by Sue Watson
‘I can’t think why?’ he sighed, sitting up and putting on his jumper.
‘I know, I mean, most people would really want to get it on with Celine Dion reading her Woman and Home and singing “I will go on” in the next room, wouldn’t they?’
‘Coffee?’ he asked.
‘Instant please,’ I said, ‘I don’t want any of her whacko Wahana stuff.’ It was my own little act of rebellion to reject the Gaggia and refuse to drink what Tamsin called ‘proper coffee’. So Richard put the kettle on in the kitchen, Celine sang in the bedroom and an indignant Jacob appeared round the door wanting to know ‘why are you not in your pyjamas, Mummy?’
I took him back to bed and rubbed his forehead until he fell back to sleep.
When I wandered back into the living room, Richard was there holding out a mug of steaming coffee. I smiled and took it gratefully, as a wave of guilt ribboned through me.
I felt bad saying no to Richard coming round for Christmas, it would have been perfect. As he said, he would help with the cooking and I knew Jacob would love having him there, but that was part of it. As for me – I could see a future with Richard, he made me happy and I had fallen in love with him. But could I risk handing my heart to someone and risk losing them again as I had with Steve?
10
Festive Frisson on Winter White Velvet
Tamsin
I couldn’t take another day without my juicer and detox shakes. And my parched skin was crying out for the Amazonian elixir of Spa Rainforest Regenerating Serum. So I arranged with our solicitor and the bailiff people to go back to the house and collect the rest of my belongings.
Gabe kindly drove me to The Rectory as Sam was busy in the bakery. She said I could use her funny little beaten up van with pictures of cakes with wings on – but obviously I’d declined. ‘Darling, I’d rather travel in Gabe’s truck,’ I laughed, ‘and that’s saying something!’
Driving through those snowy country lanes back to my old life, I glanced across at Gabe. It was ironic really, all my well-heeled friends had disappeared off the face of the earth when I needed them, but here he was, rough and ready Gabe with his unkempt hair and five o’clock shadow. He wasn’t suave or sophisticated but he had a certain ‘earthy’ quality to him and glancing down at his workman jeans and big hands I felt a wave of something come over me. I asked him to turn down the heating in his truck, hoping that would help.
Perhaps Mrs J had been right when she’d said our guardian angels send us people when we need them, and they aren’t always the ones we think they are. Gabe was turning out to be a godsend and to think I’d worried he wasn’t pulling his weight. Just like Mrs J, who was helping me for nothing, he was giving up his free time to help me in my hour of need. I thought my guardian angel would be Phaedra, or Anouska – not this laid-back man in tight jeans and a white T-shirt (in winter!).
Funny to think when he first arrived I’d wanted him to leave. He seemed to spend his time sitting around, making things untidy and laughing in my face. My opening words to him (when first discussing my Christmas decor) were, ‘Christmas ski lodge,’ and he’d said, ‘Where?’ like it was behind the bloody sofa. I think he was being funny, but from the get-go I found him quite challenging – I hated sarcasm, I have enough of it from Sam.
During his interview for the job I asked him where he saw himself in five years and he said ‘On a beach.’ No ambition, no direction. He smoked in my bathrooms, swore in front of my guests and left empty Monster Munch packets everywhere. ‘Gabe’ I’d said after a week of high tar roll-ups, filthy language and onion snack wrappers, ‘this is my home. How would you feel if I smoked, swore and left Monster Munch packets all over your sitting room floor?’
‘Depends on what you were doing on my sitting room floor,’ he said, staring at me with that challenging face followed by a wink, which made me blush. Anyway, my pep talk didn’t make any difference, he continued to go his own sweet way, smoking, swearing and crunching rather inelegantly on onion flavoured snacks.
Heddon and Hall loved Gabe on sight and had been very excited when I introduced them. Well, he was all pecks and posture under his old T-shirts, with a hint of vulnerability and that kind of combo just drove the old queens wild. Gabe had dirty nails, a big hammer and erected an outhouse in ten minutes... and despite Heddon and Hall claiming to adore craftsmanship and design they could often be found admiring his ‘work’. The spectacle of him hammering hard in a tight white T-shirt brought them running from all corners of the house. I’ll admit there were times when I found myself mesmerised by him too, but not for long.
Sam said he was sexy, but as I pointed out, ‘He’s not sexy at eight o’clock in the morning when he’s dropping ash and f words all over your designer kitchen.’
Glancing over at him now in his truck as we swept through snowy lanes I felt very lucky to have him around. He had turned out to be such a good friend, helping me move all my stuff – it had to be fate that I’d gone to all that trouble to find him. The previous year he’d worked for Anouska and I’d been very impressed with his hardcore landscaping – particularly his trellis-work. But when I asked her for his number she was very cagey. This was hardly surprising as rumour had it he’d erected more than her walled Mediterranean garden that winter. Sam said Anouska was jealous of me and would never give me Gabe’s number, so I began my own investigation. I always enjoyed a challenge, so like all modern day detectives I started online. However, I hadn’t really considered the full implications of Googling ‘Gabe hardcore’ on my son’s laptop. I can’t begin to describe the sexual spectacle served up before me on that screen. Within seconds I was deluged with male appendage and threesomes popping up all over the place – just as Hugo walked in.
‘WTF?’ were the three letters I was greeted with by my son.
‘I’m looking for a man,’ I said, flustered, pressing keys, and inadvertently making the panting sounds even louder.
‘I can see your looking for a man, Ma,’ he monotoned, just as another video appeared of a bearded gentleman proudly holding (and waggling!) his huge appendage. Gabe Hardcore, I presume?
‘Oh... that’s gross,’ Hugo sighed without flinching, like it was a regular occurrence to walk in on his mother downloading hardcore pornography. He leaned in for a closer look, like I was waiting for his detailed critique. ‘Shit, I wouldn’t if I were you, ma – that’s got A & E written all over it.’
‘I have no intention... of anything like that... I want him doing stuff in the house.’
‘I bet you do.’
I’d wafted Hugo aside while desperately trying to get the images off the screen, but the more keys I pressed the more disgusting, and possibly illegal, it became. While hitting keys and letting out the odd horrified yelp, I tried to explain exactly why I appeared to be watching an illegal sex act on his computer, but he just laughed. I was sure my son could end the whole tortuous episode with one click of the mouse but he was enjoying it all too much.
‘I’m not angry with you, Ma... I’m just disappointed,’ which is exactly what I’d said to him the previous week when I’d caught him smoking something earthy in his bedroom.
Anyway, when I’d finally removed all traces of anything sexual from the screen, I abandoned my internet investigation and plucked up the courage to call Mimi. I was reluctant to engage with her – after all she wasn’t one of us, but I was desperate to book this apparently talented craftsman so kept it short and businesslike. Mimi seemed delighted to hear from me giving me his number straight away hinting that he was ‘just fabulous to have.’
I was smiling to myself at this memory as we pulled up outside The Rectory. Then my heart sank. The house I’d loved so much looked unloved and deserted, no Christmas wreaths, no fairy-lit path, no outdoor tree resplendent near my oak front door – Sam always said it was bigger than the one outside Manchester Town Hall.
I sighed. ‘Oh Gabe, it’s hard to believe it’s not mine any more. Just seeing it reminds me that this isn’t a t
emporary situation... it’s forever. I can’t ever go back.’
He pulled on the handbrake and leaned both arms on the steering wheel. ‘Everything in life is temporary, Tammy, you can’t go back. Just keep movin forward...’ he patted my arm and I felt a frisson between us. Was it a moment? Or had I just been starved of physical affection for so long it felt like one? I pushed unsavoury thoughts to the back of my mind as I saw Mrs J had just arrived, courtesy of husband Lawrence.
‘She’s so good,’ I said to Gabe. ‘God knows when I’ll be able to pay her.’
He smiled. ‘She likes being around you.’
‘I can’t think why,’ I sighed.
‘Some people are just good to be around... you know?’ As he said this his eyes took on a soft, lingering gaze - I didn’t know where to look.
I flushed and reached for the car door. What was he up to? Was he flirting or teasing? I was never quite sure with men – especially men like Gabe. And having only ever flirted with Simon (many years ago), I wasn’t quite sure how to cope with this and what to take from it. I climbed out of the car, trying for sophistication, but three feet of snow in Jimmy Choos didn’t make for the daintiest landing and I tried and failed to walk nicely, aware his eyes were on me. I made a mental note to buy a weatherproof coat and wellington boots so my legs wouldn’t splay in the snow next time. I had to smile at the thought of me in wellies – who would ever have thought I’d even consider such a purchase? I only had smart day dresses and designer shoes, I’d never gone for casual, I loved glamour – like a magpie seeking all that glittered. So much for that – nothing was glittering in my world now.
We trooped to the front door, me on dodgy heels with a very heavy heart and Mrs J oblivious and insensitive to the emotional trauma I was suffering. Coming up beside me, she surveyed my former home and pointed out how ‘if this isn’t sold soon it will go to rack and ruin.’
I looked at Gabe, who almost seemed ready to catch me if I fell – or was that wishful thinking? He smiled at Mrs J. ‘Hey Margaret, you’ll never go to rack and ruin, will you? You little minx!’
Mrs J positively glowed, and slapped him on the arm like a schoolgirl. I never knew her name was Margaret.
I put the key in the lock and it was a relief when the door opened, but walking in, it felt like somewhere else – an art gallery or a museum. The heating had of course been off, so it was cold, unlived in – but it wasn’t just that, it was the stark contrast between this and the warm, vanilla-scented bakery with its cramped, cosy flat, where life was messy and ungroomed, but actually quite cosy. Walking through the linen-shaded rooms, where a cushion was strategically set, a vase positioned just so, it occurred to me this wasn’t a place where people had lived. My house wasn’t a home, it was a perfect composition of a life that had never really existed. Our ‘happy family’ life had been displayed like artwork on the walls, through photographs, paintings, choice of furniture – even the crockery. ‘This is us’ it screamed, ‘I am artistic’ ‘I am happy,’ ‘we are a family.’ But having lived in Sam’s life for just over a week I realised mine wasn’t real. It had all been just for show.
Mrs J went upstairs to collect all the bedding while Gabe walked round the house with me as I decided what to take. My plan was to have everything, but now I wasn’t sure – apart from the photographs and the mementoes it was all meaningless.
Standing in that white space I was reminded of something Sam had said to me the day after the bailiffs came: I was in such a state at the time I could barely remember what she’d said, but it was something about only taking stuff from the house that was important to me. I hadn’t understood at the time – weren’t they one and the same? Surely if it was worth a lot of money, it was worth a lot to me? But wandering around here aimlessly I began to realise what she had meant – the real value is in the sentiment, the memory, the love that lives with ‘stuff’ not the price tag.
‘I won’t take it all,’ I said to Gabe. He smiled, he’d probably always known how meaningless it all was – that’s why he’d laughed at my silly demands. I tried not to think too deeply and pretended my change of plan was more practical. ‘Sam’s flat is very small and cramped now with all my stuff; we are banging into one another as it is... perhaps we’ll just sell all this stuff.’
‘You’d get a few quid for it,’ he nodded slowly, taking it all in.
‘Yes. And let’s face it, Gabe, I need the money.’
I had to get some money together so I could rent my own place and give the kids a home again. They were both at university most of the time, but everyone needed somewhere to come home to and I’d seen a lovely Victorian detached for rent on Chantray Lane, but then at almost two grand a month I had to remind myself for the millionth time I didn’t have that kind of money any more. It was hard to keep coming back to the cold hard fact that I had no cash. I wanted to move into my own place, have my own space in my new life but I needed the freedom my money had brought me.
‘Are you okay? Gabe suddenly said as we wandered through the sitting room.
‘Yes... considering. I just feel very alone,’ I added. I didn’t look into his eyes, though I could feel him looking at me. There was some chemistry between us, or at least on my part, and in my vulnerable state who knew what I was capable of?
He didn’t answer, just kept looking at me. ‘Shall I take these?’ I asked, touching the forget-me-nots in the antique bowl by the window and trying hard not to think of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
‘Yeah... is there anything else you want me to do?’
I looked up from the bowl of flowers into deep blue eyes. He was staring, waiting for my response. My heart was thudding, he’d batted the ball over to my court, and I could either take it or bat it back (I had never been very good at tennis and not quite sure this analogy works, but bear with me). I smiled while trying to suppress the rising fear in my throat at the thought that this man might, in his own way, be propositioning me. It had been such a long time. My sex life had been non-existent for a while. Simon seemed to have lost interest and consequently so had I. Remembering the rumours about Mimi, I glanced over at Gabe’s broad shoulders, his laid-back stance, and imagined cold, hard trellis against my back. I gazed at him under my eyelashes, fingering the forget-me-nots seductively and trying to look like those women in porn videos, knowing in my heart I could never be as flexible.
Gabe had a twinkle in his eye and I could almost feel that hard trellis on my back, rough, calloused hands on my thighs. Where had all this come from? Gabe wasn’t my type, he had no stocks and bonds, no career portfolio and no penthouse apartment – but he certainly had something. He turned away and wandered towards a white sofa where he sat down, slowly stretching his arms across the backrest, looking directly at me. He looked so inviting on my winter white sofa, I didn’t even think about how he might make it dirty with his workman jeans. I didn’t care. I walked towards him – in what I hoped was a sensual way and sat next to him on the sofa close enough to breathe him in. I reckon Gabe had pheromones only women could smell... musk and Monster Munch laced with high tar tobacco, yum. French perfume houses would pay a fortune for that, I thought, leaning towards him and trying not to let him see I was sniffing him. He leaned in towards me and our heads touched and in that moment I sparkled, like someone had just flicked a switch and fairy lights were twinkling in my chest.
I don’t know what pheromones smell like, but if I had to name Gabe’s smell I’d call it ‘Dirty Delicious.’ Blame his intoxicating scent, but I convinced myself that what I was about to do was right. I’d been so disappointed by Simon, I had to have my fragile faith in men restored, didn’t I? I had to stamp out my husband’s weakness and betrayal and the only way I could do that was by putting my hand firmly on Gabe’s inner thigh. He didn’t flinch and I leaned against him, keeping my hand on his thigh and putting my head on his shoulder. It felt good. He didn’t stir for a few seconds then I felt his hand slide slowly behind my back.
‘Gabe. I feel so empty
,’ I sighed, but before I could say any more his lips were on mine. It was clear that hardcore Gabe had been in this situation a thousand times and like any road well-travelled, he knew just what to do. He had very skilled hands and his lips were rough, not soft and wet like Simon’s. Here was a real man. I tried to play hard to get and pretended to pull away, but thankfully he grabbed me firmly around the waist and pushed me back onto the cushions, his hands on my back, and moving downwards.
‘We can’t just do this. On the sofa,’ I said, wanting him, but knowing this was dangerous, anyone could walk in. I turned my body round to try and clamber out from under him... who did he think I was? Mimi?
‘I’m giving you a stress massage,’ he said. ‘How do you like it?’ His voice was husky with desire, his hands all over me, moving up under my dress. This wasn’t like my usual stress massage at the spa – and the hand movements were certainly not ayurvedic. He asked again if I was enjoying whatever it was he was doing.
I couldn’t answer him, I was face deep in one of my Christian Lacroix ‘Croisette’ cushions with a hard (in every sense of the word) landscaper on top of me. And those cushions weren’t meant for faces – all I could think was thank God I’d chosen the bougainvillea pink, at least the lipstick marks wouldn’t show.
When Mimi had said Gabe was ‘fabulous to have’, I realised the rumours were true – she’d meant it literally.
