Don't Want To Miss A Thing

by Mansell, Jill

  Which wasn’t that likely, to be honest, but it had been easier to give in than to carry on saying no. As Kenny had concluded, at the very least he knew he could end up getting laid.

  Anyway. Give it another hour and a couple more drinks, and maybe he’d start to feel in a bit more of a party mood.

  And sure enough, an hour later the alcohol was working its magic, blurring the edges of a long and stressful day at work and improving Dex’s mood. His tolerance levels had risen; a startlingly pretty girl called Bibi had spent some time explaining how to spell her name and he’d actually listened with secret amusement rather than visible disbelief. ‘It’s not like ee ee, like bees.’ Helpfully she’d flapped her arms as she said it. ‘It’s bee eye bee eye, with two eyes. Look,’ she batted her lashes at him in a coquettish manner. ‘See? These are my eyes! That’s how you remember how to spell it!’

  ‘Genius.’ Dex nodded. ‘You learn something new every day. And what do you do workwise?’

  ‘Guess!’

  ‘I can’t guess. Surprise me.’

  If she told him she was a neuroscientist he’d definitely be surprised. Or a maths teacher. Or a goatherd – that would be just brilliant.

  ‘I work in promotion?’ Bibi ended most of her sentences with upward inflections. ‘And I do, like, loads of modelling jobs too? Do you think I’ve got a good figure?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ She was wearing a sky-blue satin dress that clung to every curve; only girls who knew they were truly gorgeous ever asked that question.

  ‘How about my boobs?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Do you like them?’

  OK, these upward inflections were getting out of hand now. Dex said carefully, ‘They seem . . . fine.’

  ‘Not too big? I didn’t want to go, like, massive.’ Bibi mimed watermelons. ‘I mean, that’s just tarty, isn’t it? So I went for these.’ She stuck her chest out with pride. ‘Thirty-six double D. Just right, don’t you think? I had them done in November so they’d be ready for Christmas.’

  Were they still actually having this conversation? ‘Well,’ said Dex, ‘lucky old Christmas.’

  ‘They’re so much better than the last ones. They went all weird and, like, lumpy? But these are really soft.’ Bibi mimed their softness with her thin bejewelled hands then said brightly, ‘You can feel them if you like!’

  Her perfume was cloying and the room was hot. Aware that people had been disappearing out on to the roof terrace to smoke, Dex said, ‘Thanks, but I think I’m going to head outside, get myself some fresh air.’ Holding his hands up before she could offer to go with him, he added, ‘I’ll see you later, OK?’

  To be honest, the air outside on the terrace was a bit too fresh. It was February and the surrounding rooftops glittered with frost. Partygoers huddled together for warmth while they smoked their cigarettes at warp speed, getting their nicotine fixes before heading back inside again.

  Dex, who didn’t smoke, stood at the edge of the parapet and surveyed the view. The stars were out in force and a crescent moon hung in the sky. Uncurtained windows revealed glimpses of other people’s lives. Across the street a woman in a pink dressing gown was rocking a toddler to sleep – had the music from their party woken it up? In another house, a family were sitting together ostensibly watching TV, although in reality they were each tapping away on their phones and laptops. Next door to the family, an overweight man was standing in front of his open fridge, eating spoonfuls of something from a bowl and glancing furtively over his shoulder. Further down the street, in a bedroom, a girl was blow-drying her hair and pulling faces at her reflection in the—

  ‘Surprise!’ Bracelets jangled and a pair of hands playfully covered his eyes. Dex knew it wasn’t Bibi behind him; the perfume wasn’t so noxious and the boobs pressing against his back were smaller.

  ‘I know who that is,’ Dex lied, smiling as he peeled away the hands and slowly turned to face . . .

  Carla.

  Hang on, is it Carla? Or Carina?

  No, right first time. Carla.

  Probably.

  ‘Sweetheart, how are you? Haven’t bumped into you for months.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Looking fantastic, as always.’

  But even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he was slightly despising himself for saying them. It was what girls liked to hear, though. Every now and again Dex found himself feeling like an actor who’d been performing in the same stage play for far too long. The lines came out automatically, irrespective of whether or not they were true.

  Although in this case they undoubtedly were. Carina-or-Carla was a stunning brunette with slanted eyes, exotic cheekbones and teeth like pearls.

  If only she could have been wearing one of those necklaces with her name on it, she’d be perfect.

  ‘Kisses on the cheek? What am I, your great-aunt? Come here.’ Playfully drawing him towards her, she pressed her mouth against his for several seconds.

  ‘It’s so good to see you again,’ said Dex.

  ‘All you had to do was call me.’

  ‘What can I say, sweetheart? Everything’s been so crazy.’

  ‘And I expect you lost my number.’

  He nodded. ‘I did. Mea culpa. Left my phone in a cab and never saw it again.’

  ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’ve called me Sweetheart twice now. Is that to cover up the fact that you can’t remember who I am?’

  ‘As if anyone could forget you.’ Dex broke into a smile; he’d always enjoyed a challenge.

  ‘Except I’m pretty sure you have.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ This was more like it.

  ‘I’m going to count to three.’ Her slanted eyes narrowed, signalling that he was in danger. ‘One . . . two . . .’

  ‘I’m insulted that you think I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Two and a half . . .’

  ‘You need to learn to trust me more. Sweetheart.’

  ‘Two and three-quarters . . .’

  Once anyone counted to two and three-quarters you knew you’d won.

  ‘And what happens if I get it wrong?’

  ‘You’ll be in big trouble.’

  What the hell, here we go. ‘Just so long as you don’t throw me over the parapet . . . Carla.’

  She held his gaze. For a moment he wondered if she might actually try it. The next moment she broke into a slow, relieved smile. ‘You wicked man, such a tease. For a minute there I actually thought you couldn’t remember.’

  ‘Oh ye of little faith,’ said Dex.

  ‘So what are you doing out here in the cold? You don’t even smoke.’

  Dex shrugged. ‘Escaping from someone. And admiring the view. Look.’ He turned and showed her the lit-up rooms in the houses across the street. ‘Other people’s lives. Doesn’t it make you want to know all about them?’

  ‘Honest answer? No.’ Carla slid her arm round his waist. ‘Other people’s lives are nearly always boring. I’m more interested in yours. What have you been up to lately?’

  ‘Actually, he’s with me.’ Bibi had materialised behind them and there was a can-opener edge to her voice.

  ‘Really?’ Having turned round, Carla raised an eyebrow at the sight of Bibi’s fake-tanned breasts bursting to escape over the top of her low-cut satin dress. But she took her hand away.

  ‘Yes he is.’ Bibi looked triumphant.

  Choosing his words with care, Dex said reasonably, ‘Well, I wouldn’t say I was with you. We were just having a chat.’

  At this, Carla’s arm went back round his waist, which wasn’t the most subtle move imaginable.

  ‘You were with me when we were having a chat,’ Bibi insisted. ‘Back in the flat. You said you liked my boobs!’

  ‘No.’ Aware that both of Carla’s eyebrows were now up, Dex said, ‘You asked me if I liked them . . .’

  ‘And you said yes!’ Bibi’s voice was getting shriller.

  ‘I didn’t know what else t
o do. I couldn’t say no, could I?’ Ach, he hadn’t meant it to sound like that.

  ‘So you were lying? Are you telling me you don’t like them?’ Cupping her enormous breasts in disbelief, Bibi wailed, ‘They cost me six thousand pounds!’

  OK, this wasn’t going well. Everyone out on the terrace was turning to stare at them.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Carla drawled, ‘listen to yourself. Do you have any idea how pathetic you sound? Why on earth would Dex be interested in someone like you?’

  ‘Ooh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m prettier than you are and my boobs are way bigger than yours.’ Tossing her head, Bibi added spiritedly, ‘Plus, unlike some people I could mention, I’m not a smug sarky bitch!’

  The other guests were watching, enthralled. Several of them now burst out laughing. Dex wondered what he should do and why situations like this always seemed to happen to him; an elegant party in an upmarket house in Notting Hill was threatening to turn into Jerry Springer. When his mobile started ringing in his pocket he breathed a sigh of relief; whoever was on the other end of the line didn’t know it yet, but they were about to come to his rescue. He would use their timely interruption as an excuse to leave.

  ‘I’d rather be a smug sarky bitch,’ Carla responded with disdain, ‘than a slutty one in a cheap dress.’

  ‘Whoa, what’s going on here?’ Bursting out on to the terrace with a giggling blonde tucked under one arm and a bottle of champagne in the other, Kenny surveyed the stand-off. ‘Dex, you old dog! Causing trouble again?’

  ‘Did you just say Dex?’ The giggling blonde peered across the terrace then yelled, ‘Oh my God, it is you! Dexter Yates, you’re such a lying bastard, you promised you’d call me again and you never did!’

  Oops. Time to get out of here, do a Tardis-style disappearing trick. Dex whisked out his still-ringing phone, pressed Answer and said cheerfully, ‘Hello?’

  Chapter 7

  ‘I want to do what you do.’ Alfie, Molly’s newest pupil, was eager to explain. ‘Because, like, it’s a dead easy job, isn’t it? Better than collecting trolleys at the supermarket. I’ve been doing that for six weeks now and it’s, like, dead boring. I’d much rather sit and draw stuff.’

  Molly was always encouraging and enthusiastic, but sixteen-year-old Alfie, bless him, didn’t have the firmest grasp on reality. As the rest of the class gathered up their belongings and prepared to leave, she said, ‘And you’ve done some great work tonight. You just need to keep practising,’

  ‘I’m good at art. I nearly got a C in my exam.’ He beamed at her. ‘So, the people that own the newspaper, could you ask them to give me a job too? Because when it’s weather like this, I really hate working in that car park.’

  ‘The thing is, Alfie, the newspapers do get quite a lot of people wanting to work for them . . .’

  ‘I know that.’ He gave her a wounded I’m-not-stupid look. ‘That’s why I want you to say something to them about how I’m good at drawing and they should give me the job.’

  ‘Come on, lad, time to go.’ Celeste, who knew Alfie’s parents, jangled her car keys at him. ‘It’s pouring down outside, so why don’t I give you a lift home?’

  Once everyone had left, Molly finished tidying up. The thing was, people did tend to think she had an easy job. Drawing a daily comic strip to appear in a newspaper? Quickly dashing off three or four simple line drawings that probably took, what, less than an hour in total? Talk about a cushy number! And when they learned that her little comic strip was syndicated to appear in dozens of newspapers around the world, well, what a goldmine. She must be raking it in. Best job in the world.

  And it was lovely, but it wasn’t always easy. For years she had practised and honed her self-taught craft, endlessly working on dozens of different ideas for strips that were never picked up. Finally, it had happened with Boogie and Boo, and seeing her work in print for the first time had been one of the very best moments of her life. The strip chronicled the adventures of Boo, a ditsy Californian It-girl, and Boogie, her adored but sardonic and world-weary pet chihuahua. The interaction between tiny plain-speaking dog and gullible owner had caught the readers’ imagination, attracting positive feedback and wider interest. The number of syndications had taken off . . .

  But this also meant people assumed you were making a jolly good living out of it. Whereas in reality it was more of an eke, all those small separate payments adding up to just about enough to survive on, which was why Molly supplemented her income by running evening classes in caricature and cartoonery. It didn’t bring in a huge amount but every little helped. And it was fun; her pupils enjoyed coming to Briarwood, taking over the conservatory area of Frankie’s café and catching up with each other’s news while they worked. They were a chatty, sociable group who looked forward to their Monday nights, even when the weather was like this.

  God, listen to that rain outside; it was really hammering down now. Molly finished collecting the empty cups and abandoned pencils and wished she’d thought to bring an umbrella. Last week’s icy sub-zero temperatures had this morning given way to howling winds and a torrential storm – oh, look, someone had left their leather gloves behind. That must have been Celeste . . .

  The outside door banged open and shut and Molly picked up the gloves, ready to return them to their rightful owner. But when she turned round, it wasn’t Celeste after all. A man was standing in the doorway, soaked to the skin, with his hair plastered to his scalp and rain running down his face.

  ‘Hi, you’re open, are you? I’ll have a coffee please.’

  Was he serious? How likely was it that a small café in a village would be open at nine o’clock on a Monday night?

  ‘Sorry,’ said Molly. ‘The café’s closed.’

  ‘Oh. I saw the lights were on. And people leaving.’

  ‘That was my evening class.’

  ‘Right. OK.’

  ‘They serve coffee in the Swan.’ He looked vaguely familiar but she couldn’t place him.

  ‘I don’t want to go into the pub. Never mind,’ said the man. ‘Thanks anyway.’

  It wasn’t until he turned to leave and the light caught his face from a different angle that Molly realised who he was.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s you. I didn’t recognise you with your hair all wet!’ Embarrassed, she realised as she said it that he hadn’t recognised her either. And she didn’t have the excuse of dripping wet hair. But really, he wasn’t behaving at all like he had the last time they’d met. Unless he was the unsmiling, unflirty, incredibly serious twin brother . . .

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Remember the fish?’ Oh God, he was still looking blank. Already seriously regretting having started this, Molly went on in a rush, ‘Flying through the air and splattering your girlfriend? I’m your next-door neighbour.’

  He closed his eyes and shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Of course. I remember now. Sorry.’

  Whatever was wrong with him? Was he ill? On drugs? It had been eight months since the flying fish incident. A week after their first meeting on that sunny day at the end of June, the Sold sign had gone up outside Gin Cottage and she’d looked forward to seeing her new neighbour again.

  But that hadn’t happened. Instead, teams of workmen had turned up and the cottage had found itself on the receiving end of a comprehensive makeover. This had carried on until October, then the workmen had left and the place had sat there empty, pretty much ever since. Dexter had actually visited it twice in that time and on both weekends Molly had been away. Returning to Briarwood, she’d been informed on each occasion that he and his lady friend had graced the Swan with their presence. He’d been fun and friendly, by all accounts, and had charmed most of the female regulars before leaving after last orders. The following day, the Porsche would fire up and off they’d roar, back to London.

  The first time he’d had a titian-haired beauty with him. For the second visit he had brought along a curvaceous brunette.

  And that had been the sum total o
f Gin Cottage’s occupation, apart from the single visit paid last week by a woman with a baby. On this occasion Molly had been around to see the visitor pull up in an old Ford Escort, unload some stuff from the boot of the car and enter the house. Several hours later she had re-emerged with the baby and jumped back into the car. Spotting Molly watching her, she’d wound down her window and call out cheerily, ‘It’s OK, I’m not a burglar,’ before driving off.

  Whatever had happened to put him into the state he was in now? Had the woman been a spurned ex? Had she completely trashed the cottage? Was the baby his?

  Had he only just found out?

  ‘Hang on, come back,’ Molly called after him as he turned to leave. ‘Are you all right?’

  Which possibly counted as Stupidest Question of the Month, but it was short notice.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No you’re not. Are you ill?’

  He stood there, shaking his head.

  ‘You can talk about it if you want. I won’t tell anyone.’ Would he think she was a hideously nosy neighbour? Molly said, ‘Is it to do with the baby?’

  ‘What?’ He turned back to look at her, and there was a world of pain in his dark eyes.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just trying to help. I saw them last week,’ she explained. ‘The woman in the red Escort. She had a baby with her. She was doing something in the cottage, but I don’t know what. I just saw them from my window . . .’ Her voice trailed off in dismay and she realised he was on the verge of tears. ‘Look, it’s OK, I’ll do you a coffee.’ Because that was why he’d come here, wasn’t it?

  ‘You don’t have to. You’re closed.’

  ‘Don’t be daft, look at the state of you.’ He was drenched and shivering with cold; having decided he wasn’t deranged, Molly held out her hands and said, ‘Take off your jacket, for a start.’

  The jacket was dripping water all over the floor. She peeled it off him and hung it over the back of the chair next to the radiator. ‘Now wait there and I’ll make that coffee. Milk, sugar?’

  For a moment he looked as if he couldn’t remember. Then he nodded and said, ‘Milk and two sugars. Please.’