by Jane Moore
His smile faltered for a moment. “At least get the rear light fixed. I’ll pay for it personally rather than lose my no claims. Let’s quickly swap details.”
As he leaned across to the passenger glove box for a pen and paper, Jo glanced at his left hand for any sign of a wedding ring and surreptitiously scanned his car for child seats. Negative on both counts.
As she explained to Rosie later, she hadn’t done this because she fancied him. It was because, owing to her newly single status, she had become fascinated by the private lives of other thirty-somethings.
“It’s like when I bought the blue Clio, I suddenly noticed all these other blue Clios on the road. Now I’m single, I notice all those who are in the same position,” she had said.
The man re-emerged from his car clutching a piece of paper and rummaged through his inside pockets for a pen. As he scribbled down his name and number, Jo took the opportunity to study him a little closer. He was wearing a faded Ralph Lauren polo shirt, chinos and beige deck shoes. Perched on his head were a pair of Oakley wraparound sunglasses. He had broad shoulders and the kind of hairy forearms that would have made Rosie swoon with lust.
“It’s very nice of you to be so forthcoming about all this,” she said, making conversation. “London is usually such an unapologetic, fast-moving place.”
“Every time I think the world is moving too fast, I just go to the post office,” he said, flashing another smile.
“My name is Jo Miles. Here are my numbers.” She handed over one of the cards she’d had printed on a machine at her local newsagent. It said, “Miles Ahead, Interior Design.”
“I’m afraid I’m all out of business cards,” he replied, handing over the piece of paper with his numbers written on. “I’m Sean Goode. Or Sean Bloody Fantastic to my friends.”
Jo smiled. “Well Sean, I have to be on my way now. But thanks again for being so honest.”
He shrugged. “Don’t thank me, thank my mother who drilled it into me. It has its drawbacks though. I started out with nothing, and I’ve still got most of it, as you can see from my luxury motor.”
Turning to get back into her car, Jo stopped with one leg inside the door. “There’s no point having a nice car in London because of the madmen who drive into you all the time,” she said. “It was an unconventional introduction, but nice to meet you anyway.”
As she drove off with a cheery wave, she glanced at her clock on the dashboard. Shit! She was already five minutes late to meet Martin Blake, and she was at least ten minutes away.
Tipping the contents of her handbag onto the passenger seat, she found her ancient cell phone, reminiscent of a house brick, and switched it on. The pre-programmed words “I am happy” appeared on the screen to greet her.
“Hello, Martin? It’s Jo Miles. I’m really sorry but I’m running about ten minutes late because someone ran into the back of my car. No, no, I’m fine. I’ll see you shortly.”
She ended the call and picked up the piece of paper that was lying on the central console on top of all her eighties compilation tapes.
“Sean Goode,” she said aloud. “Hmmm, I’ll bet he is.”
Joining the flow of traffic, she completed her journey to Chelsea deep in thought. It was a balmy summer’s day, she was on her way to a lucrative assignment, and she’d just discovered that she could still find men attractive despite her recent trauma. Only yesterday she had grumbled to Tim, “Life is a shit sandwich and every day you take another bite.”
Today, it didn’t seem quite so bad after all.
9
under her arm, Jo climbed the steps to the grand, mahogany double doors of Frampton Road and rang the bell.
She heard footsteps echoing down the empty hallway, and the door was flung open to reveal Martin Blake speaking into a cordless phone. He gestured for her to enter.
“Hang on a minute, Bob,” he said briskly into the telephone before placing his hand over the receiver. “Sorry Jo, I just have to finish this call. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the living room, I’ll be through in a moment.”
Jo walked in and sat down on the only sofa in the ornately decorated room. There was a small table beside it, nothing else, presumably because she was about to gut the place and start again.
The entire 20-by-20-foot room was decorated in the aforementioned flocked wallpaper, and the dark red carpet was covered in the stains of ages. There were large misshapen patches on the walls where pictures had prevented the wallpaper from fading. Stacked against one wall were about a dozen paintings bound in bubble wrap. The front one had been ripped open to reveal what looked like a Hockney.
“Sorry about that.” Martin Blake walked in and leaned on the giant gray marble fireplace that dominated the room. “It was a call from New York and it had to be taken then.”
Jo straightened her back. “I should be the one apologizing. Sorry I was late.”
He made a sweeping “Forget it” gesture with his arm. “Is there much damage? Let me know if you need it fixed quickly. I have a great little chap who looks after my cars for me.”
Cars. Little chap. Jo considered these words for a moment. They spoke volumes about the kind of man Martin was. Wealthy and highly organized, for a start. The living, breathing example of her father’s favorite old saying: “If you want something doing, ask a busy man.”
“Thanks, but there’s hardly any damage. Besides, you’d hardly notice another dent on my old crate.”
I’ll bet Mrs. Blake drives around in a little Mercedes Sport or BMW convertible, she thought, clocking the thin band of gold on his wedding finger.
“Now then, what are we going to do with this hellhole?” said Martin, glancing around the room. “Firstly, I want to show you what will be the main focus of this room.”
His knees clicked as he crouched down and took hold of the Hockney, tearing away the last vestiges of bubble wrap around it.
“I love that,” Jo enthused. “I’ve got a smaller version of the same one in my downstairs loo.”
“This is the original.” He said it in such a matter-of-fact way that it took several seconds for Jo to realize she was now staring at a small fortune.
“Blimey.” She could have kicked herself for such an idiotic response, but he didn’t seem to notice that the woman who had advertised in such a classy organ was displaying all the signs of being several floors short of the Penthouse.
“I want it there in the grand scheme of things.” He pointed to the large expanse of wall above the fireplace. “Before we go over the plans, do you want coffee?”
Jo nodded. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
He walked over to the telephone unit on the table next to her. He hit the button marked “Kitchen,” and a disembodied voice crackled through the speaker.
“Yes, sir?”
“One coffee please, Mrs. Richards, and I’ll have a mint tea.”
“Certainly, sir.”
They spent the next half an hour poring over her suggestions for the basement and ground floor of the house, with Martin chipping in occasionally with specific requests. He wanted mainly cream walls throughout, sunken spot lighting, stripped wood floors, and a stainless steel kitchen with granite work surfaces. Jo estimated the two floors alone would cost a small fortune in materials and labor.
At first she’d assumed he was making a mint in the City, but the more time she spent with him, the more he didn’t seem the Square Mile type. Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m probably going to be,” she said. “What exactly do you do?”
“I wonder that myself sometimes,” he laughed, before telling her he was the owner and chairman of an independent record company that had discovered the hugely successful band Hedonist.
“They must have sold an awful lot of records,” she said, nodding toward the Hockney that was now resting back against the wall.
He followed her gaze. “It’s lucrative, but admittedly not that lucrativ
e. I was lucky enough to wise up to the Internet very early on, and I registered the name Music.com. I didn’t do anything with it, I just sat on it until the whole dotcom revolution took off, then sold it to Mega Records in the States for the highly publicized amount of $30 million.”
“Now why didn’t I think of that?” she said, studying him with renewed respect.
He was about half an inch short of six feet, with neat dark brown hair that had started to turn gray at the temples, and his eyes were dark blue and kind. He had a small, rather endearing gap between his front teeth. Immaculately dressed but very formal, in a dark-gray suit, crisp white shirt, silver monogrammed cufflinks and red polka dot tie, he could be described as quite handsome, and he would certainly attract those members of the opposite sex who were turned on by power and money.
“Underneath every successful man, there’s usually a woman,” Tim had once said, lamenting his own lack of achievement in both work and love.
But Jo, who liked overtly charming and funny men—or “dangerous” as Rosie described them—found herself put off by Martin’s slightly staid, businesslike manner.
“What about you?” His question punctuated her thoughts.
“Sorry?” She blinked rapidly.
“Is the world of interior design good to you?”
Jo pursed her lips. “Well, it buys me Athena-style Hockney prints for my downstairs loo and that’s about it. But in fairness, I have only recently stepped up my business out of necessity.”
“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“My marriage broke up recently, so it’s a case of wanting to be more independent while also doing something that takes my mind off it all.” She hoped she hadn’t said too much.
Silent for a couple of beats, he stared at the carpet then looked straight at her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry like that.”
Jo shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m kind of used to being single again now. It’s just a bit tough sometimes, juggling work around school hours.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two. A boy, eight, and a girl aged six.”
He walked across from the fireplace and placed his empty cup on the table. “Well, I’m happy for you to come here during hours that suit you, so don’t worry about that. I know plenty of people who put in a twelve-hour day and do half the work of a more motivated person who only does a half-day. Provided the work gets done properly, I don’t care what hours you put in.”
Jo felt a wave of relief that her honesty hadn’t lost her the job. “Thanks, I appreciate it.” She stood up and started to gather up the swatches scattered around the floor. “I’ll be off now, but I’ll be in touch when I’ve put together a more detailed proposal of what we’ve discussed today.”
He walked out into the hallway in front of her and opened the door. A spectacular stream of sunlight poured in, forcing them both to shield their eyes.
“If there’s any problem, however small, you have all my numbers to call me. Talking about cushion covers will make a pleasant diversion from dealing with temperamental artistes,” he said, smiling and shaking her hand.
Back out on the leafy Chelsea street, Jo stood slightly obscured behind a large oak tree and studied the outside of the house. White and double-fronted, with six stories and various balconies, it had to be worth at least four million, she thought to herself. And that’s without the improvements she was about to make. She wondered why it was him, and not Mrs. Blake, dealing with her over the interior design plans. Probably she was residing in the country estate until the London pad was suitable to visit, thought Jo ruefully. Mrs. Blake, whoever and whatever she was, had the kind of lifestyle Rosie had always aspired to.
“Just think,” she once said. “If you married someone incredibly wealthy, every day would be a holiday. No more horrible bosses to deal with, lunch every day with your friends, shopping sprees, and probably your own driver to take you there. Oh God, yes pleeeease!”
But Jo had told Rosie she felt differently. Yes, she too would enjoy all those benefits in a marriage, but only if she loved her husband. He could have all the money in the world, but if she didn’t love him, she couldn’t live the lie simply for the sake of material gain.
“Admirable, I’m sure,” scoffed Rosie. “But if it was the choice between love and money, I’d take the money every time. Love seems to last about as long as a pair of tights these days.”
Standing outside this rather grand house several years after their conversation, Jo found herself thinking that maybe Rosie was right. After all, she had married Jeff for love and look where it had got her. Single with two young children and facing the daunting task of dating again if she was ever to have the chance of lasting happiness with another partner.
Jo started to walk slowly down the road to where she’d left her car.
10
with them turned out to be the most eventful of all.
At 9 A.M. on Saturday, Jeff arrived to take Thomas and Sophie to Chessington World of Adventure and promised to have them back by teatime. It was fast becoming the routine that Jo was the mundane parent, chivvying the children to school, administering discipline, and forcing them to do their homework; whereas Jeff was the fun one, pitching up at weekends with an action-packed itinerary and bags of sweets. Jo consoled herself that one day the children would understand that although her input had been the most mundane, it had also been the most important.
By 7 P.M. Jo still hadn’t heard from him, and was pacing up and down the kitchen floor in a fury.
Where the bloody hell is he? she fumed, hitting redial for the umpteenth time. Yet again, Jeff’s mobile went straight to his infuriatingly self-important message which made him sound as if he was the busiest man on the planet.
“Calm down, dear,” said Pam, looking up momentarily from the newspaper crossword she was trying and clearly failing to complete. “He is their father after all. It’s not as if he’s fled the country with them or anything. The traffic’s probably bad.”
“In which case he should call and let me know,” snapped Jo. “He’s always been like this. He just carries on doing what he wants to do and everyone else has to fit in around him. What if I had planned to go out?”
Pam let out a long, dramatic sigh. “Well, you haven’t, have you? And besides, if you had, I would be here to take care of the children when they arrive.”
Jo marveled that her mother could seem so reasonable toward others while being so irrational toward her most of the time.
The doorbell rang.
“Halle-bloody-lujah,” muttered Jo, stomping down the hallway. “What the . . . ?”
She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Sophie standing on the doorstep with shocking pink streaks in her hair. Thomas, thankfully, was streak-free.
“Do you like it, Mummy?” asked Sophie, a red Chessington balloon in her hand.
Jo noticed Jeff had shot past her to the sanctuary of the kitchen, and his greatest ally.
“Erm, it’s certainly different,” faltered Jo. “Is this Chessington’s Millennium version of face painting? I hope it comes out.”
“Oh, this wasn’t done at Chessington,” said Sophie, scratching her head. “We got back to Daddy’s in time for tea, and Candy did it. She’s really nice.”
She followed Thomas into the front room, leaving Jo standing in the hallway, the blood draining from her face. It was met by a surge of anger rising up the other way.
She stood for a few more seconds, staring fixedly at a muddy mark on the floor while she gathered her thoughts about what Sophie had just said. Then she was on her way to the kitchen, propelled by sheer rage.
“Mum, could you leave us a minute please and make sure the children don’t come in.” She deliberately made her voice sound clipped so even her mother would grasp that the kitchen was not a good place to be right now.
But no. Henrietta Kissinger hung on in there doing her bit for diplomatic relations. “Oh, come on, Jo. They were
only a little bit late and the children have had a wonderful time. I’m just making Jeff a cup of tea.”
“Mum, get out.”
This time the brutal tone meant her mother got the message and left the room with a huffy expression.
Jeff sighed. “What is it now? OK, OK, sorry we’re late, sorry we had such a great time, and oh yes, I almost forgot . . . sorry for breathing.”
But Jo was in no mood for his childish wind-up. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, introducing my kids to that little whore?”
“Sorry?” Jeff’s expression told her he was shocked that she’d found out so quickly.
“Cut the crap. I specifically told you that I didn’t want her anywhere near them, and the next thing I know my six-year-old daughter has come back with a hooker’s hairdo saying how nice Daddy’s new girlfriend is.”
Jeff tipped his head back and let out a mock laugh like an opera singer or a bad actor in a pirate movie. “Ah, we’re getting to the crux of the matter now, aren’t we? It’s because you can’t bear the thought that our kids—and they’re ours, by the way—might like Candy. You’re jealous,” he said, with an air of triumph.
Jo snorted. “Jeff, I haven’t murdered anyone today. Please help me keep it that way. I may be upset that you abandoned me and the kids, I may even be furious about it. But I am not so desperate that I feel jealous of some two-bit little nobody who wears the kind of dresses that start late and end early, and who steals other women’s husbands.”
They stood in silence for a few moments, glaring at each other across the kitchen that had once been the pivot of their family life.
“Did she go to Chessington with you?” Jo’s voice was quieter now.
Jeff sniffed and shook his head. “No. But she was at my flat when we got back.”
“All pre-arranged behind my back, I presume. I’m not joking, Jeff. I don’t want them mixing with her. And if it happens again, I’ll stop being quite so flexible about when you see them.”
