40 Love

by Sophie Kinsella

  ‘Oh God. I’m so fucking old.’

  ‘Don’t change the subject,’ said Patrick sternly. ‘You realize how much the fees to that place are?’

  ‘What place?’ said Caroline unconvincingly.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Patrick shortly. ‘Well, all I can say is, it’s your loss. Those fees are coming out of the money I spend on you. No Porsche, no Champneys, no Barbados.’

  ‘I don’t care!’ hissed Caroline, suddenly swivelling on the stool to face him. ‘I’m glad. I don’t give a monkeys about Champneys. Or bloody Barbados. You only suggested going there because one of those snotty mothers at Georgina’s school said she’d been there.’

  She picked up a hairbrush and began to drag it angrily through her hair. ‘I can see right through you, you know that, Patrick? You think ladies of leisure spend their whole time going to Champneys and Barbados, so you decide I’ve got to go, too. Bloody social climber. Well, perhaps I’d rather go on a package to Tenerife!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Patrick.

  ‘What’s wrong with Tenerife? What’s wrong with a bit of real life for a change?’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk about real life,’ mocked Patrick. ‘The phoniest PR bimbo of the lot, you were. Promoting this, promoting that, never an idea what any of the products were about, whether they were any good, just smile at the customer and take the money!’

  ‘It was a job, Patrick,’ said Caroline in a low, furious voice. ‘And there’s not a lot of those about for an out-of-work, unqualified dancer like I was.’

  Patrick was silent for a moment, pulling out his cuff-links in abrupt gestures. When he spoke again it was on a different line of attack.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said truculently, ‘if you don’t like Georgina’s school, why do you want to send Nicola there?’

  ‘I do like the school,’ said Caroline. ‘I think it’s a great school. I just don’t get on with the other mums. Come on, Patrick, I’m not exactly Lady Holmes, am I?’ Patrick twitched at the thought of Lady Holmes, the mother of one of Georgina’s school friends. A smart, condescending woman who always managed to make him feel grubby and unpatrician. ‘And you’re not exactly lord of the manor,’ continued Caroline brutally. ‘Nothing like. So why try to be? Why not just admit you’re a rich pleb?’ Patrick flinched, and turned away.

  ‘If I want to get on in life a bit,’ he said, his voice stiff with embarrassed anger, ‘it’s for Georgina’s sake.’

  ‘Oh yes? Well. I reckon we’ve got on quite far enough, thank you. I know what you’ve been thinking. We should make a pile more money, sell up, move on somewhere else, pretend to be smarter than we are, make new friends. Well perhaps I like it here. Perhaps I’ve got friends here. Perhaps I don’t want to be smart, and go hunting, or fishing, or whatever it is that lot do to get their kicks.’

  Patrick turned to face Caroline, smiling in contempt.

  ‘You’ve got friends? What, those scrounger Fairweathers? You’re paying their bloody school fees; what are you going to do next, invite them to live here?’

  ‘If I were you,’ said Caroline, her voice quivering with anger, ‘I wouldn’t say one word about the Fairweathers. Not one word. Otherwise you might just find me popping along to their room and whispering a few things in their ears. Like the fact that their so-called friend has just conned them completely. Like the fact that they’ll never be able to afford that mortgage. Like the fact that the Sigma fund has a high-risk rating. Like the fact that they’re probably going to lose all their money.’ Patrick stared at her in surprise. ‘You think I know sod all, don’t you, Patrick?’ she said. ‘Just a bimbo with a big smile? Well, I know more than you think. I know that you’re someone who can’t be trusted, for a start.’ Patrick was silenced, watching her warily like a cornered mouse. Caroline got up and paced about restlessly, suddenly alive, her eyes glittering.

  ‘I can’t believe you,’ she said, in a sudden outburst. ‘You’re completely immoral. And you actually have the nerve to complain about my offer to them. Christ, you con Stephen out of eighty grand, and you can’t afford a few thousand a year for his kid?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ began Patrick.

  ‘What is it as simple as, then?’ interrupted Caroline. ‘As far as I can see, Stephen is still the loser.’

  ‘Stephen will do very well from my advice,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Like hell he will. He stands to lose a fucking fortune. In fact, there’s something else I want you to do as well as the fees.’ She sat down on the bed and gave him a defiant look.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want you to promise that if Stephen can’t keep up his mortgage payments, you’ll help him out. Just temporarily.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ said Patrick.

  ‘You owe it to them,’ said Caroline. ‘I want you to promise.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I’ll be supporting them for life!’

  ‘Well then, tell Stephen you think you gave him the wrong advice. Cancel the deal.’ Patrick looked at her.

  ‘Do you know how much that deal was worth?’

  ‘Do you know how much a friend is worth?’ Caroline stared at him with bloodshot blue eyes.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ shouted Patrick, suddenly losing his temper. ‘Where’s all this crap coming from? What’s a friend worth? I’ll tell you. Fuck all. When did any of our friends ever do anything for us? Never.’

  ‘That’s because we’ve never had any fucking friends!’ Caroline shouted back. ‘Never! Annie’s my first proper friend, and I want to keep her!’ To her dismay she felt a fat tear rolling down her cheek.

  ‘What do you mean we’ve never had any proper friends?’ said Patrick, incensed. ‘We’ve plenty of friends.’

  ‘What, clients you mean?’ cried Caroline. ‘They’re not friends. And neither are those awful people from your work. I can’t stand them.’

  ‘Well, what about the people in the village?’

  ‘They’re all horrible. I hate them.’ Caroline was weeping bitterly now, hugging her knees and not bothering to wipe away the mascara that ran down her face. As Patrick watched her he was reminded of the way she’d wept when she discovered she couldn’t have any more children after Georgina. It was one of the few times he’d seen her childlike and vulnerable. Most of the time she was either relentlessly cheerful or determinedly bad-tempered. Rarely did she let her guard down. Suddenly he was filled with a strong wave of compassion, mixed up inextricably with sexual desire. Caroline was sniffling now, refusing, as she always did, to blow her nose properly. He moved towards her uncertainly, sat down beside her on the bed and put his arm around her shoulders rather awkwardly.

  ‘Of course I’ll help them out,’ he murmured. ‘I didn’t realize it meant so much to you.’ Caroline buried her wet face in his poplin shoulder and sobbed with renewed vigour. Patrick rubbed her back gently, muttering the sort of soothing words he hadn’t uttered since Georgina was about four. Both his wife and daughter were usually so self-possessed as to make him feel, if not unwanted, then certainly not needed. But here was Caroline, whimpering against his chest, looking to him for comfort, asking him to help her. Gently he brushed strands of golden hair out of her eyes and lifted her red, blotchy face till she was looking at him; silent now, but still shuddering with emotion. She opened her mouth to speak, but Patrick hastily leant forward and kissed her swollen lips. Let the picture continue in his mind; let his vision of Caroline as damsel, himself as saviour, last at least for a while. Let her not come out with some cutting or, even worse, unconcerned comment that would put him back in his place again; shatter the picture he was building up.

  He kissed her firmly, kneading the tense muscles in the back of her neck; moving down to caress her breasts; swiftly and determinedly unzipping her yellow dress. She said nothing, but her breaths came quicker and shallower, and she gave one small sigh of pleasure as his lips found her nipple. Then, as though they couldn’t stop themselves, her hands came creeping up ben
eath his shirt; running over his chest; undoing his buttons, one by one. Patrick’s incredulity soon turned to exhilaration. Caroline was his again. It was something he’d thought would never happen. And if her price was having to shell out regularly to Annie and Stephen—well, perhaps it was worth it. After all, it was only money.

  * * *

  Charles lay, sated, unwilling to move, ever. His body was exhausted, his sexual urges satisfied, even his mind felt as though it had undergone a rigorous workout. He felt unable to hold a thought in his head or to formulate any kind of purpose, he doubted he could even string a sentence together. Various bits of his body were exposed to the night air, and there was now a faint breeze in the air. But although he could feel himself shivering and goose flesh rising, he lay motionless, unable to summon up the energy to cover himself up.

  He had fucked Ella vigorously, brutally almost; pulling up the diaphanous layers of her skirt, pushing her down into the ground, burying his face in her creamy, pillowy, coconut-scented skin. He had roughly pulled off her string of amber beads when they got in his way, and ripped off his own shirt when it began to irritate him; and had swiftly come to an orgasm which tore through his body so intensely that he cried out with a voice he barely recognized.

  Even now, little waves and stray sparks of pleasure were still alive in him. His skin was numb to the damp grass, the stones, the bump in the small of his back, in the same way that his mind was numb to the fact that he had just committed adultery. He was almost unaware of anything happening outside his own body, his senses were channelled inwards while his thoughts ran abstractly free.

  But gradually, after a while, he became attuned once more to the outside world. He became aware of Ella, lying peacefully a small distance away and, he suddenly realized, humming gently to herself. He became aware of the sight that the two of them must present. He became aware that he was lying nearly naked in the garden of a friend, with a woman who wasn’t his wife. And she was humming. For some reason this last disconcerted him most of all.

  With a huge effort, he raised himself on one elbow and looked over at her.

  ‘You’re humming,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Ella, still lying flat on her back, staring up at the sky. She began to hum again. Charles didn’t recognize the tune. He flopped back down and wondered what was going through her mind. Did she regret what had happened? Did she appreciate this was the first time he’d been unfaithful to his wife? Did she realize he had family responsibilities? Part of him wanted to stay there for ever in companionable silence; part of him wanted to confront her with the situation as it was.

  Eventually he roused himself. He sat up, wincing, removed the small stones that had embedded themselves in his back and pulled on his shirt. He scrabbled around in the grass and found Ella’s amber beads.

  ‘Here you are.’ He reached over and put them into her hand. Her fingers seemed to caress him as they grasped the necklace and suddenly he felt a renewed rush of arousal. His eyes flickered to her breasts, still partially exposed; to her thighs, still gently parted; to her softly curving mouth.

  ‘Oh God,’ he moaned. ‘I still want you.’

  ‘Do you?’ Ella’s voice held amused surprise. ‘You’ve become very demanding. No wonder Cressida looks so pale.’ Charles scowled.

  ‘It’s not a joke.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’ Her face turned to his invitingly and he met her lips with fervour; relishing her taste and her smell; feeling for the curves of her body. Then he pulled away with a groan.

  ‘It’s no good.’

  ‘It is a bit soon, perhaps,’ said Ella agreeably.

  ‘It’s not that!’ he said savagely. ‘It’s the whole situation. Oh God, how can you just lie there humming? Don’t you realize we’ve just committed adultery?’

  ‘In some cultures,’ said Ella, ‘what we’ve just done would be considered normal.’

  ‘Yes, well, we’re not in other cultures now, are we?’ said Charles tetchily. ‘Oh God!’ he groaned again. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘Go back inside,’ suggested Ella. ‘Or stay outside for a while.’

  Charles sat in silence for a while. A blackness descended on him.

  ‘Perhaps we should go inside,’ he said eventually. ‘We must have been out here for at least an hour.’

  ‘All right.’ Ella got nimbly to her feet; Charles struggled up heavily. They walked through the field wordlessly. Charles’ steps got slower as they went; as they came in sight of the house, he suddenly stopped.

  ‘What about the future?’ he said desperately. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘The future?’ said Ella. ‘Well, I’ll be in Italy, of course. I haven’t an idea what you’ll be doing. I think I might go out there quite soon,’ she added. ‘I have a feeling I’ll get bored with England before too long.’

  ‘But what about me?’ As soon as he said it, Charles felt like a spoilt, whiny child.

  ‘What about you?’ Her eyes met his with a mixture of amusement and pity. It was clearly a dismissal. But he couldn’t bear to give up.

  ‘Couldn’t we see each other some time?’ He was begging. It was pathetic.

  ‘If you happened to be in Italy,’ Ella said thoughtfully, ‘I don’t see why Maud shouldn’t invite you to stay at the villa. I’m sure she’d be glad to.’

  As he stared at her, a delightful vision sprang into Charles’ mind; a picture of a double life, spent between England and Italy; between Cressida and Ella. He saw Maud Vennings’ villa in his mind’s eye; a large, elegant house on the hillside, populated with artists and musicians; himself a regular part of the coterie. There would be workshops and discussions; long leisurely meals; nights spent with Ella. Perhaps he would take up painting again. As long as he came back each time with a few prints, Cressida would never suspect anything. He would hire someone to take over the day-to-day running of the shop, releasing him for as many trips a year as he liked. Perhaps profits would suffer a little—but they could afford it.

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ he said joyfully.

  ‘As you like,’ said Ella. ‘There’s no rush.’

  * * *

  Before Charles pushed open the door to his bedroom, he looked down at himself and brushed a few blades of grass off his trousers. With any luck, though, Cressida would be in bed already. The thought of joining her there no longer dismayed him. He felt ridiculously good humoured and unreasonably pleased with himself. In his own mind, he was once again someone to be envied, with both a beautiful, rich wife, and an exotic yet undemanding mistress. It would all work out splendidly.

  He opened the door cautiously and was surprised to see the light still on. Then he looked over at the bed. Cressida was in bed, asleep, but propped up against the pillows, as though she had been reading and fallen asleep over her book. Except there was no book to be seen. Charles went nearer and saw that a piece of paper had fallen out of her fingers onto the bed cover. Had she been writing letters at that time of night? He wouldn’t have been surprised. Cressida corresponded with an incredibly large number of people, from old school friends to distant aunts.

  He picked up the sheet of paper and began to skim it casually, kicking off his shoes as he did so. Dear Mrs Mobyn. It was from Cressida’s portfolio manager, Mr Stanlake. He always refused to call either of them by their first names. Charles grinned to himself. Dry old stick. You may recall that a while ago I wrote to you, explaining again the meaning of the term ‘unlimited liability’. Charles yawned. Some technical matter. He read the first paragraph without giving it his full attention; his thoughts were still outside, with Ella.

  But suddenly, as his eyes moved down the page, he let out a cry.

  ‘What the fuck…?’ The noise awoke Cressida, who opened her eyes in a fluttering motion. She focused her gaze on Charles, and then took in the letter with a little cry of alarm.

  ‘Charles,’ she said weakly. ‘I got that letter today. I’ve been trying to show it to you…’

  ‘
Have you read it? Have you seen what it says?’

  ‘Well, yes…’ said Cressida hesitantly. She gazed at him hopelessly. His eyes met hers for a second, then fell back on the page again. He read the letter urgently from beginning to end, desperate for another meaning, for a conclusion other than the one he’d drawn.

  When he’d finished, he looked up, with unseeing eyes. A hot, pounding blackness seemed to be rising up in his head. Stanlake’s dry, well-chosen phrases ran relentlessly through his mind. Next demand … one hundred thousand … future uncertain … particular syndicate … one million pounds … possibly more … staggered payments … commitment unlimited … will understand … thought it fair to warn you … unlimited liability … unlimited liability … unlimited liability …

  His hands could barely hold the paper still. He felt sick and shaken. A million pounds. The guy had to be joking. He looked down at the page again. Your next demand will be, I am told, in the region of one hundred thousand pounds. Charles’ mind distractedly flicked over Cressida’s portfolio. They could probably manage that. If that was all it was. But his eyes drew him on. As I explained at our original meeting regarding this matter, your commitment is unlimited.

  Charles was not usually given to panic. But he could feel his breath coming more quickly; could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. Cressida was a Lloyd’s Name. Christ. Jesus Christ; he’d had no idea. Why the fuck hadn’t he known? Why the fuck hadn’t she told him? Unlimited liability. Unlimited. What, until they didn’t have anything left? Until they’d sold the house? Got rid of the car? His eyes fell again on the sentence in the middle of the page. I am informed that the sum total could be as much as one million pounds, possibly more. But they weren’t millionaires. OK, maybe on paper—but it was the house and the Print Centre that accounted for most of that. One million pounds, possibly more. More than that? More? The phrase bottomless pit sprang into his mind; he had a sudden vision of a fiery hell; of suitcases, full of money, being thrown down to burn in the flames.