Barefoot in the Dark

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘She has a cat? It figures. Never trust a woman with an over-attachment to a cat, Jack. Trust me on this. She’s –’

  ‘No! God, I don’t know. All I know is that I was subjected to a load of bloody bollocks about how she’d decided she didn’t want to see me again anyway because though she did want to see me again she’d decided that it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to see me again because I’ve only just got divorced, so I probably want to shag lots of other women before getting hooked up with someone like her –’

  ‘Which is true.’

  ‘Pah! And because – get this – I’m a man. Jesus! Am I up to here with that line! Oh, and how she really shouldn’t have gone to bed with me in the first place and that –’

  ‘Hang on! You’ve shagged her?’ Danny’s eyes widened. ‘Way to go, mate,’ he said heartily. He clapped Jack across the back.

  Jack scowled. ‘Yes. I went to bed with her, OK? Big deal.’ What was he saying? It was a very big deal. Bigger than he’d ever imagined it would be.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Danny.

  ‘No, not excellent. Because she doesn’t do sleeping around, as she calls it, and is apparently far happier doing no sex at all until such time that she meets someone who’s already done all that stuff and isn’t interested in doing it any more and then she can go out with them instead. Or me. But not now. Just in case. I mean, what the hell’s all that about? Does that make any kind of sense to you? Can you believe anyone would get so much in their heads just because someone didn’t ring them for two days?’

  Danny picked his screwdriver up again and sucked the end of it thoughtfully.

  ‘You’ve got to remember. Women sulk. And, hey, sounds like she’s got you sussed, mate.’ He scratched his head. ‘Anyway, like I said, if she’s got that much baggage – if she’s that needy, you’re well out of it. On to the next one, I say!’

  Jack sprang up from the swivel chair and went to glare out of the window, not at all happy to realise that his original instincts had been proved so comprehensively right. Why hadn’t he trusted them in the first place? Like before he’d got bloody embroiled with her? Like before, it, hell, it mattered. He swung around. ‘But who goes around saying all that stuff? Even thinking that stuff? Did she read it in some tit-faced woman’s magazine? ‘Oh, yes, first principles, ladies. All men are utter bastards and divorced ones are even more dangerous than most. Cavort with them at your peril!’

  ‘She’s got a point.’

  ‘Well, thanks a lot, Dan. Cheers.’ He slumped against the wall heater. ‘I mean why can’t I just take her out and see what happens, for Christ’s sake? What’s with all the Nostradamus bullshit? I can’t see into the future, can I? How should I know how I’m going to feel six months down the line? I don’t know how I’m going to feel five minutes down the line! Christ! Why can’t life just happen?’

  Danny chuckled. ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without’em. It’s the wonderful world of birds, mate. Listen, the bottom line is that she’s right, isn’t she? Look, I know you like her –’

  ‘I liked her.’ He shook his head. ‘ Yes. OK. I like her.’

  ‘Yeah, but do you like her enough? Do you like her in a “right that’s it, I’m sorted on the sex front till death us do part so no, no, hold me back from any gorgeous young women” kind of way?’

  ‘How should I know? I’ve only known her a couple of months! I’ve only been out with her a couple of times! Why should I even have to think about stuff like that?’

  ‘You don’t. You keep your options open. You hang loose. You hang out. You play the field. Face it. She’s not young enough, blonde enough or leggy enough for you, and she knows it. Like I said, you’re well out of there.’

  Now, sitting in the car outside the TV studios, Jack wished he wasn’t divorced. He wished it as wholeheartedly and earnestly as he had ever wished for anything. It was the biggest failure of his life. He didn’t want to be married to Lydia any more – which was just as well – but he wished it had all never happened. That he could unravel time and do the whole thing again. Be more careful. More circumspect. More sure of what he wanted. Marry the right person in the first place. For the right reasons. Do whatever it was you needed to do to stay married instead of just blithely assuming it would happen by default. It didn’t really matter that it was Lydia who left him. The marriage broke down. It didn’t work. So he was as much to blame as she was. He thought about his father and his mother. Married so long and so happily. None of this to deal with. He almost wished they hadn’t been. Not really, of course, but if they hadn’t – if it hadn’t always seemed so effortless – perhaps he wouldn’t have taken it so much for granted.

  It was almost four. He’d better get on and get in there. He pulled his case from the passenger seat and opened the car door. Danny had been right in the first place. He really wasn’t ready to do those sort of relationships again. Hope was right too. She was no different from him, really. Only difference was that she’d already thought about this stuff. Which made her much cleverer than him.

  Too clever by half, damn her. And way too demanding. The last thing he needed in his life was another bloody woman flagging up his deficiencies and making him feel he wasn’t up to scratch. Too much of that and he’d begin to start believing it again. Wasn’t sure he didn’t believe it again already. He wasn’t having that. Danny talked sense. He was well out of it.

  He straightened his tie and pushed thoughts of her away. So many women, so little time. He watched idly as a young girl, couldn’t be more than late teens or early twenties, half walked, half ran towards a waiting car. Her hair, long and corn-coloured, streamed out behind her in ribbons, and her legs, in brown boots, moved in sinewy rhythm. The automatic twitch from his loins reassured him. Nine out of ten. Now he’d go get that job.

  ‘Hey! The boy done good!’

  Allegra had caught up with him on his way back across the car park, all dusky cheeks and lipstick and set-square-aligned teeth. She was dressed in a charcoal suit and a pair of outrageously pointed scarlet stilettos. Not foot shaped at all. Why did women wear shoes like that? Their click-clack across the car park was what had made him turn around. It put him in mind of the crocodile in Peter Pan.

  Or, no, perhaps fangs. ‘I’m not counting any chickens,’ he said.

  ‘No, really,’ she purred, plucking a speck of something from the lapel of his jacket. ‘You made quite an impression. How d’you know all that stuff? I’ve never seen the Führer quite so animated. Did you know about his Portsmouth fetish or something?’

  She hitched her handbag strap higher on her shoulder, and a flash of lilac coloured bra peeped out from the little gap that had appeared between the buttons of her blouse.

  ‘A happy coincidence,’ he said, trying not to look at it. ‘But like I say, let’s wait and see, shall we?’

  Allegra turned and slipped her arm through the crook in his. ‘It’s in the bag,’ she said. ‘I just know it. Anyway.’ She smelled of coconut. ‘What are you up to now? Off to pen some sparkling copy for the Echo?’

  ‘I’m going home to get out of this suit,’ he said, as they reached the first line of cars. He checked his watch. ‘And catch the end of the ‘Simpsons’.’

  ‘Whoah! You’re making me giddy. You sure know how to party, don’t you? Look, d’you fancy a drink first, maybe? I’ve got a few ideas I wanted to run by you. I mean, I’d hate to come between you and Marge, but… ’

  ‘I don’t know –’ he began.

  She pouted at him. ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Oh, go on,’ he decided. ‘What the hell. Why not.’

  They went to the bar in a hotel nearby, Allegra travelling in his car to save them taking both. Jack had known Allegra for some time. They’d worked together back in pre-history, when the world was still flat and he still had a six-pack. And the breakfast slot on Red Dragon, while she was just a lowly researcher on ‘South Wales Today’. But she hadn’t been around long. She went off to pursue her acting amb
itions (was there anyone there who didn’t have ‘acting ambitions’?) and managed to get a part in some soap or other. Then came back to Wales (all acted out, presumably) three years later, and somehow – Jack didn’t know quite how – here she was producing the very programme he wanted in on. Funny how tables got turned.

  Back then he’d been married, of course, not that that would have stopped her. She was married too. But that was then, in the days when he thought fidelity was something married people did. Back before Lydia had re-written the rules. After a lengthy affair with the deputy controller of religious programming, Allegra had divorced her husband and hooked up with someone else. A string of someone elses. It hadn’t harmed her career one bit. Though Jack didn’t believe all the rumours about her prodigious talent for making men in powerful places curl up and pant for her, he wasn’t impervious to the potency of her charms. It was just that she’d always scared him. She was the kind of woman you wouldn’t want to find yourself in a broken lift with. Not if she decided she wanted to seduce you. Not if you wanted to come out alive.

  He’d been divorced, what, five months now? – in his flat for longer – and he knew she was chipping away at his defences. An image of Hope’s face swam before him as he thought it. He blinked it away. Allegra, like Hope, was a demanding woman. But there were demanding women, and demanding women. Allegra’s brand of demanding didn’t involve commitment, or fidelity, or love. It just involved sex, pure and simple. On demand.

  She insisted on buying the drinks, which addled him. He’d tried to stand his ground, but she was having none of it. That was the thing with women these days – come on too heavy about paying for things and they lobbed the equality card into the arena. Like you were the spokesman for a whole millennium’s worth of chauvinist bastards. Perhaps they had a point. He was feeling chopsy. He would very much have liked to have said ‘I’m buying the fucking drinks, OK?’ but instead he backed down and it made him feel emasculated. Crazy. Crazy. He stood beside her, breathing in her tropical-paradise aura while she extracted a stiff twenty pound note from her wallet. He didn’t for one moment believe she had any ‘ideas’ to run by him, unless you counted the one he could see simmering in her eyes now, as she passed him his gin and tonic.

  ‘Sante,’ she said silkily. ‘Here’s to us, eh? Here’s to you. May the good Lord grant us Des Lynam’s viewing figures, and may Portsmouth prevail in all things.’

  He clinked glasses with her and smelled the sharp acid tang as he swallowed the top inch of his drink. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked for it. But he hadn’t felt like sinking a pint right now. And there was no way he’d ever ask for a half.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ he asked, once she’d stashed the wallet away. ‘There’s a couple of tables free over there.’

  ‘Sitting works for me,’ she agreed, leading the way across the bar and giving him an unrestricted view of her tautly-clad bottom as he followed. ‘If I have to walk much further in these I might just keel over.’ She sat down, slipping the bag from her shoulder and slipping one foot from her shoe. She had big breasts. Jack trained his gaze at his glass. ‘So,’ she said, crossing her legs and leaning down to massage her stockinged foot. ‘How’s things with you, then? You’ve been keeping a very low profile lately.’

  ‘I’ve been keeping busy,’ he corrected her. ‘I’ve got the two columns now, plus that series I’m doing for the Mail, plus there’s the show, of course.’

  ‘I do listen, you know,’ she said, straightening and tutting at him. She slid the other shoe off. ‘Often. I like hearing the sound of your voice when I’m working. And how is the lovely Patti?’ She re-crossed her long legs at the knee. Jack couldn’t help his eyes straying down her shin. A ski-run of smooth honey flesh.

  ‘Patti?’ he said. ‘She’s fine. Er. Lovely.’

  ‘And you?’ She inspected his face. ‘No developments there, then, I take it?’

  Jack almost choked on his drink. The idea that he and Patti might get together romantically was about as ridiculous a notion as the idea that he and Hil might indulge in the odd quickie over her desk.

  ‘Er, no. No developments there,’ he assured her. Though there was really no need. She hadn’t thought so for an instant.

  She was casing the joint, that was all.

  By the time they were back at the car, Jack could sense that the input from his loins was fast gaining ground on the input from his brain. And what of it, he thought, as he clicked up the lock and opened the door for her. The only reason he’d been reticent about getting involved with Allegra was that he didn’t want to get involved with Allegra. The sort of cock-eyed, romanticised, faux-moral thinking that could have earned him a pedigree in lost opportunities with girls. With Hope Shepherd, for certain. Damn her. He hadn’t wanted to get involved with her either. Well, perhaps now was the time to stop worrying and start living. Danny was right. He did have a penis. Why the hell shouldn’t it direct operations for a while? A simplifying system all round. So many women. So little time.

  They climbed into the car and he pushed the key into the ignition.

  ‘Allegra,’ he said, swivelling in his seat now to face her. ‘Are you doing anything Friday evening?’

  She leaned across and planted a kiss on his cheek. ‘Jack,’ she breathed at him, just to the left of his earlobe. ‘I really, really thought you’d never ask.’

  Chapter 17

  Almost the last thing Hope would have wanted to see sitting on her desk when she arrived at work on Thursday morning was an A4 black-and-white picture of Jack Valentine’s face. The absolute last (since she was trawling her bete noires) would have been Simon wearing nothing but his pants and a come-hither expression, so she did suppose it could be worse, but, even as the lesser of two evils, what she was looking at now did not please her one bit.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked Kayleigh, who was standing on a chair across the office, poking a watering can into the dessicated fronds of the spider plant on top of the stationery cupboard. Kayleigh paused in her pouring.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘This.’ Hope picked it up by its corner, almost reluctant to touch it. ‘This thing on my desk.’

  Kayleigh climbed down from the chair.

  ‘That’s Jack Valentine,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ Hope said patiently. ‘But what’s it doing on my desk?’

  Kayleigh shrugged. ‘I dunno. It’s a printout of the jpeg, isn’t it?’

  ‘What jpeg?’

  ‘The jpeg he sent through for the posters.’

  ‘What jpeg he sent through for the posters?’

  ‘The one he sent us. For us to put on the posters for the fun run.’ She climbed back on to the chair again and shrugged. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Yes, but what’s it doing on my desk?’

  Kayleigh’s expression became agitated. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Well, who put it there?’

  ‘I dunno.’

  Hope plonked her handbag on her desk. ‘Is Madeleine in yet?’

  ‘I dunno. I’ll – ’

  ‘No. Don’t worry. I’ll go check myself.’

  * * *

  Wednesday. Where had Wednesday gone? Oh, yes. She’d spent the morning helping Kayleigh collate the paperwork for the fun run registration packs and the afternoon stuffing the envelopes. Other than that it had been a blur. Thinking mournful and regretful thoughts about making such a fool of herself over Jack Valentine was occupying such a substantial part of her waking hours that she felt she was traversing life as if trapped beneath the surface of an iced-over pond. She had spent insane amounts of time on Tuesday evening dithering over whether to call him and apologise, except that she could think of little to apologise for except for having become almost debilitatingly obsessed by him.

  Yesterday had been a little better. She would come out the other side of all this nonsense a stronger and better and altogether less screwed-up person.

  Madeleine was sitting in her office eating a banana and flicking through E
lle Decoration.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Hope, yanking aside the chair that was holding the door open, and letting it sigh shut behind her.

  Madeleine swallowed gracefully.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This picture.’ She thrust it in Madeleine’s face. ‘It was on my desk.’

  Madeleine grinned at her.

  ‘Oh, that. I just thought it would bring a little ray of sunshine to your morning’s endeavours. I’ve been working on ideas for the poster. It’s rather nice, isn’t it? These publicity photos can be so cheesy. He’s very photogenic, isn’t he? His face is, anyway. I’ll have to take your word for it about the rest.’ She laughed.

  Hope cringed. ‘Yes, but where did you get it?’

  ‘He emailed it to me.’

  ‘When?’

  Madeleine closed the magazine and shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Monday? Tuesday? No. It couldn’t have been Tuesday. He was here for the meeting on Tuesday, wasn’t he? Monday then. Yes, it was Monday I spoke to him. Why? Is it important?’

  ‘Monday?’ It came out as a squeak. ‘You spoke to him on Monday? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’ She grinned at Hope again. Then folded her arms and winked. ‘God, of course. Is that it? Well, don’t you worry your little head about it, sweetie. I didn’t say anything to him. Though why you insist on all this cloak and dagger palaver, I –’

  ‘You definitely spoke to him on Monday?’

  She nodded.

  ‘On the phone?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘Did you phone him?’

  ‘Nope. He –’

  ‘So he phoned you?’

  ‘Yes!’ Madeleine eased the last knobble of banana from its skin and popped it into her mouth. She chewed on it as she spoke. ‘Well, no, of course he didn’t. It was you he wanted to speak to, naturally. But you weren’t here, so I dealt with it.’