by Jane Moore
Jo had indeed said she only had time for a quick drink, because she’d wanted the option of escaping early if he’d been a complete bore. But right now she was thinking she’d like nothing more than to enjoy a six-course meal with this entertaining man. As he sat down, he pulled his chair slightly closer to Jo’s. It was almost imperceptible, but she noticed it immediately.
“So tell me,” he said, dipping a prawn in the mayonnaise. “Are you—were you—married?”
The evening had been going so well, but inevitably the subject of Jeff had to come up and ruin it, she thought ruefully. “I’m separated from my husband, but we’re not divorced yet,” she said, taking a prawn. “We only split up a few months ago.”
Sean looked concerned. “I’m sorry to hear that, particularly as you’ve got children. What went wrong?”
“He left me for another woman,” she said matter-of-factly. “One of the secretaries at his firm, who’s ten years younger than me.” Three months ago, she couldn’t even have contemplated making such an admission to a total stranger. But each time she said it these days, it bothered her less.
Sean just looked at her for a moment, then sat up straight and arched his back in a stretch. “Well, he’s a fool.”
“Have you ever been married, then?” asked Jo.
“No. I almost did once, but we called it off a few months before when we realized we were both a bit half-hearted about it.”
“Would you like to be married?”
“I haven’t really thought about it,” he said quickly. “My job doesn’t help when it comes to a permanent commitment.”
“Ah yes, what do you do? I was going to ask you earlier, but it’s such a naff question, isn’t it? In London, it’s always one of the first questions people ask each other and I hate it. Particularly when I first had the children and wasn’t working, because you could see them switch off and think ‘dull nobody.’” She waited for him to express shock that anyone could think she was a dull nobody, but he didn’t.
“I’m a TV cameraman for The World Right Now. It’s great because I get to go all over the world covering wars, military coups, geographical stories and so on, but it’s lousy for relationships.”
“I suppose it depends on the kind of relationship you have,” she said, straight from the “what they want to hear” phrase book. “If you’re with someone you trust, I always think long periods apart can sometimes enhance it and keep the spark going.”
“Precisely!” Sean’s face lit up at this momentous meeting of minds. “I’ve always thought that. Trouble is, I never found anyone who thought the same.”
Jo decided a change of subject was in order before they held hands and skipped off down the street into the sunset. “So where are you off to next?”
“No idea. It’s all news-based, so things can happen at any moment. That’s why I have this.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a small pager attached to his belt. Jo noted it also revealed a fairly taut brown stomach with a thin line of hair leading down.
“So lots of plans can go awry at the last minute?” she said.
“Absolutely. But thankfully no little tin-pot dictator staged a bloody coup and disrupted my plans to meet you tonight.”
“Indeed.” Jo could have kicked herself. Indeed? What kind of a moronic answer was that? It suddenly dawned on her that she really liked this man. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be analyzing every little remark they both made.
“So would you like to do this again?” He sounded nervous.
The question took her completely by surprise because it had a booby trap element to it. If he’d said, “I’d like to do this again,” she would have known the score, but his ambiguous phrasing meant she was being asked first to nail her colors to the mast. Fifteen years ago, Jo would probably have said something crass like, “That depends on whether you want to,” but if there was one thing being in her thirties had taught her, it was to be confident enough to say what she felt.
“Sure, why not?” She was trying to sound as casual as possible, but in truth she was very keen to see Sean again. She wasn’t thinking about him in terms of a proper relationship. She wasn’t thinking that about anyone. No, she liked his company and found him attractive. I want to have some uncomplicated fun, she thought, and he’s just the right man for it.
“I’d better be off now,” she said. “I’ve left the children with my brother, and I’m never quite sure who looks after who.”
She stood up and pushed back her chair. Sean did the same. He picked up her pashmina from the back of the chair and draped it around her shoulders. Out on the street, they stopped and faced each other.
“My car’s that way,” she said, pointing toward Putney.
“Mine’s that way,” he laughed, pointing in the opposite direction. “But I’ll walk you to yours first.”
“No, really, I’ll be fine.” Jo was anxious to end their first meeting now, so she could go away and savor it without any edgy moments.
“Well, if you insist.” Sean stuck out his hand to shake hers.
She took it. His hand was warm, dry and firm. “I enjoyed tonight immensely, thanks.”
“Ditto. I’ll be in touch about organizing another get-together.” He leaned forward and kissed her gently on the cheek.
“Great. I’ll wait to hear from you. In the meantime, drive carefully.” Jo smiled at him, then turned and walked away down the street.
What kind of a kiss was that? she thought. Was it an “until-next-time” kiss? Or was it a “you’ll-never-hear-from-me-again” kiss? She had no idea, but she hoped it was the former. She wasn’t sure what had happened there tonight, but she did know she’d had a wonderful time and not given Jeff or their problems a passing thought. It felt good. A hundred yards down the road, she couldn’t resist any longer and turned around to see whether he was still in sight. He was standing outside the bar exactly where she’d left him, and raised a hand to wave as he saw her turn round.
14
door creaked open. Sophie was standing by the side of the bed, a Pokemon mug in her hand.
“Mummy, I’ve made you a cup of tea.”
Jo sat bolt upright. “Sophie, you know you’re not to touch the kettle.”
“I didn’t.” She handed Jo a mug with some brownish liquid sloshing around in it.
“What is it then?” Tentatively, Jo sniffed the contents.
“I made it with cold water. The bag’s still in there,” said Sophie.
Jo pretended to take a sip, trying not to look at the off-putting contents. “Hmmm, that’s lovely, thank you darling. I’ll just put it on the side here and finish it after I’ve got dressed.”
Sophie walked out of the room. “See Thomas! I told you she’d like it,” she shouted.
Closing the door to her en-suite bathroom behind her, Jo hastily tipped the contents of the mug into the basin. She looked up and caught sight of her bloodshot eyes in the overhead mirror, and the memory of her night out with Sean suddenly popped into her head. She smiled.
“I doubt he’d fancy you if he could see you this morning,” she said aloud to her reflection. Sean had said he’d call her, but already Jo’s newfound self-esteem was ebbing away. Last night, she’d been convinced he was interested, then just a few hours later, here she was doubting he’d ever call again.
It wasn’t that she envisaged living happily ever after with this man; she was still finding it hard to envisage that with anyone so soon after Jeff’s bombshell. But she had found Sean’s interest a great tonic, a little boost to her fragile ego. It had felt good and she was keen to see him again for that reason alone. The last time she’d been in the dating arena, the words “I’ll call you” could mean anything from the next day to never. I wonder if people still play those mind games at our age? she mused. I suppose that’s something I’m about to find out.
Sloshing cold water onto her face, she picked up a towel and buried her face in it while she sat on the loo. With classic timing, the phone started ringing.
>
“Sophie! Thomas! Get that. I’m in the loo!”
Just as she was lunging for the out-of-reach toilet paper, she heard footsteps pad into her bedroom.
“Hello?” Sophie had picked up the call.
“No, she’s on the toilet.” It went quiet, presumably while the caller said something.
“OK.” Jo heard the receiver being replaced.
“Who was it?” she said, standing up and pulling down the baggy old T-shirt she’d worn to bed. She went back into the bedroom.
“Don’t know,” said Sophie, who was carrying a Barbie by its multi-colored hair. “It was a man.”
“What did he say darling?” Jo tried not to sound irritable.
“I said you were on the toilet and he said he would call back later.” Sophie had clearly lost interest in the phone call and was flicking through the channels on the bedroom television.
“Oh well, if it was something urgent, then I’m sure they will,” shrugged Jo. There was a time in her pre-children twenties when, if she had been waiting for a particular man to call, such a vague message from one of her flatmates would have prompted Gestapo-style questioning to try and establish who it was. What was his voice like? Was it a pay phone? Old or young? Eventually, everyone in the all-female house had come to an agreement that if any man called the premises, he was not allowed to hang up until they’d got his name, number and inside leg measurement. It was a sisterly gesture to prevent anyone going through the angst of constantly wondering whether he had called, whoever he happened to be at the time.
That’s a feeling I don’t miss, Jo thought to herself, as she threw on another T-shirt and a pair of cut-off denim jeans. She glanced at her bedside clock. It was 8:15 and the children were still in their pajamas.
The next half an hour passed in a flurry of breakfast, teeth-cleaning, dressing, and putting the finishing touch to the lunchboxes she’d prepared late the night before, which meant tossing in a couple of Penguin bars.
By 9:15 she was back at the house having walked the children to school. She was just settling down to read the newspaper with a cup of tea when the phone rang again.
“Hello.”
“Hi, it’s me.” It was Rosie.
“Hello me,” said Jo fondly.
“So how was the hot date?”
“It was fun. I thought this might be him calling actually, and I have to confess I feel mildly disappointed that it isn’t. Only mildly though.”
“Ooh, sounds promising. So what’s the juicy goss then? Was there another bout of tonsil tennis?” Rosie’s voice had risen several octaves in excitement.
“Certainly not! And may I remind you that the Conor business was completely out of character and only happened because I drank too much.”
“Yeah, yeah. And the band played believe it if you like, as my old grandma used to say.”
“Your old grandma used to say quite a lot didn’t she?” laughed Jo, who had heard thousands of sayings attributed to her over the years.
“So what happened then?”
“Nothing as such, we just got on really well. He makes me laugh, and I find him very attractive. With any luck the feeling’s mutual and we’ll have some uncomplicated fun for a while.”
“Right, well as this conversation could be holding up the progress of the next Romeo and Juliet, I shall bugger off,” said Rosie. “Call me later to let me know what happens.”
Jo settled herself at the kitchen table to read the newspaper. There was an interview with Jerry Hall about her divorce from Mick Jagger. Jo read every word avidly.
“I feel in my prime,” Jerry said. “I feel more confident and stable than I’ve ever felt. I had gotten a little depressed last year and it was really tough and I thought I’d given up work completely. But somehow I managed to have a friendly divorce which is a miracle and I’m quite proud of that.”
She’s right, thought Jo. It’s much harder to keep things civil when all you want to do is throttle the bastard for cheating on you. She went on reading.
“If you manage it, you keep your dignity, and the best irony of all is that it probably makes you more attractive to the man who left you in the first place,” commented the journalist.
“I think also when you have been in a long relationship, especially a dysfunctional one, you need time on your own so as not to, hopefully, attract the same sort of person again. A womanizer,” added Jerry.
Jo sat back in her chair, deep in thought. It’s funny, she considered, but I still don’t think of Jeff as a womanizer. He has only been unfaithful to me once, but unfortunately it turned out to be a major infidelity that wrecked our marriage. A horrible thought occurred to her. Was Candy the first? Or was she just the one he got caught out with? Maybe there had been others throughout their marriage that Jo had never got wind of. She sat there, her mind rewinding furiously through the last few years leading up to Jeff’s walkout. Had there been other occasions when behavior out of the ordinary might suggest he was having an affair? She couldn’t think of any, but that didn’t necessarily rule it out.
Often, objective outsiders will notice more in a marriage than someone who’s actually part of it, but because they don’t want to cause any unnecessary trouble, they never voice their suspicions. Little wonder, thought Jo, remembering the occasion she’d snapped poor Rosie’s head off for saying she never thought Jo and Jeff were suited in the first place.
Folding up the Jerry Hall article and tucking it in a drawer for future reference, she made a mental note to ask Tim and Rosie whether they had ever suspected Jeff of having affairs in the past.
The phone rang. Distracted by her dark thoughts of Jeff’s possible infidelities, it didn’t cross her mind to wonder who it might be calling.
“Hello.”
“Ah, you’ve finished waving your prawns off to the coast have you?” It was Sean.
Jo couldn’t help laughing at his rather base observation. “Actually, I was taking a pee, thank you very much.” She couldn’t believe she was having this conversation with a man she barely knew.
“Glad to hear it. I wouldn’t like to think I’d poisoned you on our first date.”
“No, you didn’t.” Date. He’d used the word again.
“Look, the reason I’m calling, apart from the fact that I like talking to you anyway, is that thanks to the ever-volatile Middle Eastern situation, I’m being sent to Kuwait to do a special,” he said. “It should only take a week or so, but things can get pretty hectic and it would probably be difficult to call from there. I didn’t want you to think I’d forgotten you.”
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to check in with me.” She was unsure why she’d felt the need to make such a defensive remark.
He didn’t seem fazed by it. “I know that. But I want to see you again when I get back, so I thought I’d call and arrange it now. It’ll give me something to look forward to when I’ve only got hairy-assed blokes and camels for company.”
She laughed. “Well, we both know my diary is completely blank, so it’s no use me flicking through pages and pretending otherwise. You name the date and I’ll be free.” It felt quite liberating to be so honest.
“Right, a week from Friday then. If there’s any problem, I’ll call you beforehand. But as it’s a special and not an on-going news story, there shouldn’t be.”
“Great. I’ll leave my car at home this time.”
“Yes, let’s get plastered,” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll need it after a week without alcohol.”
Jo couldn’t help a small triumphant smile as she replaced the receiver. She had a date. A proper, bona fide date with a man she found very attractive and good company. It gave her a buoyant feeling she thought she might never experience again in the early days after Jeff’s departure.
At 12:45 P.M. she edged her car into a parking spot about fifty yards from Martin Blake’s house. Today, instead of staying in and discussing the plans, they had agreed to relocate to a local restaurant for a change of scene.<
br />
It was a warm June day and Jo was wearing a white strappy top tucked into a bias-cut, calf-length floral skirt, a cotton jacket thrown over her handbag. The brown Gucci sunglasses Jeff had bought her three birthdays ago were perched on the top of her head.
She rang the bell and Martin opened the door almost immediately, stepping straight outside. He was more casually dressed than usual in dark blue linen trousers, Gucci loafers, and a crisp white cotton shirt unbuttoned to reveal the top of a hairy chest. His hair was still wet from the shower.
“We’ll walk round. It’ll only take a few minutes,” he said, relieving her of the heavy project folder she had tucked under her arm.
La Trattoria was an Italian restaurant in the true traditional sense, run by a whole family who cooked, waited tables and served at the bar. It was one of the most popular restaurants in the area and virtually impossible to get a table without six months’ notice.
“When did you book this, last Christmas?” said Jo, settling down at the prime table by the window and handing the waiter her jacket.
“No, this morning,” said Martin. “They keep a few tables back for regulars and I come here all the time.” At that moment, the owner emerged from the back of the restaurant.
“Mr. Blaaaaake! A pleasure, as always!” A thin weaselly man with Brillo pad hair, he pumped Martin’s hand effusively and turned to Jo. “And who is zees beautiful young lady?”
“You could say we’re in business together,” replied Martin, smiling across at her.
“Enjoy your meal. It makes a pleasant change to see you here during the day. He works too hard you know.” The owner directed the last remark at Jo.
“I’m sure,” she smiled, widening her eyes at Martin.
When the owner had wandered off again, she picked up the bread basket and offered it to Martin who patted his flat stomach to indicate he wanted it to remain that way.
“So, are you a workaholic then?” she said, breaking up a roll for herself.
“Used to be. But I’m trying very hard not to be now. I’ve got to that age when you realize there are more important things in life.”
