. She is brilliant at talking about Peter as if he is still around; well, he is in a way, as his children are so much a living embodiment of him. Some people who have lost a loved one either never speak about them in polite company, or make everyone else feel awkward if they do, as their sorrow is still so apparent. Alex does neither. When she speaks about Peter it’s with a lightness of tone, as though he has just popped out of the room, and although she is very pragmatic about his death and its consequences for her and her children, she works hard at keeping his memory alive, for her sake and for theirs, too. They remember so little about him as it is.

  ‘He used to throw things at me in Maths lessons,’ she says. ‘I thought he hated me and I didn't like him very much to start with, then when I told my mum about it, she said that boys that age have a funny way of showing it if they fancy someone. They get all defensive and react strangely around the girl. So I kept an eye on him, which wasn't difficult as he was soooo gorgeous.’ She flutters her eyelids dreamily at this point, lifting the mood, and raising a laugh from everyone assembled.

  ‘But it wasn't until the end of term dance that he made a move. None of his mates were watching, so he stopped throwing cheese puffs at me and sidled up to me and very shyly asked me to dance. And the rest is history there too! We were married by the time we were twenty, so at least I had him for a long time before..... everything else. Fate must have brought us together young as it knew we wouldn't have much time.’ She says this with a smile and without showing any sign of the heartbreak I know she still feels, but it leaves a feeling of melancholy around the table as everyone thinks of the friend they have lost.

  Someone needs to pick up where she leaves off to avoid us all getting maudlin, and James steps promptly into the limelight with his story.

  ‘Well, I spotted this hot babe, who came in to sort out our computer installation at work,’ he says, grinning from ear to ear at Evie. I notice her roll her eyes. The poor girl is probably wondering how much mileage he will get out of the story this time. Some double-entendre references to sockets and mother boards as usual, no doubt, so she braces herself for the worst he can do, preparing to laugh it off if the need arises.

  ‘She was grappling around with some wiring under my desk when I realised she was the one for me.’ James can never tell the story straight. Evie had been far too senior at her software company to do the grappling around herself; she had merely overseen it from a project manager's perspective, which had meant lots of meetings with James. The meetings turned into lunches out, and then dinners, ‘And the rest is history – again,’ James finishes with a flourish, just to end his story in the same manner as everyone else, and looking up to ensure he has a rapturous reception from his audience.

  ‘The only story we haven't heard yet is yours, Tom,’ probes James. Very insensitive of him, I reckon, given that Tom is here on his own, and James knows just how heartbroken his friend was after Sophie.

  ‘But I haven't found the love of my life yet, so that doesn't count. When I do, I'll regale you all with stories of how it was.’ He continues in theatrical mode, seemingly not bothered by James’ gaffe.

  ‘Whether it ends up being a chance encounter across a crowded room, a holiday romance that turns into true love or a good friend and colleague who I suddenly realise is more than just a mate.’ I gulp. Tom can’t be talking about me, can he? No, that would be silly. He must be talking about his new girlfriend – she’s a teacher, too, after all. Tom and I have had one evening of some fun but fairly outrageous flirting, plus a couple of electrically charged accidental brushes against each other, but beside all this, I’m spoken for, and he knows that. I had told him all that personal stuff about Mark and me, so I must be imagining the slight sideways glance that comes my way, then, after his final comment. No one else around that table has any reason whatsoever to think that the person he is referring to might be me, and nor should I. No, I just have an overactive imagination, that’s all.

  Eight

  ‘Bye, Alex darling, thank you for another fabulous evening.’ I say, kissing my friend on both cheeks, and giving her a warm hug.

  We are the last to leave Alex’s house, though not by much. The others have peeled off in dribs and drabs over the past half hour and Mark and I, being the most local, and with no babysitter to rush back for, offered to stay behind and help stack the dishwasher, now on its umpteenth run of the evening. Neither of us could bare the thought of Alex coming downstairs to all that, single-handedly, tomorrow morning. She had sent Lucy home a while ago; the poor girl is in the middle of exams and needs to get some sleep before getting back to her revision tomorrow.

  The kitchen was still a mess; most of the dirties had been brought through from the dining room, but the kitchen table had been piled high with dirty cheese plates, glasses, and crockery. I know Alex doesn't put her best crystal in the dishwasher so I rolled up my sleeves, and reached for the marigolds and fairy liquid.

  ‘You really don't have to,’ Alex protested.

&n
bsp; ‘Yes I do,’ was my fake-stern reply. ‘Besides which,’ I’d continued more cheerily, ‘I always love a post-match analysis after dinner parties, don’t you, so we can have one now. I'll wash, you dry, you know where everything goes.’

  ‘So, how did you get on with Tom?’ Alex enquired as we were washing up. ‘Was it a bit weird sitting next to your boss all evening?’ She knew where to hit the nerve, albeit unintentionally. Mark had been dispatched to the end of the drive with the rubbish, which needed sorting into recyclable and not, so I knew he would be gone for a few minutes.

  ‘No it was fine actually,’ I replied, keeping my head down over the sink so she couldn't read anything in my eyes. ‘He was really good company and we talked about all sorts. He got quite personal, but somehow I seemed to be able to open up to him. We talked all about the baby stuff, too. I was quite surprised really, we always get on well at work, but we've never talked like that before.’

  ‘Well that’s really nice,’ Alex replied. ‘You're both very professional people, you don't air your dirty laundry at work and I can't imagine Tom does either. Did he tell you much about Sophie? She really messed him up, poor thing. It's such a shame, he's a lovely man and he has so much to offer. Peter always thought really highly of him, you know. He knew him years ago. They weren't at school together or anything, but their families were quite friendly. I like to have him round now and again just to keep that connection going. Not to mention the fact that he's also our esteemed headmaster, and it's always nice to keep a finger on the pulse of the children's school!’ she added.

  ‘How about you, how was conversation at your end of the table?’ I enquired, changing the subject quickly.

  ‘James and Mark were great fun, as always,’ she laughed. ‘Although I got the feeling that Evie and James had a bit of a something going on. Did you pick up on that?’

  ‘No, I didn't notice, what do you think it was?’ I asked. I had been so engrossed with Tom, I hadn't really tuned in to any subtleties in the relationship stakes between anyone else.

  ‘I think they might have had a bit of a ding-dong before they arrived,’ she continued. ‘Something to do with a comment he had made about her parents, you know what an unsubtle brute he can be sometimes.’

  I wanted to ask her about her conversation in the kitchen with Mark, but I could see the light from his torch coming up the garden.

  ‘You and Mark seemed to have a lot to talk about,’ I probed quickly, before he came back into the kitchen. ‘Was he OK?’

  ‘I'll fill you in some time in the week,’ she replied, also spotting him approaching. ‘He's OK, just a bit confused, I think.’ Alex always has that knack of reassuring me with just a few simple words, and although she made light of it then, I was still concerned that it was her he had turned to instead of me.

  ‘Hi ladies, how's the clearing up going in here then?’ Mark came striding through the back door. ‘It's a beautiful night out there, loads of stars. Are you ready to go home then, my love?’ He sidled up behind me and squeezed me around my waist, nuzzling into my neck.

  ‘If Alex says I can go then yes, I am,’ I replied, freeing myself from his grasp. His clinches seemed incongruous with his earlier attitude and I wasn’t in the mood for public displays of affection at that point.

  ‘Thank you both so much,’ Alex said. ‘You've saved me hours of clearing up in the morning. See you guys in the week. Have a good lie in tomorrow, and think of me up early with the kids!’ she joked.

  It’s just past one thirty as we wrap up in our warm coats, grab our torches, and head out of Alex's drive. Mark was right, it is a beautiful night, crisp and chilly, and here in the countryside, with no light pollution to spoil the view, the stars are out in full force.

  ‘What a perfect night to be walking my beautiful fiancée home to bed,’ Mark chirrups. He seems to have changed in temperament since the hollow-eyed look he had given me across the table earlier. He’s probably had a bit too much to drink, which usually leaves him feeling more amorous than normal, but often with the inability to deliver. When he’s like this, he will invariably whisper sweet nothings for ages, be all over me like a rash, then pass out in the deepest of sleeps as soon as his body hits the bed. Normally I find it quite endearing and funny; tonight though, I have his earlier words of doubt buzzing round my head and I’m not in the mood for even gently fighting off his advances. I plan to take myself off to bed as soon as we get home, to sleep and nothing more.

  True to form, when we get back, Mark reaches for the brandy bottle, pours himself a large slug, and by the time I have returned from depositing my numerous items of outdoor apparel on the coat rack, he is snoring in the comfy armchair in the corner of the kitchen. I grab a warm throw from the back of the sofa, and place it carefully over him, planning to slip off to bed. But as I reach over to tuck it under him, he seizes me by the wrist, startling me with the suddenness and with the strength in his grip.

  ‘Ow, you made me jump,’ I say, ‘I thought you were asleep, I didn't want to disturb you.’

  ‘Not so fast, young lady,’ he replies, for the second time this evening. ‘Come here and give me a kiss before you go.’

  I lean over, planning a quick pursed-lips affair before shooting off to bed, but he pulls me onto him and in a quick movement somehow manages to flip us both over, so that I am the one in the armchair, and he is leaning over me. He kisses me hard, thrusting his tongue between my teeth, the bitter taste of the brandy harsh on his lips. His hands reach for my breasts, squeezing, pushing me back into the chair as his tongue thrashes around in my mouth. I find it anything but a turn-on and try to gently push him away. He isn't having any of it though; with his knee he succeeds in prizing my legs apart and I know that if I don't act now to stop him, what he is about to do is totally out of character and both of us will suffer in the morning, when realisation of what he has done hits home.

  ‘Mark, please don't,’ I plead, ‘I'm tired and I need to sleep.’

  I push him as hard as I can, and it is as though a light suddenly comes on in his head. The whole thing had only lasted a matter of seconds but it had felt like an eternity.

  ‘Grace, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you,’ he says. ‘I don't know what came over me.’ He stands up and runs his fingers through his hair, and begins pacing the floor, trying to pull himself together. It’s not like him to be brutal with me, or to ever try to force himself on me. He reaches for me and pulls me into his arms, gently this time, stroking my hair. I stand inside his embrace, arms by my sides, not wanting to reciprocate.

  ‘I'm so sorry my darling, I would never hurt you, you know that, don't you?’

  But I am scared at the glimpse of the man I have just witnessed. He is usually so gentle with me; when we make love it is a two-way thing and always a mutual decision. If one of us isn't so keen, the other is always prepared to back off. How can we have gone from our passionate encounter in the shower, only a few hours earlier, to this?

  Nine

  I wake late to sunshine streaming through the curtains. Looks like another gorgeous spring day. I turn over to find Mark's side of the bed empty, but still warm. He has been to bed then, at least. After the events of the night before, I’d taken myself off upstairs as quickly as possible, needing to put some space between myself and Mark, and had left him pacing around the kitchen, beating himself up over the way he had treated me when we arrived home. I still can't quite get my head round the whole evening, there is so much flying around in my brain.

  It’s tempting to pull the duvet back over my head and sleep for a few more hours, avoiding having to think about it and trying to make some sense of it all. Also, I’m not really ready to see Mark yet; I can't begin to imagine what sort of frame of mind he will be in today, and whether there will be an uneasy atmosphere between us. I can’t see how everything can just slot back into normality, as if it had never happened. We certainly have some issues to talk about, and it’s going to be hard work. Mark and I have always been two ha
lves of the whole. At this moment in time, I couldn't feel less like that matching half, and I need some reassurance that everything is OK and can get back to normal, if that’s what we both want. I’m not used to all these emotional ups and downs. So much seems to have happened in such a short space of time. I find it unfathomable that by agreeing to try for a baby with Mark, only a matter of days ago, we have stirred up so many strange emotions and created something of a barrier between us already. Is that a sound basis on which to start a family? Somehow I don’t think so.

  I shower and dress quickly, the warm water coursing over my hair and body waking me up and giving me a little more courage to face whatever is waiting for me downstairs.

  On the kitchen table there is a note, and a bunch of daffodils from the garden in a vase. ‘Grace, so sorry. Love you. PS Gone out for croissants, back soon,’ it reads. The coffee machine is on and primed, the table set; Mark is obviously planning a conciliatory breakfast.

  No sooner have I read the note, I hear his key in the lock, so there is no chance for a quick escape back upstairs to bed. He comes into the kitchen, bearing a paper bag from the deli, and looking somewhat sheepish. He doesn't say a word, but puts the bag on the kitchen table, comes over to me, puts his hands on my shoulders, stands squarely in front of me and kisses me gently on the cheek, stroking my face with the back of his hand afterwards. He bends down a little to look into my eyes for some sort of reaction.

  ‘How are you feeling today?’ I venture, peeling away from him and trying to keep the topic of conversation in neutral for a while, ‘Alex had some good wine last night. I think I had a bit too much.’ I attempt a light-hearted laugh.