Strictly Love
Strictly Love
Julia Williams
Guilty feet have got plenty of rhythm …Kick off your shoes and snuggle up with this warm and witty new novel from the author of the bestselling Pastures NewLawyer Emily promised her late father that she'd devote her life to good causes. So how comes she spends her days defending Z-listers, desperate to prolong their 15 minutes of fame?Katie is obsessed with being the perfect wife and mother - unlike her own one. In which case, why is husband Charlie permanently AWOL these days?Dentist Mark is licking his wounds after his wife walked out on him and desperately missing his kids. Can he cope with becoming a singleton again - on top of a devastating legal case against him?Meanwhile, happy-go-lucky Jack the Lad Rob is hiding a secret tragedy…Isabella's dance classe give the four the perfect opportunity to forget their troubles and re-invent themselves. They can be whoever they want to be - they'll just let their feet do the talking.Over the weeks, as they foxtrot, tango, waltz and cha-cha-cha their way into each other's lives, they discover the truth about each other - and themselves. But will they like what they learn?
JULIA WILLIAMS
Strictly Love
Copyright (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd/ 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
A Paperback Original 2008
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Julia Williams 2008
Julia Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Set in Minion by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847560162
Ebook Edition © 2008 ISBN: 9780007287406
Version: 2018-05-29
Table of Contents
Cover (#u474fec65-eb63-5405-b7f4-e0e92918efd4)
Title Page (#u202541d5-00a6-503f-ac04-ed1fac57be4d)
Copyright (#u62003ca8-4c5d-597e-874d-7497019f138e)
Prologue (#u949e030f-1a27-5c8e-b5d2-6a4696e1657e)
Part One - Dance Like No One's Looking (#u6786b10d-7064-57e2-9c2a-1a918dfc0dc8)
Chapter One (#ued7cbb0e-f425-5126-b1d5-51a510228cc4)
Chapter Two (#udcc8cc8d-9ba1-533b-9fb2-0ea76d9d465a)
Chapter Three (#ucda96670-d5e1-5b18-81f2-18f8e70714bd)
Chapter Four (#u08cfed8e-5c1a-539c-a645-8bf0d51e8b4d)
Chapter Five (#u24537f1e-d581-56f0-bd68-d0097d41281c)
Chapter Six (#u07b3d6d4-2dfb-5566-8fca-081ede52ea22)
Chapter Seven (#u95bc03cf-81ac-5dd5-b1d5-2d4a79c48119)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two - Love Like you've Never Been Hurt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three - Work Like You Don't Have To (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Four - Live Like it's Heaven on Earth (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
E-book Extra (#litres_trial_promo)
Strictly Love (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
By the same author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
Dusk was falling as Emily got off the train at Thurfield. She looked about her and breathed a sigh of relief. Welcome and all as the Christmas break had been, it was good to be home.
Home. And where exactly was that? Not in Wales any more, that was for sure, where the absence of her father had been a permanent feature of Christmas, during which they had all tried very hard to pretend that things really hadn't changed. But could she yet call Thurfield home? In the year and a half she'd lived here, patiently (foolishly, her sister Sarah maintained) waiting for Callum to make a move to put their relationship on a more even footing, she had seen it more as a holding station – a place for her to temporarily rest while she waited for her life to begin.
But now, looking around her as she emerged from the station onto a snowy High Street, she realised with a jolt that she did feel at home here. Perhaps it was just that she knew her friend Katie was only up the road, or that Callum and his rich parents lived tantalisingly close. Or perhaps it was simply the little country cottage she had fallen in love with the summer before last, despite its desperate need for DIY. Being cramped in her mum's council flat over the Christmas period had made her long for the serenity and peace of the view from her window, looking out onto the common. Not that the rolling foothills of the South Downs compared to the more dramatic Pembrokeshire coastline of her birthplace, but they were hills nonetheless, and Emily was always comforted by them. Particularly now, as they gleamed and sparkled white in the late winter sunlight. They looked heavenly. And it felt heavenly to be back.
It was good to be here, away from the frantic guilt that accompanied the discovery that her mum had somehow got herself into huge debt thanks to a rather unhealthy addiction to scratch cards, or the feeling that her sisters Mary and Sarah were now more burdened than she was by the care of their mother. And it was a relief to get away from Sarah's nagging strictures about Callum.
‘When are you going to get him to commit to you?’ Sarah had insisted on knowing, but Emily couldn't answer that one. She wasn't even sure she wanted him to anyway. Part of the fun of Callum was the lack of commitment, and his ability to surprise, shinning up her drainpipe late at night, turning up at the office with champagne when she was working late, making her fizz over with pleasure when he made it all too clear how sexy he found her. Who needed commitment when he gave her all that?
Emily pulled her rucksack further onto her shoulders, and made her way down the High Street as snowflakes fell softly. The splendid Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian mansion that housed the council offices twinkled with a warm bright light. The grounds of the mansion were thronging with people: children shrieked and whooped as they spun round on a carousel while their parents looked on, and teenage couples straggled their way round the temporary ice rink the council had erected for the festive season. Emily belatedly remembered the leaflet that had been shoved through her door, promising a New Year's Eve Victorian Extravaganza. They were even roasting chestnuts. The smell was delicious, and took Emily back to the cosy warm Christmases of her childhood. So different from the barren coldness of this year.
Emily watched the skating couples, the laughing families, the elderly grandparents, for a few moments, before setting off again.
She walked on down the High Street. Though dusk hadn't yet fallen, the rather tacky decorations were already blinking on and off. Emily smiled at the sight. The beauty of what she'd just witnessed and the tackiness of the decorations summed up the incongruity that was Thurfield.
The long High Street went from posh to poor in almost a hair's breadth. The train station from where Emily had emerged was at the poor end of town – the chavvy part, which Katie cattily referred to as Turdfield. But walking towards the top end of town, the cheap nail bars and pound-saver shops, with their competing gaudy Christmas lights, were soon replaced by upmarket hair salons and chichi shops that would have done Covent Garden proud. By the time you got to the top end you could purchase your groceries from M&S and Waitrose, rather then Lidl. Thurfield even possessed a family department store, which resembled something out of Are You Being Served, and in keeping with the Victorian theme was currently displaying a tableau from A Christmas Carol in its front window. The staff had all joined in the spirit of the thing and were dressed in Victorian garb, handing out mulled wine and mince pies to anyone who wanted them. Emily was tempted for a moment, but she was cold and tired, and really just wanted to get home.
To reach her cottage, Emily had to cut through the park that ran behind the department store. The snow was falling harder now and she couldn't help but stare at the families strolling through the park. Men pushing buggies, couples laughing together, children running with unbridled joy through the snow. It was no good her looking with longing. She knew that was not what Callum was about, and she had never been either till now. Funny how things changed. More and more she looked at pregnant women with an envy she hadn't ever experienced before. Wistfully, she wondered what it would be like to hold a baby of her own in her arms. Her nieces and nephews just didn't count.
While you're with Callum you'll never know, Sarah admonished her from afar.
Shut up, sis, said Emily. It's my life, not yours. She turned down the tiny lane that led to her cottage, but then took time to stop and watch the families sledging on the lower reaches of the downs. There was one dad with two girls, one dark, one fair, who were all wet and snowy, shrieking with laughter. Emily wondered if she'd ever have fun like that. She envied the man's wife. He looked like such a devoted dad. She tried and failed to picture Callum larking about like that, without worrying about his hair being ruined.
Shaking her head, she made her way down the lane to her house. It was time to take control of things. A new year soon. A new start. The purity of the snow seemed like an omen. Somehow her life seemed to have got bogged down in a way she couldn't have imagined. Perhaps she needed some purity too. She should take Callum in hand, get their relationship on track, and start to plan a future.
First things first, though. She opened the front door, switched on the light and looked at her cosy little lounge with pleasure. She was back. And for the first time since she'd lived here, it felt like she'd come home.
Part One Dance Like No One's Looking (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
Chapter One (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
‘Remind me what I'm doing here again?’ Emily stared into the mirror with a frown as she applied some lippy.
‘Emily Henderson, what are you like? Because there's free booze, we get to meet famous people and it's a laugh,’ Ffion assured her. ‘Come on, you know you'll enjoy it.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Emily, staring at herself critically. God, she was a mess. Her normally sleek dark bob was uncharacteristic ally unkempt, and she had dark circles under her pale blue eyes. She was looking gaunt. Even her mum had commented on it at Christmas. No wonder, with so many late nights since she'd been back at work. Working hard and playing hard. It was one way of not thinking about things, she supposed.
‘Besides,’ added Ffion, with characteristic thoughtlessness, ‘you've been as miserable as sin since Christmas. You need cheering up.’
And why would that be, I wonder? Emily thought to herself. She really had tried to keep her resolution of looking on the New Year as a new beginning, but the grey cold of January had sapped away all her resolve, and she felt more miserable then ever. And less clear than ever about Callum. Like an idiot, Emily had mistaken the tenderness Callum had shown her briefly as they shared brunch together on New Year's Day for something else. Then she'd further compounded the mistake by mentioning babies. Callum had been pretty elusive since.
Emily followed her friend reluctantly out to the trendy bar, jammed full of Z-listers and their acolytes eager to buy copies of Jasmine Symonds's autobiography, Jasmine: My Story So Far. All Ffion cared about, with her endless invites to celebrity functions, launch parties, tickets for the Brits and the like, was hanging out with famous people. As if some of that shiny stuff would rub off on her. It was only a matter of time before she appeared on some crap reality TV programme.
‘Hey, look.’ Ffion dug Emily in the ribs as they picked up their free glass of dubious chardonnay from a bored-looking waiter. Crackers was the trendy bar much beloved of the celebrity set (or zedlebrities, as she and Ffion had taken to calling them. Mind you, such sarcasm didn't stop Ffion from wanting to join their ranks), and the place was heaving.
‘What?’ Emily had a headache and was thinking longingly of a long, hot bath and the Margaret Atwood she'd been given for Christmas. The thought of Jasmine writing anything was risible, let alone such an impossibly thick volume for someone who was a mere twenty-two years old.
‘There's Twinkletoes Tone,’ said Ffion. ‘They must have made it up again.’
As Twinkletoes Tone went over to kiss Jasmine – a small, dumpy, rather cowlike creature – full on the mouth, the fact that they had indeed made up was plain for all to see.
‘Tony babe,’ Jasmine purred. ‘Get me another chardonnay, will you?’
‘Maybe they're just snogging for the cameras,’ said Emily, thinking, ‘like, do we care?’
‘Of course we care,’ Ffion scolded her.
Damn it. Emily's annoying habit of thinking aloud had snuck out again. One day it would get her into serious trouble. Luckily Ffion was too preoccupied with the various permutations of Jasmine's love life to take much notice.
‘But yes, you could be right, they could be just doing it for the PR.’ Ffion's beady little eyes lit up with excitement. How she got so titillated by all this stuff was beyond Emily. ‘Word on the street is that ever since Tony got ditched from his club, Jasmine's been looking for ways to get rid.’
‘That's a bit rich, isn't it?’ laughed Emily. ‘For someone whose sole claim to fame is being the first person in Love Shack ever to have performed live fellatio on TV, she's hardly famous for her own merits. At least Tony has talent.’
‘Hmm, tell that to his team mates,’ said Ffion. ‘Wasn't it his lack of talent that caused them to go crashing out of the FA Cup?’ Twinkletoes Tone had earned his moniker by scoring an own goal in last year's FA Cup final, thereby earning the never-to-be-forgotten Sun headline: ‘IT'S ALL GONE TITS UP FOR TWINKLETOES TONE!’
‘Well, I feel sorry for him,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, what has Jasmine got that is so wonderful?’
They watched as Jasmine scrawled her illegible signature across the front of an adoring fan's book.
‘Ooh, Jasmine, I want to be just like you,’ the girl, a spotty fifteen-year-old, gushed.
‘It's easy,’ said Jasmine with a lascivious wink, ‘all you need to do is get your tits out on TV and you can do anything.’
‘Jeez, there's an ambition,’ muttered Emily.
‘I dunno,’ said Ffion. ‘Jasmine's just signed a mega-deal with that cosmetic dental chain Smile, Please! ’ Ffion's PR firm, A-Listers, represented Jasmine so she knew these things. ‘Smile, Please! are going to be huge, you know. Everyone wants cosmetic surgery these days. And if that works out, who knows? According to OK! magazine, her aim is to be the face of L'Oréal.’
‘Jasmine?’ Emily snorted into her glass. ‘I didn't know they were planning to put heifers in their ads.’ ‘Okay,’ admitted Ffion, ‘her looks are more bovine then elfin. But you don't know how she'll look after Smile, Please! have finished with her. And you've got to admit, those teeth … now they do look fantastic.’
They watched as Jasmine flashed her brilliant smile at another sappy group of fans.
‘Well, I think without the smile she wouldn't be the face of anything,’ replied Emily. ‘God, the world's gone mad!’
‘Maybe so,’ said Ffion, ‘but it sure as hell beats going to work for a living. If I had a chance to appear on Love Shack, I'd bite your hand off.’
‘I'm sure you would,’ answered Emily. ‘Listen, I'm knackered, I think I'm going to call it a day.’
‘Don't you want to come to Macy's?’ Ffion looked disappointed. Up until relatively recently, a night like this would always end up with them visiting Macy's. But Emily was tiring of sitting bored in the roped-off VIP area, drinking tasteless cocktails for exorbitant prices. She'd blown Ffion out several times recently, and she had a feeling her friend was none too pleased with her.
‘Not tonight,’ said Emily, ‘I've got an early start tomorrow.’
Despite Ffion's efforts to make her change her mind, Emily refused to back down. Once, the thought of a night out on the tiles would have appealed, but recently, even as a means to drown her sorrows, it was losing its allure. Besides, Callum had hinted he might call. She hated being so in thrall to him, but sometimes she missed him with an intensity that was nearly physical.
Indeed, as she sat on the train, making the long journey home, watching London racing away from her in the dark, Emily realised that she had at least made progress in one area of her life. More and more, Thurfield was feeling like a refuge from the nightmarish world she seemed to be trapped in. Katie had been telling her for years she needed to get out of her job. Emily wished it were that simple. If only her mortgage wasn't so big, the cottage didn't need so much work, her mum didn't owe so much money, and her firm didn't pay quite so well. If only.
Her mobile bleeped and she saw a message from Callum.
Where r u babe? Hope yr hot & waiting fr me.
In yr dreams, she texted back, experiencing the familiar feelings of lust coupled with irritation that Callum always engendered in her. She hoped he wasn't drunk. Or high. Though he had a penthouse flat in town, he had grown up in the town next to Thurfield, and his best mates still lived nearby. There'd been a football match on this evening. No doubt he'd spent the evening tanked up with them, and was now looking for a bed for the night. She leaned against the window and stared into the dark as the countryside flitted past her. She should probably teach him a lesson and not let him into her bed. But knowing what she should do and actually doing it were two very different things. Two very different things indeed …
Rob checked the steps again as they were laid out on the website he'd brought up on his laptop. Then he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the lounge, secure in the knowledge that Mark wouldn't be home for at least an hour. He flicked the button on the CD remote and the sound of South American music filled the room.
‘One,’ Rob counted under his breath, ‘remember those snake-hips, two …’
He took a small step forward. What was it Isabella had said last week? Step forward on the ball of your foot, take the weight onto the flat foot, and swing your hips to the left. Easier said than done, of course, but he'd just about got the hang of it by the end of the lesson. And he had his silly little diagrams to refer to.
‘… three, right foot remains in place, transfer weight onto it,’ Rob muttered. ‘… four – then one, left foot to side, swing hips to left. Fuck this is difficult.’
He stopped, switched off the music and then peered myopic ally at the computer screen again. He really ought to get glasses, but Rob knew he was way too vain for them. And too lazy to keep changing contacts.
‘Okay, so it's forward, rest, side, back, rest, side. Swing those hips. Right, I get it … I think,’ Rob said. He switched the music back on and started again. This time it seemed to work, and before long he actually felt he was getting the hang of those ‘ssssnake-hips’ that Carlo, the hilariously camp Latin American dance teacher he'd found in an online dancing video, had talked about.
‘I am the man!’ Rob declared proudly as he pirouetted round the room. He even felt he'd got the hold right, left hand held high, holding the lady's hand, right hand (the bit that Rob particularly liked) snaked round the lady's back.
He had to crack the rumba. Since he'd started learning to dance, the tally on his bedpost had been the highest since his student days. He felt sure the rumba would only add to his allure.
‘John Travolta eat your heart out,’ he said, before spinning rather madly out of control and crashing headlong into Mark's oak dresser. Getting up, he rubbed his hip ruefully. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’
‘I don't know how you do it,’ Mark Davies laughed at his flatmate later that evening, as Rob bustled into the kitchen to provide drinks for his latest conquest. ‘Here you are, thirty-five, plump, those famous curly locks receding faster than the tide, and still you pull them. I can't think what's sadder – the thought of you practising the waltz, or the stupidity of the women prepared to fall for your lines.’
Mark had been on his way to bed, but Rob couldn't resist showing off his prize, an over-made-up girl whom he had picked up at his ballroom dancing.
‘Well, you either have it or you don't, mate,’ Rob winked knowingly.
‘Mind you,’ continued Mark, loading the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher – living with Rob was like revisiting their student days, only more depressing; at least they had a dishwasher now – ‘it's always been a mystery how you do it. I've never known what women see in you.’
‘Treat 'em mean, keep them keen,’ said Rob with a wink.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Mark. ‘That explains why they never last more than a week.’
‘Well, have you got a hot babe waiting next door for you?’
‘No,’ said Mark.
‘And, of course, there's my natural charm,’ continued Rob.
‘Of course,’ snorted Mark. Rob's mop of unruly curly hair and cute grin seemed to be what got the girls hooked, but his love 'em and leave 'em reputation should have been enough for them to run a mile. But somehow it never was. Presumably, each and every one of his hapless victims thought they would be the one to change him. And of course they never were.
‘You should watch and learn from the master,’ continued Rob.
‘You know there's only one woman for me,’ said Mark miserably.
‘Yes, but she's nobbing a lawyer,’ Rob reminded him.
Mark pulled a face.
‘I'm going to bed,’ he said. ‘Don't do anything I wouldn't.’
‘Now that I can guarantee,’ smirked Rob.
As Mark climbed into bed minutes later, he could hear the telltale sounds of Rob getting his rocks off. Great, that was all he needed. Mark sighed and put Whitesnake on his iPod and turned it up loud. Heavy metal always made him think of Sam, the most unlikely headbanger in the world. Mark lay in the dark, trying to drown out thoughts of Sam. Pictures of Sam. Wishing things had turned out differently.
What had happened to his life? One minute he was happily married to the woman of his dreams, with two beautiful children, and now here he was: thirty-five, a single dad, living in a grotty three-bed semi with his best friend from uni. While undoubtedly there were advantages in rediscovering a bachelor lifestyle after so many years of domestic bliss (not having anyone nagging about leaving the toilet seat up was a real plus), they didn't outweigh the disadvantages, or the vast gaping chasm that Sam had left behind when she had dumped him unceremoniously for Kevin.
And, to add to the ignominy, he'd been left for a lawyer. Mark had never been keen on lawyers. He'd encountered a fair few smarmy law students when he was at dental school, but his hatred for them had been cemented when he'd watched Spike Sutcliffe, a close friend from dental school, being crucified by a patient who claimed Spike had been inappropriate with her. He hadn't, and eventually he was cleared, but not before he'd been dragged through a bruising court case in which the lawyers had dragged up all sorts of insalubrious details about Spike's rather colourful past, or before Spike had spent vast sums of money on his own defence. The costs that he was awarded just about covered the legal expenses, but they didn't make up for the stress of it all. Sam falling for Kevin had just given Mark another excuse to hate lawyers, only now his hatred was so passionate he knew it wasn't entirely rational.
‘What the bloody hell does Kevin have that I don't?’ Mark spoke aloud into the darkness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and it wouldn't be the last.
‘You never listen to a word I say,’ had been Sam's constant refrain during their marriage.
‘That's not true,’ Mark had protested on more than one occasion. He had listened. Or tried to. He'd always been putty in Sam's hands. Ever since the first night he'd seen her, at his first-year dental ball: a tiny blonde vision in a red strapless dress, strutting her funky stuff to Motorhead of all things. He had been smitten in an instant and knew not just that he wanted to take her home with him, but after she'd amazingly said yes to his offer of a dance that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
And at first everything had been fine. More than fine, it had been brilliant. True, it hadn't been part of the game plan to have children so soon, but he wouldn't be without Gemma and Beth now. Sometimes he wondered guiltily if he'd supported Sam enough when the kids were small. Mark had found it difficult to adjust to fatherhood, especially when Sam appeared to be such a great and totally in-control mum. He'd often felt like a spare part in those days – maybe that was what he'd done wrong. Although she'd never actually said that he wasn't a good dad. Or that he'd failed her as a husband.
Mark had been so content; it had been a shock to hear that Sam wasn't. A year ago (had it only been a year?) she had turned to him clear-eyed and brittle and announced she was leaving him.
‘But why?’ Mark had asked, in a state of profound disbelief.
‘Isn't it obvious?’ Her bitterness had stunned him.
‘Not to me,’ said Mark. ‘If it's something I've done, let me put it right.’
But she had shaken her head, and said, rather sadly, he felt afterwards, though at the time he had been too blinded by fury to see it, ‘It's too late, Mark. I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to know.’
And now, here he was, sixteen years after he first set eyes on Sam, alone in bed in his bachelor pad. This wasn't how it was meant to be at all.
Emily walked down the little footpath that led to her country cottage. Despite the lack of street lighting, and the fact that the common was only a few moments away, she never felt frightened coming down here by herself. The dark comforted her. It hid her and made her feel safe. Although tonight the clear winter sky and the full moon lit her path quite well enough. She let herself in with a relieved sigh. It was gone midnight, she had an early start tomorrow, and with the way the trains had been lately she was going to need to be up at the crack of dawn. But she was home at last.
Ffion still didn't get why Emily had moved so far out ‘into the sticks’, as she put it.
‘I like it,’ Emily constantly said. ‘It's cheaper than London and I get to have fresh air.’
Fresh air was important to Emily, having spent her childhood climbing all the hills she could find in her home county of Pembrokeshire. Besides, Katie had moved here first and had then persuaded her it was worth leaving London for the sight of green fields every morning. Mind you, that was before Katie had gone all ‘desperate housewife’ on her. Now she frequently referred to Thurfield as a fishbowl, and Emily got the impression that her friend missed the bright city lights. Not that Katie ever said as much. Trying to prise a confidence out of her had become somewhat harder than prising an oyster from a clam. But of late, Emily had begun to wonder how happy Katie actually was.
There was laughter coming from the lounge. Loud, raucous laughter. Oh God. Callum had done it again. Decided to bring his mates back to hers. She only hoped they weren't shoving white stuff up their noses. He hadn't yet done it in her home, but she couldn't be sure he wouldn't. Callum liked to live dangerously.
Which, of course, had been part of the original appeal. She still had to pinch herself that someone as gorgeous as Callum was interested in her, the original wallflower. Emily's teenage years had been punctuated by watching her friends cop off with all the good-looking guys, while she, knowing her place as a plain Jane, was left with the geeks. So when Ffion had introduced her to Callum at a PR bash and he showed in interest in her – Emily Four Eyes (an epithet from youth which she could never quite shake off despite having worn contacts for years) Henderson – she was unable to resist. Even though she knew he was spinning lines. Even though he spelled trouble with every single one of them. There was something about Callum that was just – irresistible.
Which is how he had come into her life. And somehow remained there, never progressing beyond the Occasional Screw label Emily had given him from their early days of courtship. If courtship was what it could be called. Callum had never met her parents. Nor she his. They didn't always even see each other on a weekly basis. He had yet to remember a birthday or Valentine's, although he was always charmingly apologetic every time he forgot. And it was difficult not to respond to the dozen red roses that would appear like magic. And the sex. Well, the sex was dynamite.
She knew he was no good for her. Not long term. And not now, when her body clock was beginning to tick rather too loudly for comfort. While in her wildest fantasies she imagined how Callum would react joyfully if she told him she was pregnant, Emily was far too much of a realist not to know this was a pipe dream. And the more she tried to conjure up pictures in her head of Callum holding a baby à la Athena man, the less she was able to envisage it. She had to face it – if she wanted a suitable dad for her baby, Callum wasn't it.
Reluctantly, she pushed open the lounge door to find Callum with his two side-kicks, Jez and Danny, roaring with laughter at – jeez, what were they watching? Emily didn't like to stare, but it seemed to involve animals and naked people. Lots of naked people. It was compelling in an utterly gross kind of way. Someone had spilled beer over one of the cream sofa cushions. There was a fuggy smell of smoke in the air. Smoke with a very definite scent.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Callum, drawing on a spliff.
Callum always said Emily was over-anxious about his pot-smoking, but she was a lawyer and the consequences of being caught with drugs in her house weren't worth thinking about. She knew dope was the least of Callum's vices, but she squared it with herself that if he wasn't taking drugs in her house, then what he did in his own place wasn't her business.
‘Callum, what the fuck are you up to?’ Emily was furious. It was late. They'd trashed her lounge and the three of them were giggling inanely at her. She didn't have the energy for this.
‘Just brought Jez and Danny back for a quick drink,’ said Callum. ‘I didn't think you'd mind.’
‘Well, I do,’ said Emily shortly, ignoring Jez and Danny's muffled giggles.
‘Right, you two, out,’ she yelled.
‘Don't be such a spoilsport.’ Callum turned his smile on her. That devastating smile usually worked so well. But not tonight. Tonight she'd had enough.
‘Callum, I've had a long day, I've got an early start, and I need my beauty sleep,’ protested Emily.
‘Too right you do,’ sniggered Jez, who was immediately stopped dead with an icy look.
‘Just go, will you,’ said Emily tiredly. ‘All of you. I need to go to bed.’
‘Me too,’ said Callum.
‘Alone,’ said Emily. ‘Call a cab and you can just piss off home. I've warned you, Callum. I cannot have you smoking dope in my flat.’
‘You know your problem, babe,’ said Callum, as he eventually swaggered out of the door. ‘You take things too seriously.’
‘And you don't take them seriously enough,’ said Emily. ‘Now go, before –’
‘Before what? You change your mind and say I can stay?’ He was like a puppy begging for a treat. But for once Emily wasn't in the mood for giving in.
‘No, before I say something I might regret. Now go on, get out of here,’ she said, practically pushing him out of the door before she weakened.
She slammed it behind her and leaned back against it, sighing deeply.
Damn it! She blinked away angry tears. She was not going to go on like this with Callum taking advantage of her. She was going to take control of her life and start making some changes.
Emily walked slowly into the lounge and stared in dismay at the chaos in front of her. She was too tired to deal with it now, she'd sort it out in the morning.
Take control of her life? She couldn't even take control of her lounge.
Chapter Two (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
‘Mark, you have to take the girls in for me.’
Mark had been shaving on Monday morning when the doorbell rang, and he found Sam and the kids at the front door.
‘But I'll be late for work,’ Mark protested. Why the hell did Sam always do this to him?
‘And so will I. My boss has called an urgent meeting and I have to get up to town.’ Sam worked for an American-based cosmetic-surgery company called Smile, Please!. It was a far cry from her humble beginnings as a dental nurse, but presumably the pay and perks were what she'd been after all along. The downside, as far as Mark was concerned, was that as he worked locally, she felt the school run was now his God-given duty.
‘Besides,’ as she frequently told him, ‘you owe me. I stayed at home all those years with the kids. Now it's my turn.’
Quite why it being ‘my turn’ meant Mark had to drop everything every time Sam asked him to, he hadn't yet worked out, but knowing she could get arsy about access if he made too much fuss, he went along with it.
‘Remind me again why Gemma needs a lift?’ Mark asked. ‘I used to cycle to school at her age.’ Gemma, at thirteen, was more than capable of getting to school under her own steam. Her school was at the other end of town from Beth's, which meant a round trip of half an hour. There was no way he was going to make it to work on time.
‘We're not in the Dark Ages now, Dad,’ muttered Gemma from underneath her dark spiky fringe.
Sam gave him a withering look.
‘Gemma's right,’ she said. ‘You do live in the past. Things are different now. It's not safe for kids to cycle. Or walk. There are all sorts of weirdos about. She just wouldn't be safe on her own.’
And it's nothing to do with you worrying that Gemma can't be trusted to actually go to school, is it? Mark thought to himself. Sam would never admit it, but though Gemma had never actually bunked off school to their knowledge, she was probably the most likely candidate to. Taking her in every day meant Sam knew Gemma had actually got there. Mark blamed the influence of Gemma's new best friend Shelly. Shelly was the reason Gemma had adopted her goth-like stance, eschewing all other colours in favour of black, and listening to bloody miserable music, which Mark had discovered was known as ‘emo’, whatever that was.
Sam had been quite frantic about it for a time, claiming that all kids who were into emo either committed suicide young or self-harmed. So far there was no evidence of either, but Gemma was displaying a singular reluctance to go to school. And while Mark was all in favour of his daughter getting a decent education, there were days when he hoped Sam would finally trust Gemma to make it to school on her own. The thought of Sam going to prison for Gemma's non-compliance in matters educational was one of the few things that had made him smile in recent months.
Sam dashed off in a flurry of self-importance while Mark went to finish shaving and ring Diana, his wonderfully efficient area manager, to say he'd be late. Then he bundled the kids in the car and drove as quickly as possible to Gemma's school.
He watched Gemma going in (if she did bunk off, he didn't want Sam accusing him of negligence), shoulders hunched, head down, bag slung loosely over her shoulder, presenting a glowering presence, and wondered with dismay what had happened to his cute little girl. Gemma was definitely not cute now, with her punky hairstyle, dyed a different colour every week – Mark frequently pointed out to her that what she thought was groundbreaking was in fact only the style his girlfriends had adopted twenty years previously, but he was always silenced with a, ‘Whatever, Dad. It's just different now. You wouldn't understand.’
No, of course not. To Gemma, he'd never been young.
Once Gemma had been dispatched it was on to school with Beth. An entirely different proposition. Though she was ten, Beth was still cuddly enough to remind him what he enjoyed about fatherhood, not yet too embarrassed to kiss him goodbye. He felt vaguely guilty about comparing his children, but it was restful to be with Beth, whose sunny disposition made a nice contrast to Gemma's spikiness.
Then he drove like a maniac to the surgery. Despite the phone call to Diana, Mark still felt stressed. He hated being late and he hoped that anyone waiting wouldn't be too grumpy – some of his patients had a tendency to think that, as their dentist, his sole function in life was to be ready and waiting for them at all times. The fact that he might have an existence, a family, a life even, outside the narrow confines of his surgery seemed to be beyond them.
Mark squeezed his ageing Volvo into the one remaining parking space outside the surgery and got out to the distinctive wail of the alarm going off. That was all he needed.
He ran into the surgery and found Maya standing looking helpless, while three patients sat around looking pained.
‘I'm so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was here first and there were patients waiting so I opened the door, but I had forgotten about the alarm and I don't know the code.’
Mark keyed in the right number and thankfully the alarm fell silent. It wasn't Maya's fault, she'd only started working at the practice two weeks ago, and as a newly qualified dentist it shouldn't be her job to make sure the surgery was open on time. That's why they had a practice manageress. Talking of which –
‘Where the bloody hell is Kerry?’ asked Mark.
Maya shrugged her shoulders.
‘I was the first one here,’ she said.
There was no sign of either of the nurses who were supposed to be working with them today. Mark sighed. It was going to be one of those days.
He apologised to the bemused patients sitting in the waiting room, answered the phone to Lorna's (nurse number one's) mum, whose defiant explanation that ‘Lorna had a stomach ache, innit’ didn't fool him for a second, and called in the first of his patients.
By the time he'd seen the second, Kerry had swanned in breezily. ‘Sorry I'm late, the trains were bad.’
‘But you drive,’ replied Mark.
‘Oh, not today, I was out last night.’ She leered lasciviously and bent down over the desk to reveal a rather lacy thong peeping out of a somewhat less than sexy behind. It was more than a man could take first thing in the morning.
‘I think that's what you call a whale tail,’ whispered Maya, who had come out to get her next patient.
Mark snorted, before insisting that Kerry went and nursed for Maya, who needed the help more than he did. While he was phoning Diana, who unfortunately today was working at another surgery, in order to get her to find some cover for them, Sasha (nurse number two) walked in. Sasha, their latest recruit, seemed to be the only Eastern European in the country who didn't understand the value of hard work. Mark considered admonishing her, but, mindful that there were still patients in the waiting room, and aware that she probably wouldn't understand him anyway, he decided that, like much of his life, there really was No Point.
He looked down at his day roster to see what else lay in store for him, and groaned out loud. Jasmine Symonds – a so-called celebrity who was famous for shagging on some god-awful reality TV show, and, if the rumours were true, was the new face of Smile, Please! – was coming in. It was one more indication that someone somewhere didn't like him. Not only had Jasmine and her ghastly mother Kayla been his patients for years, but despite her newfound fame she wouldn't go to any other dentist. Trust him to have the misfortune to have Jasmine as his most loyal patient …
Katie Caldwell was standing at the school gates and watching her ten-year-old son, George, walk mournfully away from her. It cut her heart to the quick to watch his misery and be unable to help. But what could she do when any questions about what was upsetting him were just met with a shrug? George had been in a foul mood this morning, still sore about the fact that he'd spent the previous day on the subs bench – again. He and Charlie had both been peculiarly reticent about why George, the team's best striker, seemed to spend more time off the pitch than on it, but Katie had the deepest suspicion that there was something Charlie wasn't telling her.
It was probably nothing, but Katie knew if she did ask Charlie about it, he would just do that annoying trick of touching his nose and saying ‘A Caldwell never blabs’ – a phrase no doubt passed on to him by his mother. Was it rather pathetic, she won dered, to have been married for ten years and still be frightened of your mother-in-law?
She sighed, and kissed her younger son, Aidan, goodbye. At least she had no worries on that score. Aidan was a happy-go-lucky child who rarely cried and seemed to shrug off life's slings and arrows with an insouciance she envied, and which she longed for her older, more sensitive son to have too.
‘Charlie been winding them up at football again?’ Katie turned away from waving Aidan goodbye to see the tall shadow of Mandy Allwick, school gossip extraordinaire, framed in the early-morning sunshine. That was all she needed.
‘What do you mean?’ Katie squinted up at Mandy, who, as usual, looked perfectly (if a little tartily) manicured and well turned out for first thing in the morning. With her tight leather miniskirt and crop top (revealing as it did a ridiculously well-toned stomach for someone with three children), her high heels, painted nails and even more painted face, a casual observer might have fancied she was on the pull. Though the choice among the stay-at-home dads was hardly wonderful. Still, tarty or not, Mandy always had the knack of making Katie feel wrong-footed.
‘Oh, you know Charlie,’ Mandy laughed heartily. ‘He's always giving that poncy coach a mouthful. And quite right too. That guy goes on and on about being fair to all the kids when it's obvious that your George is one of the best players. And your Charlie is only sticking up for George.’
‘How exactly is Charlie sticking up for George?’ Katie had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What had Charlie done now? Katie had given up going to football when Molly arrived, using the excuse that it was too cold to be out with a baby, but really it was because she couldn't stand the embarrassment anymore of listening to Charlie's roars of disappointment from the touchline when George missed a shot at goal, or succumbed to a tackle. George always looked embarrassed at this, and Katie felt for him, but being unwilling to undermine his father's authority in front of him, she never said anything. And, in the end, she just stopped going.
Still, in all other aspects of their life, she couldn't complain. If it was inevitable that their early feelings of lustful desire had settled down into something more sensible and solid, she knew Charlie loved her, and she loved him. They were comfortable together. Despite the stress of being dragged over to his parents' once a month and having to endure Marilyn's withering scorn as to why Charlie still hadn't made it to the top of his firm of accountants: ‘His father was at the top in his thirties, though, of course, not everyone can be as talented as him.’ But other than that, she was happy enough.
Of late, though, Katie had been getting the feeling that Charlie perhaps wasn't so happy. He hadn't said anything, but she wondered if he was getting twitchy about his fortieth birthday later in the year. He seemed a bit down about it. Or maybe it was that combined with the vasectomy he'd insisted on having after Molly was born. He'd certainly changed lately. He could be moody and difficult. Making a spectacle of himself on the touchline was probably just a symptom of a wider malaise.
‘Only doing what any dad should,’ said Mandy. ‘Shouting for George, yelling at the opposition. It's what I always do.’
I bet you do, thought Katie silently.
‘It's that arse Bill who's at fault,’ Mandy continued as they made their way out of the school grounds.
‘How so?’ asked Katie, thinking, poor bloody Bill, someone has to stand up to the hecklers.
‘Oh, you know what he's like,’ said Mandy, tossing her long fair mane back. ‘He goes on and on about not being too com petitive and not putting pressure on our kids. But the way we all see it, it's a competitive world, innit? They‘ve got to learn sometime.’
Have they? thought Katie. Do they have to learn this way?
‘So why was George put on the subs bench?’ Katie asked, but deep down she knew what the answer would be.
‘Bill said your Charlie was putting the other players off, and George was taken off as a punishment.’
Katie frowned. It didn't seem at all fair to George to make him suffer for Charlie's bad behaviour. But then it wasn't the first time Bill had warned Charlie off.
Charlie would be bound to shrug it off if she raised the subject. Maybe it was time she started going to football again to see for herself.
A squawk from the buggy indicated that Molly was getting tetchy, so Katie made her excuses and was slowly pushing her way home when she had a better idea. Sod going to football. Who wanted to get their feet cold? What Charlie needed was cheering up. And that was her job. So that's what she'd do. She'd start tonight by cooking him a nice meal. Who knew where it might lead …
Emily arrived into work late. She'd spent the night at Callum's, despite her best intentions. But weekends on her own in Thurfield were so lonely. She could have gone to see Katie, but she felt she'd imposed on Katie's friendship too much of late. Besides, despite acknowledging to herself the meanness of the thought, Emily couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when she spent time in Katie's perfect house with her perfect family. It only highlighted the complete and utter mess her own life had become.
The trouble was, Emily thought moodily, she was always so busy at work, and her weekday social life revolved around London, so at the weekend there was nothing for her to do. Or, rather, there was plenty. If she didn't work such long hours, she might have made some friends here other then Katie. Then she could spend her weekends with friends on long walks and cycle rides on the Downs, or going to the cinema or out for a meal. Normal stuff. Like other people did.
Instead of which she was practically chained to her desk, and when she wasn't, she was out late schmoozing people she was coming to despise, or partying like there was no tomorrow with so-called friends with whom she had increasingly little in common.
This wasn't how she'd planned things, back when she'd started law school in Cardiff, all those years ago. Then she'd been full of naïve optimism about how she was going to take on cases like her dad's (languishing at home a semi-invalid thanks to the incompetence of the firm he'd given most of his life to). She felt ashamed that she'd ended up at Mire & Innit – a small media law firm which specialised in defending the low-level famous, in cases which, in the main, were pretty indefensible. Her boss Mel had promised her the earth at her interview seven years ago.
‘This is a small firm,’ she'd purred silkily, ‘but we are going places, and for the right person the rewards are high.’
The rewards had certainly been high financially. Emily was earning far more than in her previous job, but the mortgage on the cottage was correspondingly high too. And the promised promotion to senior associate seemed as elusive as ever, while Mel continued to pile on the work. One thing she'd failed to mention at interview was that, being a small firm, they were constantly short-staffed. Great in one way, as it had given Emily opportunities she would never have had elsewhere, but not so good in terms of having any kind of decent life outside the workplace.
Emily sighed. It had all seemed so glamorous when she'd first come to London. Now it just seemed tawdry to be raking through the muck of zedlebrity lives.
Callum, too, had seemed the height of glamour when she first met him – the gorgeous public school boy with the golden tongue had bowled her over from the start, and though she'd always known he was incredibly bad for her, now he was like a bad habit she couldn't quite shake. When Callum deigned to let her, she was allowed into his world, in small bite-sized pieces. He had perfected the knack of just keeping her interested. She hated herself for giving in to him.
Take this weekend, for instance. She had resolutely ignored his calls all day Friday, cried off a party that Ffion was going to, claiming a headache, and crashed out in front of the TV with a pizza and a bottle of wine.
But come Saturday, after a desultory morning spent catching up on household chores, and a dull afternoon alone trailing round the shops in Crawley, Emily had let herself into the flat to find three messages from Callum on the answerphone. When she switched on her mobile (which she had purposely left behind), she discovered he'd inundated her with messages.
‘Come on, babe,’ the last message had urged her, ‘what else do you have to do tonight but come out clubbing with me?’
What else indeed? In the end, she'd given in and driven up to his flat in town, where they had made up over a bottle of wine, before dancing the night away at a local grungy club that Callum and his less salubrious friends liked to frequent.
‘I promise to be good,’ Callum had said as they left the flat. He'd looked so solemn and schoolboyish when he'd said it, Emily couldn't help but laugh.
‘You better had be,’ she'd said. And then he'd kissed her, and she'd forgotten why she'd been so cross with him in the dizzying intoxication she always felt when he was near.
Callum had been as good as his word, in that he hadn't taken any drugs in her presence, which wasn't to say that he hadn't taken any at all, but it was enough for her to maintain the fiction that all was right with the world.
They had got up late on Sunday, gone for a pub lunch, and though Emily had known she should really have headed back home on Sunday evening, Callum's urgent plea of, ‘Stay, babe,’ coupled with the thought of another long, lonely evening, was enough to keep her from going back. Maybe that was why she couldn't quite let Callum out of her life. She knew he was bad for her, but he was pure escapism. Maybe she needed that right now. Perhaps it was worth it to avoid the pain of thinking about Dad, though it never felt worth it when the downside was being late for work.
Emily's nerves were jangling as she walked through the door. Mel didn't tolerate slackers on her team, as she put it.
Luckily, Mel was late too this morning, which allowed Emily enough time to get herself a latte and calm down before she started work. She sat down to a pile of paperwork and opened her emails, to find there were still hundreds she hadn't responded to from last week, including one from an ex soap star whose efforts to revive her career by applying for the next series of Love Shack looked doomed since she'd got into a racism row with another would-be contestant. Emily groaned loudly. She could feel another late one coming on. It was too bad they were so short-staffed and the secretary she had shared with her colleague had left, but at least working long hours kept her from thinking too much about everything. It was another form of escapism, she supposed, but not quite as satisfactory as shagging an unsuitable boyfriend.
‘So that tooth we root-treated last time is still giving you gyp?’ Mark asked once Jasmine was ensconced on his dental chair. Her crop top was hitched halfway over her stomach and her hipster jeans sagged below it. She had less of a muffin top and more of a meringue mountain … God, it amazed him that someone so foul-mouthed, foully dressed and generally appalling as Jasmine could be deemed worthy of being in the public eye. Once upon a time people actually did something worthwhile to be famous. Not any more.
‘Too right it is,’ whined Jasmine. ‘It's bloody painful all the time. Those antibiotics were useless.’
‘You do realise that if I can't sort it out this time, I shall have to take the tooth out,’ Mark said.
‘No way!’ Jasmine was horrified.
‘I'm sorry,’ said Mark, a little nonplussed. ‘I did warn you.’
‘You can't mess with my teeth,’ shrieked Jasmine. ‘I've got a contract which says my teeth are all me own.’
‘She's got a contract,’ growled Jasmine's mother from the sofa. Kayla followed Jasmine everywhere and, Rottweiler-like, was always on hand to defend her daughter's interests.
‘Well, if you want a second opinion …’ This was Mark's get-out clause for all his difficult patients. Sadly, Jasmine had never yet taken him up on the offer, and she wasn't about to now.
‘Oh go on then,’ she said sulkily.
Mark felt his way round Jasmine's mouth. Despite her brilliant white smile, her teeth were shot to pieces. The dazzling grin covered a multitude of sins to all except her dentist. The rate Jasmine was carrying on, it wouldn't be too long before he provided her with dentures. He prodded around for a while. Jasmine responded when he poked the molar two doors down, but the tooth she was moaning about didn't evince a single response. Which meant it was as dead as a doornail.
‘I'm really sorry,’ he said. ‘Your tooth's died. I'm going to have to pull it out.’
‘You can't!’ Jasmine shrieked.
‘What about her contract?’ Kayla demanded. ‘You must be able to do something.’
‘I'm touched by your faith in me,’ said Mark, knowing that sarcasm was completely wasted on these two, ‘but even I can't work miracles.’
Jasmine winced dramatically as he gave her the strongest injection he could. Her pain threshold was notoriously low, and this was a back tooth which would take a fair amount of work to get out. Mark toyed with asking Sasha for the right instruments, but as she leaned back against the sink, looking bored and playing with her nails in between taking text messages (even though he had asked her hundreds of times not to), he figured that in the time it would take to explain what he needed, he could have got it all himself. One day, God would take pity on him and send him a decent nurse.
‘I can't lose a tooth,’ Jasmine wailed. She was clearly not going to take this lying down. ‘What about my contract?’
‘I'm very sorry,’ he said. ‘But the tooth has got to come out. I'll make you a bridging unit, which I'll attach to the adjacent teeth. No one will ever know the difference.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jasmine eyed him suspiciously. ‘What if someone finds out?’
‘No one will find out,’ said Mark. ‘Your records are completely confidential.’
‘You sure about that?’ the Rottweiler jumped in, looking uncertain.
‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Now, I have to do something about this tooth. I can't leave it like this.’
Eventually, Jasmine agreed. Luckily, the tooth came out relatively easily, and Mark took some impressions for her crown.
‘What if someone sees the gap?’ Jasmine demanded as she got down from the chair.
‘It's pretty unlikely,’ said Mark, ‘it's a back tooth, no one is likely to be looking. You could always try not to get photographed for a bit.’
Which was as unlikely as him getting back with Sam, he realised. Jasmine was always splashed over one tabloid or another.
‘You'd better be right,’ Jasmine said, ‘or there will be trouble.’
‘I'll bear it in mind,’ Mark replied, before showing Jasmine and Kayla out to the desk, where Kerry was chatting animatedly to Tony, Jasmine's third-division footballer boyfriend. Jasmine shot Kerry a dirty look, clicked her fingers at Tony, and swept out imperiously, leaving Kayla to pay. Mark made a mental note to remind Kerry that it wasn't done to flirt with the clientele, before calling his next patient.
Great. It was Mrs O'Leary, or Granny O'Leary as the girls had christened her: an ancient crone and toothless wonder who steadfastly clung to the ill-fitting dentures that her original butcher of a dentist had given her eons ago.
Mark reflected that he must have done something really bad in a previous life to deserve Jasmine and Granny O'Leary on the same day. But he couldn't for the life of him think what.
Chapter Three (#ulink_0c71a33a-30bf-5971-b7b6-9457d60a1cb4)
‘You're late,’ Katie said as Charlie came through the door. She didn't mean to sound accusing, but she was worn down by a hard day coping with the kids. The boys had been really naughty at bedtime and Molly had only just gone to sleep. The kitchen was still in chaos from tea, and she hadn't even managed to get into the lounge yet to tidy up. She could feel all her good intentions to rekindle their spark leaching out of her. Her plan to cook a candlelit dinner had gone completely to pot.
‘What's for tea?’ Charlie asked, ignoring her. She hated it when he did that.
‘Beans on toast.’ Katie felt wrong-footed.
‘You used to love cooking. You'd always have dinner ready for me,’ said Charlie.
‘Well, that was before we had Molly,’ snapped Katie.
Katie would be the first to admit she was a control freak extraordinaire who wanted everything to be so perfect she made Anthea Turner look positively sluttish. She was the sort of woman who rose at six to clean out her kitchen cupboards, or iron and fold laundry. Charlie always teased her that her favourite room in the house was the large walk-in airing cupboard on the landing, where sheets, pillow cases, towels and blankets all sat neatly side by side in carefully orchestrated rows. White single sheets next to white doubles, coloured singles next to coloured doubles. Everything in its place, and everything easy to find.
It always smelled fresh and wholesome, and Katie would never admit to anyone the illicit pleasure she felt in running her hand over the smooth surfaces of freshly ironed sheets. But it was hard work maintaining such high standards with children in the house, although, by and large, till Molly had come along she had managed. Of late, Katie could feel those standards slipping. She had been so desperate for a third baby, despite Charlie's reservations. Now there were days when even she wondered why.
Charlie had touched a nerve, damn him. In the past Katie would have had the house tidy and tea on the table when Charlie walked in. To her that was part of the deal. She was the one at home, after all, it only seemed reasonable to cook the bacon for the person who provided it.
Emily had never got on with that attitude. ‘It just seems so regressive,’ she'd frequently said to Katie over a glass of wine when Charlie was away on business.
Katie had shrugged her shoulders.
‘I don't expect you to understand,’ she'd said. ‘But if you knew my mum, you would. She put her career above everything: her marriage, her family. It tore our family apart. I'm never going to do that.’
Katie had had feminism shoved down her throat from an early age, and was sufficiently her mother's daughter to buy into the career dream until she'd met and fallen for Charlie. The minute she knew she wanted to have children with him was the day Katie said goodbye to her career. She was not going to make the same mistakes as her mum. Her children and husband would always come first. The trouble was, no one had told her how hard that would be. Or that she'd feel a small part of herself dying every day, subsumed into becoming someone's wife, someone's mother. What had happened to Katie? No one really cared any more …
‘Let me know when it's ready,’ said Charlie, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘I've just got to go online and check some deals out.’
‘What now?’ Katie was dismayed. She was rather hoping that Charlie might join her in the kitchen and share a glass of wine with her as she cooked, like they used to do. She knew she should be glad about Charlie's recent promotion, as it meant more money and security, but his job was beginning to take over their life. The company seemed to be expanding at an alarming rate. Charlie's whole topic of conversation these days seemed to be about acquisitions and mergers, and he was away on business more than he was home.
‘Five minutes, tops,’ he said, already heading for the stairs.
Katie sighed. The chances were she wouldn't see him for another hour.
‘I'll just get on with the tea, then,’ she said disconsolately.
‘Okay,’ said Charlie. ‘At least it's not chips.’
‘Why?’ Katie had a feeling she knew where this was going. Charlie had been having little digs for weeks now.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Charlie sheepishly, stopping on the half-landing
‘Don't do that,’ retorted Katie. ‘Tell me what you meant.’
Charlie looked a little embarrassed. ‘I was only joking.’
‘About what?’ Katie's tone was icy. Even Charlie, who had the skin of a rhino, picked up on it.
‘It's just … Since Molly …’ Charlie was looking like he'd rather be anywhere than here. ‘You didn't used to be – it's just that – well, you're looking a bit more cuddly these days.’
‘You mean I'm fat.’ Kate felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.
‘No. No. Not fat.’ Charlie was desperately trying to recover the situation. ‘It's – well, I mean, after the boys you lost weight much more quickly. Anyway, cuddly's good. You know I don't like skinny women.’
His voice trailed off. And it was true. In the past she had managed to shed the baby weight in a few months, but this time around it seemed not to want to budge.
‘You think I'm fat.’ It was a statement. Not a question.
‘Nooo – not fat exactly, but you have to admit it, love, you're a – a tad on the lardy side. Nothing that a few weeks on a diet won't cure.’
The comment was delivered in a manner that was clearly intended to be light and humorous, but the result was anything but.
Katie stood open-mouthed as Charlie disappeared upstairs. Not for the first time she wondered if workload was the thing that really kept him late at the office …
‘How was your day?’ Rob greeted Mark as he came through the front door.
It had been a long day and Mark was glad to be home, even if it wasn't quite the home he wanted.
‘Bloody awful. You?’
‘Oh, you know. Kids running riot. Kids taking drugs. Kids being suspended. The usual.’ Rob's job as head of history at the local comp gave him nearly as much pleasure as Mark's job gave him.
‘Fancy a beer?’ Mark kept resolving that he wasn't going to drink this early in the week. And kept giving in.
‘Thought you'd never ask,’ said Rob. ‘Pint at the Hookers?’
The Hookers' real name was The Boxer's Arms, but because of the propensity of rugby players who went in there, it was commonly known as the Hookers. Although urban myth had it that it was once a knocking shop – a myth that Barry, the urbane landlord, did very little to dispel.
‘Just let me wash my patients’ spit off my face and get changed,’ said Mark, ‘and then I'm all yours.’
Ten minutes later they were propping up the bar and putting the world to rights.
‘The usual, gentlemen?’ Barry already had their pints lined up for them. ‘You're a bit late tonight, if I may say so.’
Bloody hell, Mark thought in dismay, I'm becoming such a regular the barman knows what time I usually come in. How the hell did that happen?
‘If we're not careful, we're going to end up becoming permanent fixtures,’ Mark said glumly, looking round to see the usual regulars transfixed to their usual spots. Is that how people already saw them?
‘So?’ said Rob. ‘I like it here. It's my kind of pub.’
‘You know what's going to happen to us,’ Mark said moodily, staring into his pint.
‘No, what?’ Rob was scanning the bar for possible talent. Rather a waste of effort considering most of the regulars were middle-aged men, but, ever the optimist, Rob never liked to miss out on any opportunity that came his way. Mark envied that optimism and the confidence that went along with it.
‘We're still going to be sitting here in ten years’ time,’ said Mark. He paused to listen to a song on the jukebox. ‘It's like this song – the laughs in the late-night lock-in will fade away and we'll have nothing left but sad, pathetic memories.’
‘And your point is?’ said Rob.
‘Well, look at us. We‘ve already been drinking in here for years. We stay here any longer, we'll end up fossilised.’
‘You know your trouble?’ asked Rob.
‘Nope, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me,’ replied Mark.
‘You need to get out more. It's time you faced up to the truth. You're wasting your time with Sam. She's gone for good. Time you moved on, mate.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mark responded with a wry smile. ‘And this is really the place to do that.’
‘It has been known to happen,’ said Rob, tapping his nose and looking smug.
‘When was that then?’ teased Barry, earwigging their conversation as he wiped down the bar. ‘The dark ages?’
‘You remember those two art students who used to come in here a while back?’ Rob said.
‘What, the short tarty one and the goth?’ Barry looked impressed.
‘Yup,’ said Rob. ‘Didn't you wonder why they stopped coming in?’
‘I thought they'd just finished their course,’ said Barry.
‘Nope,’ said Rob, ‘they just couldn't cope with the rejection. Once you've had a taste of the Robster, everything else pales by comparison.’
‘That's right, Rob,’ said Mark, ‘and it's got nothing to do with the fact they found out what a bastard you are and never want to see you again.’
‘You're just jealous,’ laughed Rob.
‘I keep telling you,’ said Mark, ‘I'm happy to be single.’
‘Now that's where you are so wrong,’ said Rob. ‘It's not normal for someone to be celibate as long as you have been. You need to listen up and hone your seduction skills.’
‘And how should I do that?’ said Mark with amusement as he glanced round the pub. ‘Now you've chased the art students away, I don't exactly see them queuing up.’
‘Not here,’ said Rob. ‘You really must pay attention to your Uncle Rob and learn from a master. Dancing classes is where it's all at. There are tons of single women there. Come ballroom dancing with me and I guarantee you'll get laid.’
‘I do want to actually like a woman when I go to bed with her,’ said Mark. ‘Besides, I don't want anyone but Sam.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Rob. ‘You just don't know it yet. Come on. Live dangerously for once.’
Mark sipped his pint and looked round the Hookers. Warning signs littered the pub. Paranoid Pete (catchphrase: ‘They're watching us, you know’) was swaying ominously over a pint. He appeared to be talking to a wall. In another corner he spotted Jim ‘n’ John, who were so well-known in the Hookers, people had forgotten which was which now. Their beer bellies (twice the size they'd been when Mark first met them) were the fruits of the time they'd both been drinking there. Oh God. This was his and Rob's fate if they weren't careful.
‘Oh go on then,’ said Mark. ‘I suppose it will make a change from a night in the pub.’
‘That's the attitude,’ said Rob, ‘and you're wrong about the song, you know.’
‘I am?’
‘Yup. I've got a much better theme tune for us.’
‘Which is?’
‘“The Boys are Back in Town”,’ said Rob, raising his pint.
Katie paused from cleaning the bath, keeping a weather ear out for Molly, who could still just about be relied on to nap in the morning, allowing Katie to get on with some household chores. She looked around at the chaos of the bathroom (one day her sons would eventually learn not to miss) and sighed.
Katie had neglected the bathroom of late, and it showed. Another by-product of living with a mother with her head in the clouds had been a childhood spent in chaos. Katie, a type-A personality if ever there was one, hated the messy disorder of the place she had called home, and had spent the best part of her adult life ensuring she didn't replicate it.
Katie had just about managed to keep ahead of the game with two children, but the arrival of Molly had made it that much harder. Sometimes she was up at six in order to get the vacuuming done, and she frequently went to bed at 1 a.m. having got stuck into mopping the kitchen floor. The sheer exhaustion of keeping up with it all was taking its toll, mainly in the bedroom, where she frequently crawled in so dog-tired that even if Charlie had shown any interest, she would have been completely unable to rise to the challenge. No wonder he'd lost interest. Perhaps all that they needed was for Katie to initiate things a bit more. Trying to cook a candlelit meal the other night hadn't worked, it was true, but that was because it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. She should have planned it properly. She'd try to do it again, on a Saturday night, when the kids were in bed and Charlie didn't have to worry so much about work.
Feeling a bit better, Katie got up from her kneeling position and went to pick up the bleach so she could start cleaning the loo. Damn. She'd run out. She ran downstairs to the loo there, but that was empty too. When Molly got up, she'd have to go and get some more.
Molly conveniently chose that moment to wake up so Katie wrapped her up warmly, popped her in the buggy and walked down the road towards the High Street. She and Charlie hadn't quite afforded a house on the Hill, the posh part of town (much to Marilyn Caldwell's sniffy disgust). But Katie liked their house, it was homely and comfortable, and close to town, and even on cold February days like today she liked to walk.
The advantage of living in a small town like this was that you were never far from anywhere. The disadvantage was that sometimes it was like living under a microscope and everyone knew your business. Invariably, if Katie met someone she knew on the High Street she would be regaled with the sordid details of some petty scandal, or told where she and Charlie had just been on holiday. Once, an acquaintance had even come and congratulated her on a nonexistent pregnancy. It could be very stifling. There were days when she just longed to get on a train and go somewhere, anywhere. Just to get away from where she was.
It wasn't just the feeling of being trapped in domesticity that was bothering her either. Although Charlie had apologised for the comments he'd made about her weight, his words still rankled. Especially as she knew he was right. From a size ten in her pre-children days, Katie had ballooned up to sixteen at one point, and was just heading back towards a fourteen when she had fallen pregnant with Molly. Now, just over a year later, she was hovering around the sixteen mark, and her exhaustion meant the idea of ever getting any exercise in was a complete joke. Her smallish frame didn't help. If she had been tall and buxom, she could have carried the excess weight, but now she felt like a little round barrel. Her fair hair flopped languidly around her shoulders. For practical reasons it would be better to tie it up, but then she risked exposing her double chin. Charlie was right. She had let herself go.
As she approached the corner shop her eye was caught by a poster.
Tempted to Tango? Ready to Rumba? Can't wait to Waltz? Come to Isabella's Dancing Classes on Tuesday Evenings at 8–9.30 p.m. Beginners welcome
Tempted? Was she ever. In her early twenties, Katie had spent a happy summer learning how to waltz. She had been young, carefree, in her first job in London, where she knew no one. Week after glorious week in a summer, filled in her memory only with sunshine and happiness, Katie had gone along to dance, and had discovered that she was rather good at it. Then she had met Charlie through a mutual acquaintance. Nothing much had happened between them till she'd persuaded him to come dancing too. Katie was fond of saying he literally whisked her off her feet. And when the summer ended in the tragic and sudden death of Katie's beloved father, it had seemed natural to fall into Charlie's arms and seek comfort there. Within the year they'd been married, but somehow they'd never gone dancing again.
She stared at the notice. Perhaps she could give it a whirl. Maybe she should ask Charlie if he wanted to come along. She knew her mum would babysit for them, and it was certainly a way of spending more time together. Besides, if he made any objection, she could always say she was doing it to lose weight. That should shut him up.
‘Ballroom dancing? What, like on Strictly Come Dancing?’ Emily collapsed in fits of giggles on Katie's comfortable sofa at the idea. It always did her good to come here. Katie's house was so serene, a haven of ordered domesticity which provided a sharp contrast to the chaos of Emily's own life. She had no idea how much effort went into keeping a four-bedroom house inhabited by three males so tidy, but given how much mess Callum always seemed to make in her place, Emily guessed it was rather a lot.
‘Yes, why not?’ said Katie.
‘And you want me to come along?’ asked Emily. ‘What about Charlie?’
‘I did ask him,’ admitted Katie, ‘but he didn't want to come. Will you come with me? I used to go years ago and it's great fun.’
‘So you'll know what you're doing, then,’ said Emily. ‘Me, I've got two left feet.’
‘Oh go on,’ said Katie. ‘I need someone to keep me company. Anyway, what else are you going to do on a dull February evening?’
What else indeed? Emily thought over her options. Tuesdays usually involved getting dragged to one of Ffion's PR bashes, but Emily had scarcely seen her since Jasmine's book launch. Ffion was notoriously touchy, and had clearly taken offence that Emily had gone home early on that occasion. Not that Emily minded all that much. To be honest, it made a nice change not to have to hang around sweaty nightclubs. There was always Callum, of course. Although, since their loved-up weekend she'd scarcely seen him either. That, too, she was finding peculiarly restful. It was always exciting being around Callum, but also incredibly stressful. You never knew what to expect. And of late the excitement didn't seem to be counteracting the stress all that much. Which only left –
‘Is working late a good enough excuse?’ Emily knew the answer to that question.
‘No, it is not,’ said Katie firmly. ‘you've used that one on me far too often recently. It's about time you got a life.’
‘Yeah, you're right,’ replied Emily. ‘I must admit, the thought of doing an all-nighter at work doesn't hold the same appeal it once did.’
‘And what about Callum?’ Katie asked. ‘Does he hold the same appeal?’
Emily sighed and sipped her wine.
‘Now there you have me,’ she said. ‘I just don't know any more. When I'm with him it's great – well, most of the time. Although he was absolutely useless about Dad. He says he doesn't do that kind of stuff very well.’
‘Didn't that make you want to deck him?’ Katie said. ‘I don't think I could put up with that. Charlie was truly fantastic when my dad died. He took a week off work to be with me, and was really brilliant to my mum. And he spent weeks afterwards giving me little treats to cheer me up. Flowers, chocolates. That sort of thing. He even remembered the anniversary, and took time off to visit Dad's grave with me. I couldn't have got through it without him.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Emily. ‘You're right. Callum uses me horribly. And when I'm not with him I'm fretting about him not texting me, or worrying that he's flirting with some other woman. And then we go out and I'm anxious the whole time in case he gets too drunk and does something stupid or comes to meet me from work high as a kite.’
‘He hasn't, has he?’ Katie looked suitably horrified.
‘Once, although he promised not to do it again,’ admitted Emily, ‘but I can't really trust him not to.’
‘What you need’, declared Katie, ‘is a change of scene. Come on, you're always banging on about how much you hate going up to town. Spend some proper time here once in a while. Get to know people round here. It might do you good.’
‘I thought you hated it here,’ said Emily with some surprise.
‘Well, I'm here too much,’ said Katie. ‘I could do with an injection from the metropolis once in a while. But you, you need to take a break from all that. So come on, cut me some slack here. I'll feel too much like an idiot if I go to dance classes on my own. After all this time, I probably can't put one foot in front of the other any more. Please come with me.’
‘I am so going to regret this,’ said Emily. ‘But go on, you've twisted my arm. I'll come.’
‘Great,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’
‘Yes,’ Emily agreed, taking another sip of wine, 'so it is.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_8c181b9d-bfe5-5ad6-86fd-329c7d8fa71d)
‘Bienvenida, welcome,’ a small dark woman ushered them in. An off-the-shoulder top clung to the contours of her lean body and her red skirt swished and swirled as she moved on gold open-toed sandals with a heel, which Katie coveted immediately. With her long, raven-black hair tumbling down her back, and her gold hoop earrings, the woman resembled a glamorous gypsy queen. She motioned Katie and Emily to follow her into a large studio lined with tables and chairs. The lights were dimmed, the Blue Danube was playing in the background and couples were already dancing. Katie and Emily exchanged worried glances. They all looked scarily proficient.
‘You must be Isabella,’ said Katie. ‘I'm Katie Caldwell and this is Emily Henderson.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Isabella, with the faintest hint of a foreign lilt. She looked part Spanish, or Portuguese perhaps. Katie already felt clumsy beside her, and wondered whether she'd made a terrible mistake. Charlie had teased her mercilessly about going dancing, conveniently seeming to forget that at one time he'd enjoyed going himself. He was spending the week at his company's headquarters in Amsterdam discussing a potential takeover bid, so Katie had organised a babysitter. At least she didn't have to put up with Charlie's ribbing tonight.
‘Right, first things first,’ said Isabella. ‘Have either of you done any dancing before?’
‘I can waltz after a fashion,’ said Katie, ‘and I know how to rumba. But it's been a long time.’
‘Me, I can't dance to save my life,’ admitted Emily cheerfully.
‘Excelente. We'll put you both in the beginners’ section for now. Katie, if you find it too easy there, we'll think of moving you on. Have you ever tried for any medals?’
‘Oh God no,’ said Katie. ‘I'm more of an amateur enthusiast.’
‘We cater for all sorts here,’ Isabella reassured them. ‘Though be warned, there are some who take it very seriously.’
Having extricated their fee for the evening, Isabella bustled off to deal with some other new arrivals.
The women sat down and looked around the room. Predictably, there were more women than men. The dearth of decent ones ensured they all at least had partners. The room was lined with women sitting alone.
‘Oh God,’ said Emily, ‘this feels like the school disco all over again. I am so going to feel like a wallflower tonight.’
‘You'll be fine,’ Katie assured her. ‘Though I'd be a bit cagey about what you tell people about yourself, if I were you. In my experience a lot of these things tend to be full of sad blokes on the pull.’
‘What, you mean like those two?’ Emily nodded towards the door where two men had just entered. One of them was rather plumpish and balding, though the other –
‘Actually, the one on the left looks quite dishy, don't you think?’ Katie nudged her friend. ‘If I wasn't married already, I wouldn't say no.’
The one on the left was tall and dark, and looked ill at ease. Unlike his friend, who strutted confidently into the room and looked around him with a cheeky grin, eyeing up the talent. As if aware of the women's scrutiny he whispered to his friend then turned towards them and winked.
Katie and Emily snorted into their hands.
‘I see what you mean,’ said Emily. ‘Right, my name is Amelia Earhart and I'm a pilot.’
‘Aren't you a bit lost, then?’ said Katie.
‘You're not the first to say so,’ Emily replied. ‘Come on, I think it's time we got going.’
Isabella was busy rounding people up and organising them into groups. Katie and Emily followed her.
‘God, I hope I don't make too much of a fool of myself,’ said Emily. ‘I have a feeling I might regret this.’
Mark had been having similar thoughts all day. He had very nearly cried off when he'd got home from a hideous day at work. Despite accepting his decision the previous week to pull out her tooth, Jasmine had put in a complaint to Head Office to say that not only was she unhappy with Mark's treatment, but he had been 'really brutal, know what I mean?’ It wasn't the first time she'd made a complaint, and as she didn't really have any grounds to do so, Mark was intending to ignore it, but it was tedious nonetheless and he could have done without it.
However, Rob was having none of it when Mark tried to get out of going.
‘You're coming out tonight, and that's that,’ said Rob. ‘So quit moaning and get your coat.’
Mark felt even more ill at ease when they walked through the door and saw the place was heaving with women, many of whom were dancing already. Rob had insisted Mark couldn't go in the jeans and trainers in which he felt comfortable, so he'd dug out a pair of smart trousers he barely ever wore and a pair of ancient brogues. Rob himself was dressed in black chinos, a dark blue shirt and tie, and black shoes with a Cuban heel. He had piled on the aftershave, evidently hoping to make a conquest. Mark looked around the room. There were hardly any other men there, so Rob wasn't likely to have much competition. But it made Mark feel more self-conscious than ever. He was going to stick out like a sore thumb.
Rob had no such worries. He swaggered through the room, smiling at the women he knew, and trying to catch the eyes of those he didn't. He nudged Mark.
‘See those women over there,’ he said. ‘Gagging for it. They‘ve been watching us since we came in the room.’
Mark glanced over at the women in question: a slim, dark brunette with a smart bob wearing a sleek black dress, and a rather plumper blonde, dressed in a frumpy skirt and baggy top. She was also quite pretty, and would have probably looked slimmer if she'd been standing up straight. Rob nodded over to them, and then turned back to Mark. ‘Keep 'em keen, that's the trick of it. I've got them interested, and now I'm going to ignore them. They're bound to come running.’
Mark wasn't so sure. The women had gone off into peals of giggles, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at.
‘Oh, and a word of advice,’ added Rob. ‘If you do start chatting someone up, for God's sake don't tell her you've got kids. She'll run a mile.’
Thinking that the chance of even talking to a woman was about zero, Mark nodded absently. He wished he was anywhere but here.
‘Ooh, I didn't have you down as a dancer,’ a familiar voice squawked in his ear. Mark turned round. A tarty-looking blonde was eyeing him speculatively. Where did he know her from? Working in the same town he lived in meant he was always running into people he vaguely knew, and he could never work out if he had filled their root canal or met them over the fish counter in Sainsbury's.
‘Your Beth looking forward to going to the Isle of Wight?’ Oh. Right. School. Mark delved into the furthest recesses of his brain. She had a son in Beth's year. What was her name?
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Mark politely, though he couldn't remember Sam mentioning the trip.
‘It's about time I made an appointment,’ the woman continued. ‘You'll be telling me off again about the state of my molars.’
Oh bugger. A patient as well.
‘I'm a bit booked up at present,’ said Mark, ‘but give the surgery a ring. Diana may be able to find you a cancellation.’
Mandy Allwick. That was it. A single mum whose predatory nature was renowned. That was all he needed. Maybe he should palm her off on Rob. It would serve him right for getting Mark into this mess.
‘Save a dance for me, Doctor Davies,’ was Mandy's parting shot, as she wandered over to the double doors at the end of the room, where a petite dark-haired woman was sorting people into groups.
Forbearing to mention that he wasn't technically a doctor – calling dentists doctor was a stupid fashion that had come over from America, along with too much litigation – Mark got up and followed Rob into the crowd.
This was going to be a long evening.
‘Tonight, chicos, we will start with the social foxtrot,’ announced Isabella with a smile. ‘For those of you who‘ve come for the first time, it is quite simple and is danced in four/four time. Take your partners – if you are two women one of you will need to learn the man's steps, but remember it is always the man who leads.’
‘That had better be you,’ said Emily to Katie, who was suddenly feeling ridiculously nervous about the whole thing. ‘After all, you've done it before.’
‘For the social foxtrot, you need to learn the cuddle hold,’ continued Isabella. ‘The man places his right arm round the lady, and rests his hand under her right shoulder. The lady puts her left hand on the man's shoulder and holds the man's right hand in her left hand like so.’ She demonstrated with a baby-faced lad who looked nearly young enough to be her son, before going round the room and checking everyone was in the right position.
‘Now, the man leads off first with his left foot, to two beats of music, while the lady steps back with her right. Then the man takes a step to the right, the lady to the left, the man's left foot closes to the right, and the woman's right foot to the left.’
‘I don't think I'll remember a word of that,’ muttered Emily.
‘It's okay,’ said Katie, ‘just follow me.’
Miraculously, mainly thanks to the fact that Katie clearly knew what she was doing, Emily did get it right, and was able to follow the next steps, which involved her stepping forward with her left foot, then stepping to the right, before closing with the left foot.
‘Right, now we put it together,’ announced Isabella with a clap. ‘I will clap out the time and you dance the steps. Slow step forwards, quick to the side, quick and close, slow step backwards, quick to the side, quick and close.’
‘I'll never get the hang of this,’ said Emily, muddling up her lefts and rights and stepping on Katie's toes.
‘Yes you will,’ assured Katie, ‘you just need practice, that's all.’
After twenty minutes, Emily wasn't convinced. Once they'd mastered the basic steps, Isabella had them trying it to music, and then she added in another set of steps which involved turns as well, and Emily got completely lost. Particularly as she'd had to change partners, and none of them bar one were as good as Katie, so she kept getting it wrong. She was sweating profusely and feeling like a total idiot. In her efforts to get it right, she had had her feet stamped on, and done her fair share of feet stamping too. She knew that dancing wasn't her thing, but she'd had no idea how little natural rhythm she actually had, or how hard it was keeping time to the music. That was until she was apprised of the fact in no uncertain terms by a gay dancer, who was training at the local dance school and had only come along to expand his repertoire. His were the only toes she'd trod on deliberately after hearing him mutter ‘bloody amateurs!’ one too many times under his breath.
Eventually the torture ended and Isabella announced it was time for social dancing, ‘So you can put it all together.’ Apparently this meant pairing up with just one other person. Emily looked at Katie, whom she'd been watching gliding around the room with a serenity she felt deeply envious of. Despite her post-baby weight gain, Katie had the natural poise and grace Emily lacked.
‘I'd say I'd partner you,’ she said, ‘but I don't want to be the cause of hospitalising you.’
‘You're not that bad,’ Katie grinned.
‘You know I am,’ answered Emily. ‘So stop being nice. We'll have to find someone else decent for you to dance with.’
‘Ladies, would you care to dance?’ The plumpish bloke from earlier on was pushing his way over, with his good-looking friend.
Katie and Emily looked at each other uncertainly.
‘Please, we don't bite,’ said the good-looking one. ‘Besides, you have to take pity on us. I'm being chased by a raging nymphomaniac, and I need to seek sanctuary.’
Katie laughed. She had been watching Mandy Allwick in hot pursuit of their new companions all evening.
‘Well, if you need rescuing from Mandy, I think we might be able to help,’ she said.
‘Oh, you know her?’ Mark asked.
Katie pulled a face.
‘For my sins.’
Mark was about to chip in with something about Beth being at school with Mandy's son, and then, remembering Rob's strictures, thought better of it.
‘As it's your first time,’ Rob whispered to Mark, ‘I'll give you the pretty one, and I'll have the one with the fat thighs.’
Mark, who thought the not-so-pretty one had seemed rather nice, smiled awkwardly at Emily and said, ‘Shall we?’
‘If you like,’ said Emily. She felt awkward too. The new arrival was even better-looking close up. He had rather soulful eyes, she thought. There was a kind of brooding intensity to him that she found appealing. She felt a brief flickering of interest, which she dismissed instantly. She was here for fun, not to pick up men.
Katie was fuming. She'd overheard Rob's whispered aside, and her poor opinion of him, based soundly as it was from two minutes' observation of his cockiness as he came into the room, had increased a hundredfold. She would have liked to tell him where to get off, but she thought Emily deserved a decent shot at his friend, who seemed altogether nicer.
‘The one with the fat thighs heard you, by the way,’ she said, as Rob took her by the hand and started to quickstep.
‘Oh.’ Rob had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Did I say fat thighs? I meant to say gorgeous eyes.’
‘Of course you did,’ said Katie drily. The cheek of him. He was so sure a pathetic compliment would make up for insulting her. Still, he was so sure of himself, maybe she could have a bit of fun with that …
‘Do you come here often?’ Mark decided that a mocking approach was the best way to deal with the situation. It was so long since he'd asked a woman to dance, and the hour he had spent trying not to trip over people's feet had made him very aware that he was a contender for the most useless dancer in the room. But for the first time since Sam had left he felt the spark of interest in another woman. Mark wasn't sure if it was the determined look that had come across her face while she was listening to Isabella's instructions, or the rather panicky eye rolls that had set in when she had clearly forgotten them again. Or it might have been the way that she pealed with laughter when he stepped on her toes. He was so grateful that she hadn't slapped him.
‘This is my first time,’ she said, laughing again, her whole face lighting up. ‘So be gentle with me.’
‘If you're gentle in return,’ Mark batted back. ‘The name's Mark, by the way.’
‘Emily,’ she replied. ‘You honestly can't be a worse dancer than I am,’ she added, as Mark took hold of her. His hands were sweating, and despite trying to remember Isabella's admonitions about relaxing, he felt stiff and awkward.
‘I don't know about that,’ said Mark as he stepped on her toes once again. ‘Sorry. You see what I mean.’
‘It's okay, really,’ she said, ‘I think we're probably quits on that front.’
‘This is horrible, though, isn't it?’ said Mark, desperately trying to maintain a closed position and keep four/four time. ‘I don't know why I'm here.’
Emily laughed again as she realised that once more they were out of step with each other.
‘Just dance like no one's looking,’ she said, as they both paused for breath.
‘Do you think that will work?’ asked Mark, looking around. ‘I can't help feeling everyone's staring at us.’
‘I'm sure they're not,’ said Emily, ‘but if we dance as if they're not, it doesn't matter, does it?’
‘Dance like no one's looking,’ said Mark. ‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘On Green Wing?’ suggested Emily. ‘That's where I heard it first.’
‘Oh, I love Green Wing,’ Mark replied.
‘Me too,’ said Emily. ‘It's one of those proverb-type things. No one knows who wrote it. It goes like this:
Dance like no one's looking. Love like you've never been hurt.
Work like you don't have to
Live like it's heaven on earth.
* * *
I think that's rather lovely, don't you?’
‘Dancing like no one's looking is probably the best recipe I can think of for getting through this excruciating experience,’ said Mark.
‘Charming,’ she replied.
‘Oh God, that didn't come out right,’ said Mark. ‘It's not all.’
‘It's not all what?’ Emily teased.
‘Excruciating,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, you're not.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Emily. She felt secretly flattered. She hadn't come here on the pull, but as they continued their awkward trotting around the room, she reflected that it was nice that someone other than Callum had showed an interest in her. However vague, it was a very welcome boost to her ego. Even if he did keep treading on her toes.
Chapter Five (#ulink_40ea859b-e3f6-5aed-9a09-6701651e21f4)
‘The name's Rob Dylan, by the way,’ Rob said as he expertly led Katie round the room. Irritatingly he seemed to be rather a good dancer, ‘as in Bob's younger, more good-looking brother.’
‘Of course,’ said Katie. ‘I spotted the resemblance instantly.’
Rob was a bit of a revelation actually. Katie's previous experience of dancing lessons had been fun, but had not exactly filled her with confidence about the dancing abilities of the majority of the male of the species. Charlie wasn't bad, but their wedding day was probably the last time they'd danced together. Not only could Rob dance, but he knew how to lead her properly too. Which meant that, rusty as she was, she felt she was actually dancing the foxtrot the way it was meant to be danced. With Rob, she was gliding round the room with perfect confidence. For a few fleeting moments she felt graceful again. She was grateful to him for that at least, even if he was a bit of a twat.
‘I'm Katie Caldwell,’ she said. ‘And I bet your brother doesn't dance as well as you do.’
‘Nah,’ said Rob. ‘But he sings a bit better.’
Katie laughed. Dancing with Rob was turning out to be a lot more fun than she'd expected. Actually, she hadn't laughed so much in ages, she suddenly thought ruefully. When had she and Charlie stopped laughing together?
‘Has anyone told you, you have a lovely smile,’ said Rob, pulling her slightly closer than was strictly necessary.
‘Yes,’ said Katie firmly. ‘You did.’ She had been going to say, ‘my husband’, but then a mischievous desire stopped her. Rob clearly couldn't help himself. He was a serial flirt who thought he was God's gift to women. He really needed nipping in the bud instantly, but it wouldn't hurt to string him along a little bit. Just for fun.
‘So I did,’ said Rob. ‘And did I mention your gorgeous eyes?’
‘Hmm, I seem to remember you mentioning my thighs,’ said Katie. What was this guy like? He couldn't seriously be thinking she'd have forgotten his earlier comments.
For a minute, Rob looked slightly nonplussed, but he recovered himself well.
‘That was before I had stared into your gorgeous eyes,’ he said, kissing her hand gallantly as the dance came to an end.
‘Yes, that'll be it,’ Katie said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.
People were milling about chatting together, or heading for the pub next door. It was really time she got going. Katie wasn't used to staying out late midweek, and with Charlie away it was harder than normal to get herself out of bed in the morning and organise the kids. She needed an early night.
‘You're coming next door for a drink.’ It was a statement, not a question. Rob was steering Katie towards the door in a rather well-practised fashion. Despite herself, she couldn't help admiring his ridiculous self-confidence.
‘I don't think so,’ said Katie. ‘I really have to get on.’
‘Oh yes you are,’ said Rob, ‘you just don't know it yet. Expect the unexpected. That's my motto.’
‘Well, how's this for unexpected?’ said Katie. ‘A woman saying no to you.’
‘I wasn't chatting you up,’ said Rob.
‘You so were,’ said Katie. ‘And I'm not the slightest bit interested.’
‘Don't flatter yourself, darling,’ Rob replied. ‘You're not my type.’
‘And what's your type then?’ Katie was furious. Which was ridiculous. Why should she care what he thought of her?
‘Thin,’ was the hurtful rejoinder.
Katie stood with her mouth open. The cheek of him.
‘Well, you're hardly likely to win Mr Universe, are you?’
They glared at each other for a second.
‘Are you coming next door for a drink?’ Mark and Emily came up. Emily looked flushed and pretty. Her slimness accentuated Katie's curves. Katie wasn't normally the jealous type, but suddenly, next to Emily, she felt like a walrus.
‘No, I don't think I am,’ said Katie. ‘It's time I was off.’
‘Me too,’ said Emily. ‘I've got an early start in the morning.’
‘Will we see you ladies here again next week?’ Rob asked.
It was all Katie and Emily could do to keep straight faces. He was so ridiculously pompous. Despite her irritation, Katie realised it was hard to stay cross with someone who was clearly so deluded about his charms.
‘Maybe,’ said Katie. ‘We'll have to see.’
‘So you're not dancing again?’ It was clear from the look on his face that this was not the answer Rob was expecting. He looked like a disappointed spaniel.
‘Depends who's asking,’ said Katie in an outrageously flirty, mischievous manner, before she and Emily made a bolt for it, laughing like demons.
‘I think that went well,’ said Rob, watching them go.
‘And you've worked that out how?’ said Mark. ‘They‘ve both just left. And they were laughing at us.’
‘Sure sign they fancy us. Besides, you know my motto,’ said Rob, touching his nose with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Expect the unexpected. Don't you worry, they'll be back. Like I said, they're gagging for it. I can tell.’
* * *
‘How dare he!’ Katie was still apparently brooding on Rob's words about her weight the next day when Emily rang her to see if she'd calmed down yet. ‘I mean, obviously I don't care what that idiot Rob thinks, but – first Charlie told me I'd put on weight and now that prat says I've got fat thighs. I must be enormous.’
Emily made soothing noises down the phone while glancing anxiously at her watch. She had a mountain of stuff to shift before the end of the day, and having rung her soap star and discovered what she'd actually said about the black girl she was meant to be sharing a room with on Love Shack was somewhat worse than even the papers had inferred, Emily had a feeling she might be up all night sorting out the mess. She really didn't have time for a long chat. But Katie always listened to her troubles, so it seemed mean not to do the same. The problem was, Katie had spent so long at home, she'd forgotten what it was like to be in a busy workplace and not have time to make personal calls. Emily looked across the corridor at her boss's office. In a moment, she felt sure that Mel would be on her like a ton of bricks for chatting during office time.
‘Liar,’ said Katie. ‘Thanks for humouring your best friend. I do know I have to lose some weight. But it's not as if he's God's gift, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ said Emily.
‘Mind you, his friend was nice,’ said Katie. ‘You looked very cosy together.’
‘We were not, as you put it, cosy,’ said Emily. ‘Besides, I've got Callum. Why would I look elsewhere?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Katie with just the barest hint of irony.
‘Oh shut up,’ said Emily. ‘Look, I've got to go, Mel is exiting her office and heading my way. So the burning questions is: are we going again next week?’
‘I'll let you know,’ said Katie, and put the phone down.
Katie stared out of the window at her neatly ordered garden. Why had she let Rob get under her skin? Was it because he'd said the same thing as Charlie had about her weight? Or was there something more to it? She shook her head. Thinking about it was a waste of energy. She had a house to clean, a baby to feed, children to pick up from school and dinner to cook. Besides, Charlie was going to be home on Friday, which gave her the perfect opportunity to have a romantic evening in with him. Time she got on and started planning it properly.
Rob wound up his Year Ten lesson on Hitler. Sometimes it felt like the only subject he taught was the Second World War. A whole generation of children were growing up to whom history simply meant the Tudors and Hitler. Oh, and the slave trade. It made him despair.
‘Got a hot date tonight, sir?’ Matt Sadler, one of Rob's more irritating students, piped up in the kerfuffle that followed the end of the lesson.
‘None of your business,’ said Rob, picking up his books.
‘Ooh, are you sure?’ Matt was one of those who just wouldn't leave it alone. He nudged one of his mates and whispered something they both clearly found funny. ‘Only my mate's sister fancies you.’
‘Well she's clearly a woman of taste,’ said Rob, resisting the urge to throw a piece of chalk at him. When Rob had been at school, that's what his Maths teacher, Mr Coombs, would have done. But in these more touchy-feely times, should Rob even contemplate doing something that might cause a moment's misery to one of his charges, he'd end up explaining himself before some snotty tribunal. So instead he swept out of the classroom, ignoring the wolf-whistles and giggles that followed his departure.
Rob shivered. However irritating the likes of Matt Sadler might be, he would never dream of actually throwing the chalk. In the old days, the days when he was a student teacher and he and Suzie had been together, he would have been much more reckless. But that was then and this was now.
Suzie. He hadn't thought about her in years. Maybe Mark was right. That Levellers song in the pub the other night – “Fifteen Years”, wasn't it? – should be their theme tune. He was going to end up a sad, lonely old drunk, sobbing into his pint.
Rob entered the staffroom feeling a bit odd. He wasn't normally this introspective, what had got into him this morning? What he needed was half an hour's sit down and a cup of coffee. He was actually gasping for a fag, but the whole school was now a smoke-free zone. Soon he'd be joining his Year Eights behind the bike sheds.
Rob made himself a coffee and sat down in an uncomfortable ancient chair shoved in the corner of the staffroom. Thanks to Matt he was too late to join in with the conversations already in progress. Not that he felt much like chatting with the twittering women who ran Modern Languages and spent most of their breaks moaning about how unfair it was that the PE department were always trying to muscle in on their lesson time. And he'd had one too many conversations about the latest views on the Big Bang theory with Andy Peacock, head of Physics, just recently.
In the good old days, when he'd first started teaching, you wouldn't have been able to see from one end of the room to the other through the fug of smoke. Now, of course, the diehards like him were among the two per cent of the population made to feel like pariahs.
He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. Katie's face floated in front of him. How odd was that? Why was he thinking about her? Her and her fat thighs. He tried to dismiss her from his thoughts, but Katie's face stubbornly refused to go away. Then it came to him.
Katie reminded him of Suzie. Granted, Katie was much plumper, but there was something about her that was so like Suzie it made him wince. Perhaps it was her fair hair – or her petite form. Maybe it was that bright, joyous laugh. Suzie had laughed like that. She had been full of fun and life and joie de vivre. Until that day. Then all the light and love had gone out of her. Gone out of them. Rob tried not to think about all that any more. But damn it, Katie had brought it back.
This would never do. Rob picked up a Guardian someone had left lying around. It wasn't like him to be so anal. And it didn't get him anywhere. Besides, he'd left all that stuff behind a long time ago. He turned to the crossword and had a go at that instead. Much better than dwelling on the past.
Mark was whistling as he entered the surgery that morning.
‘You're cheerful today,’ Diana greeted him.
Ah, good. That made the morning even better. If Diana was here it was much more likely that things would go smoothly for a change.
‘Yes, I am rather,’ said Mark. It was an odd feeling, to be this cheerful. He had spent so many months embroiled in gloom, it was a refreshing change. And one he could only put down to one thing.
Emily.
Mark had thought of nothing else all night long. He hadn't enjoyed being in the company of any women since Sam had left him. And now, suddenly, here was one who had made him sit up and take notice.
It wasn't that he fancied her exactly. Although she did have, as Rob would have put it, All That. But more than that, they had had a laugh. And they had seemed to find common ground really quickly. The time he had spent with her had been all too brief. He hoped that she'd be going along next week.
He had a quick look at his day list, where he could see three root treatments, endless amounts of drilling and filling, a bridge to repair and Granny O'Leary to boot. It would have normally sent him into the doldrums. But not today. He was in too much of a good mood. And thankfully, there was no sign of Jasmine.
‘Have we heard any more about Jasmine's complaint?’ Mark asked Diana at lunchtime.
‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Diana.
‘Perhaps I should ring her?’ Mark asked, not really relishing the task.
‘Oh, you know what Jasmine's like,’ said Diana, 'she'll be on to the next thing soon and it will all be forgotten. Particularly when she's in pain again.’
‘Good,’ said Mark. Diana was right. It would doubtless blow over.
As usual, he barely had time to pause for breath, and by the end of the day three cups of cold coffee were lined up on the side. It was only as he got into his car to go home that he allowed himself to think about Emily again. She was the most attractive woman he'd met since he'd been single and he didn't even know her surname. Or where she lived. Or her phone number.
There was no help for it: he was going to have to go dancing again.
Emily was coming to the end of a long day and feeling absolutely exhausted. She had enjoyed the previous evening much more than she would have thought possible. And it hadn't actually mattered that much that she was crap at dancing. Mark had been equally crap. And she had enjoyed dancing crappily with him. It had been fun. Plus he had been, well, so gentlemanly and attentive. She wasn't used to that after Callum.
She paused from filing away some case notes. Callum versus Mark. Callum was gorgeous, of course. And made her feel gorgeous. He was sexy. He made her feel sexy. He was dangerous, which gave him that edge.
Mark, on the other hand, didn't seem the dangerous type. He seemed sweet and kind and thoughtful. Could she do sweet and kind and thoughtful, after mad, bad and dangerous to know?
Emily laughed out loud. Listen to her. She'd spent, ooh, half an hour in the presence of a very attractive man, and already she was lining him up against Callum. She was being ridiculous. As if he was even interested.
The phone on her desk rang.
‘Someone to see you down here,’ drawled the bored-sounding receptionist.
Emily frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone.
Oh God, no. As she approached the front desk she vaguely remembered Callum had had a big pitch on today. Please don't let him be here and be drunk.
‘Hey babe,’ he said. ‘Am I the dog's bollocks or what?’
‘What, I think,’ said Emily, squirming under the gaze of the supercilious receptionist.
‘I just won the shittest, hottest pitch in town. You are looking at the new account handler of Smile, Please! I am the man. ‘Callum raised his hands above his head and practically beat his chest.
‘Callum,’ hissed Emily. ‘I'm at work.’
‘I just wanted to see you, babe,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette.
‘This is a non-smoking office,’ said John Turnbull, one of Emily's more likeable colleagues, who'd just walked in.
‘Sweets for my sweet,’ said Callum, ignoring him and proffering a rather squashed box of chocolates.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Emily. ‘But can you just leave now. I've got stuff to do.’
‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ Callum pleaded with her. For once it had no effect. She was furious. How dare he show her up here? How dare he?
‘Callum, I'll be any way I like,’ she said, her manner cold and stiff. ‘Now just go, please.’
‘Do you want any help escorting this waste of space off the premises?’ said John.
‘No, it's all right,’ said Emily. ‘Callum's just leaving, aren't you?’
Something of the coldness of her tone seemed to have pierced through Callum's skull because he shambled off with his cans of Stella. Jeez, he stank like a brewery.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Emily, shamefaced.
‘No problem,’ said John, ‘but you're hot to trot, and he's a wanker. What on earth is a babe like you doing with a twat like that?’
What indeed, thought Emily, as she made her way back upstairs. What indeed … ?
Chapter Six (#ulink_ab88679c-33b4-5721-9ead-6d3622981e8a)
‘You're going away again?’ Katie sat and faced her husband across the table, laid with her white damask cloth, their Royal Doulton blue and white wedding china, their poshest Sheffield steel cutlery, a vase full of freesias and daffodils and two scented candles.
‘Needs must,’ said Charlie, tucking into the steak Diane that Katie had lovingly prepared. ‘This is jolly good, by the way. I have to go. The takeover is turning out to be trickier than we thought. In fact,’ he paused, as if uncertain as to what to say next, ‘you may not like this, but there's a distinct possibility that I might have to be permanently in Amsterdam for a while.’
‘No!’ Katie put down the glass of Chablis she was sipping and stared at her husband in dismay.
‘I'm afraid so,’ said Charlie. ‘So we'd better start looking for schools and things.’
‘Woah!’ Katie stood up and looked at him. ‘Charlie, one thing at a time. When you say you have to be there for a while, how long is a while?’
‘Six months – a year tops,’ said Charlie.
‘Don't you think,’ Katie tried to choose her words carefully, knowing how capable Charlie was of twisting them, ‘you might be jumping the gun a bit? We can't just pull the kids out of school. It will be so disruptive for them. When are you going?’
Besides, a little voice was hammering insistently in her brain, we tried living abroad as a family before, and it was a disaster. And you promised …
Charlie had relocated once before, in his previous job, and Katie had had to leave the job where she had met and made friends with Emily. She probably would have done so eventually anyway as she had found it increasingly difficult to manage a career and two young children, but having the decision forced on her hadn't helped. Katie had gone on to spend a miserable year in Frankfurt with a five-year-old and a toddler. She didn't speak the language, had no social network and found the other English wives dreary beyond belief. When he'd seen how unhappy it had made her, Charlie had switched jobs and sworn he'd never put her through that again.
‘Oh, I didn't think of that,’ admitted Charlie.
‘No, you never do.’ Shock and disappointment – that her romantic evening was being tainted by the prospect of changes that could only make her home life worse – made Katie's response more acidic than she'd intended.
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Charlie looked belligerent.
‘That you only think of what you need and want, and forget about the rest of us.’
‘Don't be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I work the hours I do, if not for the family?’
Great. He'd done it again. He could always get her there. Charlie had always worked incredibly hard for them. Now Katie felt guilty. But she was still angry. How dare he just waltz in and assume they would all up sticks without a by-your-leave?
‘I know,’ said Katie, ‘but I don't want to live abroad again. It was bad enough last time, and now we‘ve got three kids. It's okay for Molly, she won't know the difference. But the boys have all their friends here. You can't expect them to uproot themselves.’
Charlie seemed to take a step back.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I don't know,’ said Katie. ‘Why not try commuting? you've been away more than you've been home recently anyway. And if it's not for long, I'm sure I can manage here.’
‘I'll think about it,’ shrugged Charlie. ‘It's not definite yet anyway.’
‘Oh good,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’ But later, as she followed Charlie into the lounge and cuddled up with him to watch TV, she couldn't help dwelling on it. Neither choice was a great one. And Charlie didn't really seem as bothered as he ought to be about spending the week away from her …
‘Dad, can we have Domino's tonight?’
Beth put on her special pleading look, but Mark was having none of it.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not tonight. Your mum will kill me if I give you a takeaway again.’
‘Aw, that's so unfair,’ said Beth, with a pretend pout. With her long fair curls and dimples, even at ten she was still able to make a bid for cutest kid on the block.
‘Yup,’ said Mark. ‘But then so is life. Get used to it.’
Sam was always on at him to feed the kids healthily. Mark wasn't a brilliant cook, but he could rustle up spaghetti bolognaise or roast chicken (the kids' favourite) when he had to. And of late, he'd noticed that Rob's bad influence of late-night beers and takeaways were having a rather disastrous effect on his waistline. In order to make amends, Mark had bought a low-GI diet book and was busy trying to find out what constituted low-GI food. White bread, which he loved, alas did not. While rye bread, which he hated, did. One day someone would invent something that was good for him which he'd actually like …
The middle-age spread had come as a shock. Throughout his twenties, Mark had taken it for granted that he would retain his lean, rangy shape without too much difficulty. But when Sam had left him he hadn't bargained for the downward spiral of depression that would follow; a downward spiral which inevitably sent him and Rob to the curry house late at night. Mark was at least grateful that he hadn't started smoking again, though the temptation had been great at times.
Recently he had made more of an effort to get to the gym or to go for the occasional run. He'd never get another woman interested in him if he looked too porky. Not that that seemed to stop Rob, but if Mark was sure of one thing, it was that he didn't want to end up like Rob. And somehow, he intuitively felt, Emily wasn't the sort of person who would want him to be either.
‘How about I make us a stir fry?’ Mark had discovered from his GI reading that this was apparently Good For Him, and Rob, who was a bit of a foodie, had moved in with a wok, so it couldn't be too hard.
‘Can we have sweet and sour?’ Gemma had mooched in from the room she shared with Beth.
‘I think there's some in the cupboard,’ said Mark. He had done a big shop the previous day, knowing that the kids were coming for the weekend. He loved having them and hated being apart from them. Something people often didn't understand. Oh well, they'd say, at least your time is your own now. Or, you've got your freedom back, nudge, nudge, wink, wink – the implication being, You dirty old dog you, why not go and play the field?
But playing the field wasn't as easy as all that. For a start, until meeting Emily, Mark hadn't had the slightest inclination to do so; but also, what people – even women – failed to understand was that Mark came as a package. It wasn't only him, it was his kids too. Love me, love my children. Not all the women you met were likely to want to do that. Mark wondered whether Emily would. He'd gone along with Rob's strictures not to mention the children, but it had felt a bit odd.
‘Here it is.’ Gemma passed over the jar. She hoisted herself onto the worktop. ‘Da-ad,’ she began in a wheedling tone Mark knew all too well.
‘Whatever it is, I'm going to say no,’ said Mark firmly as he cut up some peppers.
‘But Da-ad. You don't know what it is yet!’
‘Okay, what is it?’ Mark turned the heat on and put the wok over the gas.
‘Shelly's-invited-me-to-the-park-and-sleepover-tomorrow-night.’ The words came out in a nervous gabble. Clearly rehearsed, and desperate to get his assent.
‘Who's Shelly again?’
‘You know. Shelly. The one who does dancing with me.’
Oh. That Shelly. The one with the tattoo. And the ring through her nose. And the one who Mark suspected had persuaded Gemma to smoke on at least one occasion.
‘I don't think so, Gemma, do you?’ Mark chucked the vege tables into the wok.
‘Oh Da-a-ad,’ said Gemma. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don't want you hanging round the park after school,’ said Mark with half an eye on the recipe. He had found a sachet of black bean sauce in the cupboard and tore it open with his teeth.
‘But why can't I go to Shelly's?’
‘Because I say so.’ Mark hated himself the minute the words came out. He'd always sworn he wouldn't use that one on his kids. How parenthood makes hypocrites of us all, he thought. At least he hadn't done the one thing guaranteed to make sure she would stick to Shelly like a limpet, namely let Gemma know just how much he disapproved of her friend. ‘Besides, it's a school night.’
‘So?’ Gemma wasn't going to give up that easily.
‘So don't you have homework or something?’
Mark had chucked the sauce into the pan and turned the flame up a little – the stir fry didn't seem to be frying quite as quickly as it should.
‘Homework sucks,’ said Gemma sulkily.
Mark turned away to face her.
‘So does going to work, but I still have to do it,’ he said. Suddenly he was aware of the smell of burning. He turned round to see the pan had caught fire. ‘Holy shit!’ Mark turned the heat off and grabbed a lid to smother the flames, while simultaneously soothing Beth who had started to scream.
‘But Da-ad –’
‘Not now, Gemma.’ Mark surveyed the charred content of the pan. Apparently stir fry was much harder than he'd imagined.
‘You are so unfair!’ Gemma stomped off to her room. It was only the third time she'd performed that trick that evening. ‘Yup,’ said Mark.
‘What's up with Wednesday now?’ Rob wandered in from the shower, rubbing a towel on his head. He'd christened Gemma ‘Wednesday Addams’ the first time she'd dyed her hair black. And, realising how much it annoyed her, he'd kept it up.
‘Oh, the usual. I'm the meanest dad in the world for not letting her out with her mates.’ Mark was scraping the remnants of his stir fry into the bin.
‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Rob. ‘Burn the house down?’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Mark. ‘Domino's anyone?’
Emily sipped her drink, stared around the glitzy nightclub and sighed. The tubthumping music blaring out from DJ Rappa, The Sugar Daddy, who, despite the moniker, was actually a former accountant called Tim Seiver, was giving her a major headache.
Jeez. She was too old for this. But it was the sort of happening place that Callum liked. Though she still hadn't figured out how he'd managed to persuade her to come here after the whole work debacle. Somehow he'd sweet-talked her into it, and a late night at her desk for the third night running hadn't been immensely appealing. So here she was.
Emily leaned her head against the wall. It was cool and felt like a haven in this dark maelstrom of sweating bodies and flashing lights. Once she'd have thought it was the height of cool to be here. She'd have been wowed by the bright city-lights appeal of it all; impressed by the zedlebs all crowding over each other in a desperate attempt to behave in a sufficiently outrageous manner to merit a picture in Heat magazine.
Once.
Now she wondered what had happened to her. When she had become a lawyer, Emily had been fired up with youthful idealism inspired by what had happened to her dad. He had never got the compensation owing to him after the accident, thanks to the fat cats who always covered their lardy arses. She would make up for that, and fight for all the little people: the ones like Dad who sat for years living a kind of half life breathing the shallow breaths of someone infected with asbestosis. An old man before his time. He'd been so proud of her when she'd told him.
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Oh God, no, not here. She still wasn't used to these overwhelming surges of grief that took her when she was least expecting them. They seemed to come at any moment, unannounced, like a huge shock wave, each one larger than the last. Would she ever get used to the fact that he wasn't here any more? She wondered if he had been disappointed in her. He'd never said if he was, but she wouldn't have blamed him. The idealistic Emily her dad had loved had turned into a shallow narcissistic creature, seduced by the false glamour of a fake lifestyle and ropey job. How had she let that happen?
‘You are such a loser!’ Jasmine Symonds came storming past with Twinkletoes Tone.
Tony looked, as ever, like a rat caught in a run.
‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ he whined. ‘You know I love you.’
‘Aw, do you?’ said Jasmine. ‘Well, I don't love you. It is so over.’ She threw the contents of her bottle of Bacardi Breezer over his head, to the cheers of several bystanders. A couple of cameras flashed and Jasmine paused to pose – no doubt the whole scene would be being written about in next week's issue of Heat. Emily sighed. How had she ended up in this facile world? How?
‘What you staring at?’ Jasmine looked at her belligerently, and Emily quickly looked away. God, that woman was foul. Why on earth were so many people interested in her antics? Seeing she wasn't likely to get the fight she was clearly looking for, and to Emily's considerable relief, Jasmine turned round and disappeared into the crowd.
‘Ready to dance, babe?’ Callum came swaying up to her, no doubt stoked up after a visit to the gents. He was hyped and ready to keep partying all night. And she wasn't. With a moment of utter clarity, Emily knew that if she stayed with Callum for a hundred years, nothing was ever going to change. But she could take control of her life. She'd start here and now.
‘No, actually,’ said Emily, ‘I'm a bit knackered. I've got an early start tomorrow. I'm going to make a move.’
‘Oh.’ Callum put on his little-boy-lost face. Once she'd have thought that endearing. Tonight it just irritated her. ‘Please stay, pretty please.’
‘Sorry, Callum,’ said Emily, thrilled with the sudden realisation that, after all, this was going to be easy. She should have done it months ago. ‘I've got to go.’
‘Ring me,’ he said, trying to give her a kiss on the mouth.
She brushed him aside. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Callum, but it's over. I won't be ringing you again.’
He looked gratifyingly open-mouthed at this news, but he didn't try to stop her from leaving. Instead, he shrugged and turned back towards the heaving crowd. No doubt by the end of the evening there would be a replacement. Emily made her way to the door, with an ever lighter heart. This really was the way the world ended, then, with not a bang, but the merest of whimpers. But even whimpers could feel great …
‘So you've finally dumped Callum?’
Katie had persuaded Emily to join her in the park on Saturday afternoon. It was a dull grey day, and with Charlie in Amsterdam, doing whatever he did to make sure that mergers happened and financial strategies were sorted, Katie didn't fancy being on her own and was feeling rather gloomy. Not that she would ever admit that to Emily. Katie had always found it hard to confide in people, even her closest friend.
If she were more suspicious, Katie might think Charlie was having an affair. But this was Charlie, Mr Ultra Conservative. He was so uptight and rigid in his views; he would never do anything to sully the reputation of the Caldwell Clan – or at least nothing to offend his domineering mother. Sometimes, Katie thought wistfully, he seemed more in awe and worried about his mother's feelings than he did about hers. But then Marilyn Caldwell was a formidable woman, and the whole family seemed to kowtow to her.
‘Yup,’ said Emily. ‘I suddenly thought: what am I doing with my life? What am I doing with him? And I don't know. I just had the strongest feeling that my dad wouldn't have liked him. And suddenly I couldn't go on with it. Does that sound a bit weird? When Dad was alive I never thought twice about whether or not he liked my boyfriends.’
‘No,’ said Katie. ‘Not weird at all. Grief does funny things to us sometimes. Either we see more clearly, or we don't see things at all. I think what's happened to you in the last few months has just woken you up to the fact that Callum was a complete tosser.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Emily. ‘So glad to know you hold my boyfriends in such high esteem.’
‘Only that one,’ said Katie. ‘And if you go out with him again, I promise to be a good girly friend and say of course it was completely wrong of me to call him a tosser.’
Aidan ran up at that moment, claiming that George had kicked him, so Katie decided maybe now was a good time to go home.
‘Will you stay for a drink?’ she asked, hoping she didn't sound too desperate for company.
‘I'd love to,’ said Emily. ‘After all, I haven't got anything else on. We could have a really girly evening and watch Fame to get us in the mood for next week if you like.’
‘So we're going again, next week?’ While Katie had found Rob irritating, it had been so nice to go dancing again, but she had been unsure as to whether Emily wanted to repeat the experiment. But if she did then sod Charlie. If he could go swanning about in Europe, she didn't see why she had to live like a Wall Street widow.
‘Of course,’ said Emily. ‘I'm a free agent now, remember. And I think Mark deserves another look, don't you?’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_7c35a57a-41d1-51b2-838e-d25740fd2282)
Emily stood nervously in the corner of the studio. As had happened the previous week, people seemed to be just grabbing partners and dancing. The music was Latin American, and the dancers seemed to be doing what she presumed was the rumba. She envied the relaxed way they all seemed to move their hips with such fluid, slinky ease, but, watching one couple getting incredibly intimate, she wondered if she would ever even have the nerve to dance like that in public, even if she did master the steps.
However, no one had yet asked her to dance. Which was probably just as well, as although she was watching the fancy footwork of some of the more experienced dancers with fascination, she couldn't image ever being able to do it herself. Oh God … why on earth was she here?
She should have wimped out the minute that Katie rang up to cancel – Molly had been struck down by a tummy bug, apparently. Emily had been treated to a blow-by-blow account of every bowel evacuation that poor little Molly had had over the last twenty-four hours. She loved Katie dearly, but really. Sometimes you could have too much information.
Much as she envied Katie her family life, here was one reason she was immensely glad not to be shacked up with kids. Especially not with Cheerful Charlie. Emily had never warmed to him. He was pleasant enough, charming even, but there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on – it was as though he was only ever partly involved in his family. But as Katie always seemed so content, and claimed that her life was perfect in every way, Emily had always assumed that theirs was a happy marriage. So what if Charlie wasn't her cup of tea? If he ticked Katie's boxes, that was enough for her.
Emily frowned. Katie, who was the most repressed person she had ever met, would never ever admit that things weren't right, but Emily couldn't help feeling something was wrong. Katie had barely mentioned Charlie the last time they'd met, and the few times Emily saw them together Charlie seemed incredibly distant. In the meantime, Katie was developing a weird kind of cleaning fetish. Emily blamed Anthea Turner, whom Katie had actually started quoting as if she was Shakespeare.
‘Penny for ‘em?’ Emily looked up and was surprised and pleased to see Mark standing next to her. ‘Just wondering what I'm doing here, again,’ she said. A warm glow suffused her. How stupid. She barely knew Mark. ‘Me too,’ said Mark. ‘Rob was busy tonight. I wasn't going to come, but …’
There was a lot left in that but. Was it a but that said, I just thought it would be fun? Or a but that said, I wanted to see you again? Or maybe it was just a but that meant nothing at all. Poor little but, thought Emily, so very lonely …
‘I'm sorry?’ Mark looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’
Oh bloody hell, Emily must have let that last bit slip out loud.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she gabbled. ‘Sometimes I have weird random thoughts. And sometimes in a weird random way they flow from my mouth, without me realising it. I think it's because I live on my own.’
‘Oh,’ said Mark. He looked around. ‘Your friend not with you today?’
‘Nope,’ said Emily. She had been about to mention Molly being ill, but as Katie had been adamant she didn't want to give anything away about her private life, she said instead, ‘She was busy this week.’
‘But you came anyway?’ That flash of a smile, utterly dazzling, had a rather unsettling effect on Emily.
‘Oh, you know. I thought since I was so good last week, I'd come and show them all how it's done.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Mark.
‘Actually,’ confessed Emily, ‘I didn't have anything else much on, so I thought, oh bloody hell, why not? What's the worst that can happen?’
‘Dancing with me?’ Mark was only semi-serious.
‘You're on then,’ said Emily. ‘And I really will try not to step on your toes this time …’
‘How does it go again?’ Mark said as he tried and failed to perfect the open hold that Isabella had shown them earlier. Sweat was dripping off him, and his hands were clammy as hell. Hardly a way to get Emily to take the right kind of notice of him.
‘Well, I think you're supposed to step forwards, while swinging your hips, while I step backwards,’ said Emily, ‘and then we're supposed to sway slightly and transfer our weight onto the other foot or something. Oh, and I think you need to hold your hand up higher.’
‘I thought I'd got that wrong,’ said Mark. ‘Shall we stop and watch what everyone else is doing?’
‘Perhaps we'd better,’ said Emily, and they stood trying not to giggle as they watched the rest of the class sashaying round the floor to the Cuban music that was playing in the background.
‘I have to say, it does get your toes tapping,’ said Emily, unable to stop herself from swaying in time to the music, ‘even if I can't go in step. Shall we have another go?’
‘If we must,’ said Mark. ‘Okay, so it goes, one, two, step forward, three, transfer weight, four; one, step side, two, step back, three, transfer weight, four, step forward. Hey, I think we did it!’
Growing in confidence now, and by dint of watching their neighbours who seemed to be really in the swing, eventually Emily and Mark found themselves making a reasonable fist of the steps Isabella had shown them. Emboldened by their efforts, Mark decided to really push the boat out and attempted to fling Emily to one side as he had seen other people doing. Unfortunately, in doing so, her foot got entangled around his heel, and before he knew it the pair of them had tumbled unceremoniously to the floor.
‘I don't think that's how it's meant to go,’ said Mark ruefully.
‘Me neither,’ said Emily. ‘I think someone is telling us something.’
‘Like why don't we go next door for a pint?’ said Mark with a cheeky grin.
‘I thought you'd never ask,’ said Emily.
It seemed an entirely natural thing to do until they actually got into the pub. It was only when they were facing each other over a pint that there was a sudden awkward silence.
‘So what do you do when you're not picking up strange women at dance classes?’ Emily broke the ice first.
Mark pulled a face. He hated telling people what he did for a living. Nine times out of ten they felt obliged to tell him all about their abscess, or their granny's dentures. ‘I am that incredibly rare beast, an NHS dentist,’ he said. ‘And you?’
‘Well –’ said Emily. She felt the need to prevaricate. She wasn't quite sure why, but suddenly she felt rather ashamed of what she did for a living.
‘I hope you're not going to say you're a lawyer,’ Mark added. ‘I can't stand them.’
‘Oh, why not?’
‘My wife ran off with one,’ said Mark.
‘You're married?’ Emily looked disappointed.
‘Divorced,’ said Mark. ‘She went off with the lawyer, and I didn't see much point in contesting it.’
‘And you've not found anyone else?’ Emily was determined to steer the conversation away from the subject of lawyers at all costs.
‘Not yet,’ said Mark. Again that dazzling smile. He paused briefly and then said, ‘what about you? No significant other in your life?’
‘Not any more,’ said Emily, looking down.
‘And no kids, I presume?’ Mark was feeling his way. Perhaps if he could steer the conversation around to children, he could let slip he had a couple himself.
‘Oh God, no,’ said Emily. ‘Why on earth would I want children? I've watched too many of my girlfriends turn from bright, intelligent women into poor demented creatures whose only topic of conversation is the content of their child's nappies. And then they expect you to be as entranced by their puking, shitting, squealing little bundles as they are. Children utterly ruin your life. Who in their right mind would ever want them?’
‘Who indeed?’ said Mark faintly. That put paid to that then. There was no way he could mention Gemma and Beth now. He scrambled around frantically for something else to say.
‘So, you like Green Wing?’ he said pathetically.
‘I sooo love that programme,’ said Emily, ‘the scene where Statham kills the dwarf …’
‘… is brilliant,’ agreed Mark.
‘I missed quite a bit of it, unfortunately,’ Emily said, thinking back to all those nights when she'd been out aimlessly partying, or stuck at her desk trying to see an important deal through, and wondered why she hadn't been home more.
‘Me too,’ said Mark, thinking back to the days when he'd been so busy keeping Sam sweet that he'd had to watch all the crap she liked, which included drivel like I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and Big Brother. Love Shack, which had shot Jasmine to fame, had been on at the same time as the first series of Green Wing, so he'd pretty much missed the lot.
‘I've just bought series one on DVD. I could lend it to you if you like.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Emily. ‘I might never give them back. In fact, faced with the opportunity of being able to watch Julian Rhind-Tutt forever, I'll definitely never give them back.’
‘Nope. I can't let you do that,’ said Mark. ‘In that case, we'll have to go for a full-on Green Wing fest at my place.’
‘Oh.’ Emily was slightly taken aback.
‘There's nothing behind that,’ said Mark hurriedly. ‘I mean, it's just watching a DVD and having a beer if you want. Nothing more.’
‘Of course,’ said Emily, ‘I never thought for a moment it was.’ She ignored the voice in her head shouting Liar! at a thousand decibels.
‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘Then that's settled. What are you up to at the weekend?’
Emily thought ahead. Without Callum to distract her, or some big do of Ffion's to attend, the time stretched out before her without end. A weekend watching Green Wing with Mark – especially with Mark – might be just the thing.
‘Nothing much,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Mark. It was Sam's weekend with the kids. ‘How about we kick off around two, then if you have something more exciting to do later, you'll still have time.’
‘Sounds great,’ Emily said. She lifted her glass. ‘To dancing like no one's looking.’
‘I thought you'd lost the plot when you started colour-coding my socks, but you're hoovering now?’
Charlie stood incredulously in the doorway with his suitcase. He was flying to Amsterdam that morning and seemed very bad-tempered about it. Katie had been up since five with the baby, and had decided, once Molly had finally gone back to sleep, that she might as well get the lounge cleaned while she was up. There would be precious little time later once the full onslaught of the day hit. But she hadn't factored in Charlie's bad temper, or thought very much about the fact that their bedroom was above the lounge.
‘Sorry,’ said Katie, feeling simultaneous twinges of guilt and resentment – her rejoinders of if you were here more, if you helped out more, were immediately cancelled out by, who would pay for the house? One of her mum's tricks had been to nag and nag and nag at her dad. Katie had always sworn she would never do that.
‘Do you want a coffee before you go?’ Katie asked, going for placation.
Charlie glanced at his watch.
‘It's okay, the taxi will be here in a minute. I'll grab one at the airport.’
‘Have you said goodbye to the boys?’
‘They're still asleep.’ Charlie was fiddling with a fridge magnet that bore the legend: Hysteria is a state of mind. It has nothing to do with my womb. He seemed very restless for some reason, and fidgety. Katie was feeling more than a little irritated. His evident annoyance at her cleaning had stopped her doing it, but now he wouldn't even sit down and talk to her. It was almost as though he couldn't look her in the eye.
‘You got ants in your pants?’ Katie enquired.
‘Why would you say that?’ Charlie looked like a startled rabbit caught in headlights.
‘Because you've been pacing up and down the kitchen for the last five minutes. Are you sure you don't want a coffee?’
‘Have I?’ Charlie said. ‘Sorry. I'm a bit distracted. What with this deal and everything.’
‘Of course,’ said Katie. It was understandable that he should be feeling wound up. She went over and gave him a hug. ‘It will be all right,’ she said.
‘I don't deserve you,’ he replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
Charlie continued to wander restlessly round the kitchen, picking up bits of paper and idly sifting through them, clicking a pen off and on incessantly. It was almost as if he was trying to work himself up to say something to her.
‘This is hopeless,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘Katie, there's something I need to tell you –’
A beep from the front of the house indicated the taxi had arrived.
Katie looked at Charlie expectantly. There was a look of raw pain in his eyes, and he was trembling.
‘Charlie, whatever's wrong?’ she asked, genuinely worried now.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I'm just wound up about this deal. Taxi's here, I'd better go.’
‘Oh,’ said Katie. ‘Well, if you're sure you're okay?’
‘I'm fine,’ he said, ‘I'll see you on Sunday.’
‘Be good,’ she said, going to kiss him on the lips.
‘When aren't I?’ It was said lightly, but she detected a faint look of strain in his eyes, and he turned away from her so her lips brushed his cheek instead. There was definitely something wrong. She felt sure of it. She watched him go off in the cab with a heavy heart. He looked lost and lonely sitting there. And she had the oddest feeling that nothing she could do was going to help him.
‘So when's she coming then?’ Rob was lounging on the sofa laughing like crazy as Mark frantically tried to remove all evidence of his children from the lounge.
‘In about ten minutes,’ said Mark. ‘So could you please pass me the Sims game, which I know is hiding under your cushion, because that's Beth's favourite place to lose it.’
Rob whistled as he sat up and felt behind him, dragging out a plastic computer game and handing it to Mark.
‘You're really not going to tell her about the kids?’
‘You were the one who said I shouldn't,’ said Mark.
‘I know, but … it's going to be a bit hard to hide them from her if this cosy DVD thing becomes regular.’
‘You didn't hear her going on about children. If she thinks I've got some, she'll never look at me twice.’
‘So you do like her?’ Rob could barely contain his delight. ‘I knew it. I knew I could get you over Sam.’
‘I'm not, as you put it, necessarily over Sam,’ said Mark, ‘but let's just say that meeting Emily has made me see I can keep my options open.’
‘So long as you don't tell her you have children,’ added Rob.
‘There is that, of course,’ said Mark, suddenly spotting a pair of Gemma's shoes in the corner. Honestly. It wasn't even as if the kids were with him all the time. How on earth did they manage to leave all their junk behind? He grabbed the shoes and shoved them in the kids' bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. He toyed with locking it and then thought, no, that's paranoid. He flitted quickly into the bathroom to check that it was devoid of teen paraphernalia, but luckily, as Gemma could never go anywhere without a complete grooming kit, she tended to carry everything she needed with her.
Mark felt vaguely guilty about the subterfuge. He loved his kids, and didn't want anyone to think he was ashamed of them. But Emily was the first woman he'd been attracted to since Sam. And she had been so adamant about disliking kids, he didn't want to scupper his chances before they'd even got going. There'd be time enough to tell her the truth later. Chances were she wasn't the slightest bit interested anyway …
Emily stood on Mark's doorstep feeling incredibly stupid. It had seemed natural to say earlier in the week that she would come and watch a TV programme with him, but now it seemed a little odd. She liked him, certainly, and he had occupied rather a lot of her thoughts in the last few days, but apart from the fact they were both crap dancers and they liked Green Wing, what exactly did she know about him? He might be a serial killer or something. Right.
Rob answered the door. Which reassured her. At least she wouldn't be alone with Mark. But as she followed him into the lounge, she had a sudden panicky thought. Oh God, suppose they were into threesomes or something. Had she just walked into the lion's den?
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Julia Williams
Guilty feet have got plenty of rhythm …Kick off your shoes and snuggle up with this warm and witty new novel from the author of the bestselling Pastures NewLawyer Emily promised her late father that she'd devote her life to good causes. So how comes she spends her days defending Z-listers, desperate to prolong their 15 minutes of fame?Katie is obsessed with being the perfect wife and mother - unlike her own one. In which case, why is husband Charlie permanently AWOL these days?Dentist Mark is licking his wounds after his wife walked out on him and desperately missing his kids. Can he cope with becoming a singleton again - on top of a devastating legal case against him?Meanwhile, happy-go-lucky Jack the Lad Rob is hiding a secret tragedy…Isabella's dance classe give the four the perfect opportunity to forget their troubles and re-invent themselves. They can be whoever they want to be - they'll just let their feet do the talking.Over the weeks, as they foxtrot, tango, waltz and cha-cha-cha their way into each other's lives, they discover the truth about each other - and themselves. But will they like what they learn?
JULIA WILLIAMS
Strictly Love
Copyright (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
AVON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd/ 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
A Paperback Original 2008
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2008
Copyright © Julia Williams 2008
Julia Williams asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Set in Minion by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9781847560162
Ebook Edition © 2008 ISBN: 9780007287406
Version: 2018-05-29
Table of Contents
Cover (#u474fec65-eb63-5405-b7f4-e0e92918efd4)
Title Page (#u202541d5-00a6-503f-ac04-ed1fac57be4d)
Copyright (#u62003ca8-4c5d-597e-874d-7497019f138e)
Prologue (#u949e030f-1a27-5c8e-b5d2-6a4696e1657e)
Part One - Dance Like No One's Looking (#u6786b10d-7064-57e2-9c2a-1a918dfc0dc8)
Chapter One (#ued7cbb0e-f425-5126-b1d5-51a510228cc4)
Chapter Two (#udcc8cc8d-9ba1-533b-9fb2-0ea76d9d465a)
Chapter Three (#ucda96670-d5e1-5b18-81f2-18f8e70714bd)
Chapter Four (#u08cfed8e-5c1a-539c-a645-8bf0d51e8b4d)
Chapter Five (#u24537f1e-d581-56f0-bd68-d0097d41281c)
Chapter Six (#u07b3d6d4-2dfb-5566-8fca-081ede52ea22)
Chapter Seven (#u95bc03cf-81ac-5dd5-b1d5-2d4a79c48119)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Two - Love Like you've Never Been Hurt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Three - Work Like You Don't Have To (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)
Part Four - Live Like it's Heaven on Earth (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-one (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-three (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirty-nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
E-book Extra (#litres_trial_promo)
Strictly Love (#litres_trial_promo)
Praise (#litres_trial_promo)
By the same author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
Dusk was falling as Emily got off the train at Thurfield. She looked about her and breathed a sigh of relief. Welcome and all as the Christmas break had been, it was good to be home.
Home. And where exactly was that? Not in Wales any more, that was for sure, where the absence of her father had been a permanent feature of Christmas, during which they had all tried very hard to pretend that things really hadn't changed. But could she yet call Thurfield home? In the year and a half she'd lived here, patiently (foolishly, her sister Sarah maintained) waiting for Callum to make a move to put their relationship on a more even footing, she had seen it more as a holding station – a place for her to temporarily rest while she waited for her life to begin.
But now, looking around her as she emerged from the station onto a snowy High Street, she realised with a jolt that she did feel at home here. Perhaps it was just that she knew her friend Katie was only up the road, or that Callum and his rich parents lived tantalisingly close. Or perhaps it was simply the little country cottage she had fallen in love with the summer before last, despite its desperate need for DIY. Being cramped in her mum's council flat over the Christmas period had made her long for the serenity and peace of the view from her window, looking out onto the common. Not that the rolling foothills of the South Downs compared to the more dramatic Pembrokeshire coastline of her birthplace, but they were hills nonetheless, and Emily was always comforted by them. Particularly now, as they gleamed and sparkled white in the late winter sunlight. They looked heavenly. And it felt heavenly to be back.
It was good to be here, away from the frantic guilt that accompanied the discovery that her mum had somehow got herself into huge debt thanks to a rather unhealthy addiction to scratch cards, or the feeling that her sisters Mary and Sarah were now more burdened than she was by the care of their mother. And it was a relief to get away from Sarah's nagging strictures about Callum.
‘When are you going to get him to commit to you?’ Sarah had insisted on knowing, but Emily couldn't answer that one. She wasn't even sure she wanted him to anyway. Part of the fun of Callum was the lack of commitment, and his ability to surprise, shinning up her drainpipe late at night, turning up at the office with champagne when she was working late, making her fizz over with pleasure when he made it all too clear how sexy he found her. Who needed commitment when he gave her all that?
Emily pulled her rucksack further onto her shoulders, and made her way down the High Street as snowflakes fell softly. The splendid Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian mansion that housed the council offices twinkled with a warm bright light. The grounds of the mansion were thronging with people: children shrieked and whooped as they spun round on a carousel while their parents looked on, and teenage couples straggled their way round the temporary ice rink the council had erected for the festive season. Emily belatedly remembered the leaflet that had been shoved through her door, promising a New Year's Eve Victorian Extravaganza. They were even roasting chestnuts. The smell was delicious, and took Emily back to the cosy warm Christmases of her childhood. So different from the barren coldness of this year.
Emily watched the skating couples, the laughing families, the elderly grandparents, for a few moments, before setting off again.
She walked on down the High Street. Though dusk hadn't yet fallen, the rather tacky decorations were already blinking on and off. Emily smiled at the sight. The beauty of what she'd just witnessed and the tackiness of the decorations summed up the incongruity that was Thurfield.
The long High Street went from posh to poor in almost a hair's breadth. The train station from where Emily had emerged was at the poor end of town – the chavvy part, which Katie cattily referred to as Turdfield. But walking towards the top end of town, the cheap nail bars and pound-saver shops, with their competing gaudy Christmas lights, were soon replaced by upmarket hair salons and chichi shops that would have done Covent Garden proud. By the time you got to the top end you could purchase your groceries from M&S and Waitrose, rather then Lidl. Thurfield even possessed a family department store, which resembled something out of Are You Being Served, and in keeping with the Victorian theme was currently displaying a tableau from A Christmas Carol in its front window. The staff had all joined in the spirit of the thing and were dressed in Victorian garb, handing out mulled wine and mince pies to anyone who wanted them. Emily was tempted for a moment, but she was cold and tired, and really just wanted to get home.
To reach her cottage, Emily had to cut through the park that ran behind the department store. The snow was falling harder now and she couldn't help but stare at the families strolling through the park. Men pushing buggies, couples laughing together, children running with unbridled joy through the snow. It was no good her looking with longing. She knew that was not what Callum was about, and she had never been either till now. Funny how things changed. More and more she looked at pregnant women with an envy she hadn't ever experienced before. Wistfully, she wondered what it would be like to hold a baby of her own in her arms. Her nieces and nephews just didn't count.
While you're with Callum you'll never know, Sarah admonished her from afar.
Shut up, sis, said Emily. It's my life, not yours. She turned down the tiny lane that led to her cottage, but then took time to stop and watch the families sledging on the lower reaches of the downs. There was one dad with two girls, one dark, one fair, who were all wet and snowy, shrieking with laughter. Emily wondered if she'd ever have fun like that. She envied the man's wife. He looked like such a devoted dad. She tried and failed to picture Callum larking about like that, without worrying about his hair being ruined.
Shaking her head, she made her way down the lane to her house. It was time to take control of things. A new year soon. A new start. The purity of the snow seemed like an omen. Somehow her life seemed to have got bogged down in a way she couldn't have imagined. Perhaps she needed some purity too. She should take Callum in hand, get their relationship on track, and start to plan a future.
First things first, though. She opened the front door, switched on the light and looked at her cosy little lounge with pleasure. She was back. And for the first time since she'd lived here, it felt like she'd come home.
Part One Dance Like No One's Looking (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
Chapter One (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
‘Remind me what I'm doing here again?’ Emily stared into the mirror with a frown as she applied some lippy.
‘Emily Henderson, what are you like? Because there's free booze, we get to meet famous people and it's a laugh,’ Ffion assured her. ‘Come on, you know you'll enjoy it.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Emily, staring at herself critically. God, she was a mess. Her normally sleek dark bob was uncharacteristic ally unkempt, and she had dark circles under her pale blue eyes. She was looking gaunt. Even her mum had commented on it at Christmas. No wonder, with so many late nights since she'd been back at work. Working hard and playing hard. It was one way of not thinking about things, she supposed.
‘Besides,’ added Ffion, with characteristic thoughtlessness, ‘you've been as miserable as sin since Christmas. You need cheering up.’
And why would that be, I wonder? Emily thought to herself. She really had tried to keep her resolution of looking on the New Year as a new beginning, but the grey cold of January had sapped away all her resolve, and she felt more miserable then ever. And less clear than ever about Callum. Like an idiot, Emily had mistaken the tenderness Callum had shown her briefly as they shared brunch together on New Year's Day for something else. Then she'd further compounded the mistake by mentioning babies. Callum had been pretty elusive since.
Emily followed her friend reluctantly out to the trendy bar, jammed full of Z-listers and their acolytes eager to buy copies of Jasmine Symonds's autobiography, Jasmine: My Story So Far. All Ffion cared about, with her endless invites to celebrity functions, launch parties, tickets for the Brits and the like, was hanging out with famous people. As if some of that shiny stuff would rub off on her. It was only a matter of time before she appeared on some crap reality TV programme.
‘Hey, look.’ Ffion dug Emily in the ribs as they picked up their free glass of dubious chardonnay from a bored-looking waiter. Crackers was the trendy bar much beloved of the celebrity set (or zedlebrities, as she and Ffion had taken to calling them. Mind you, such sarcasm didn't stop Ffion from wanting to join their ranks), and the place was heaving.
‘What?’ Emily had a headache and was thinking longingly of a long, hot bath and the Margaret Atwood she'd been given for Christmas. The thought of Jasmine writing anything was risible, let alone such an impossibly thick volume for someone who was a mere twenty-two years old.
‘There's Twinkletoes Tone,’ said Ffion. ‘They must have made it up again.’
As Twinkletoes Tone went over to kiss Jasmine – a small, dumpy, rather cowlike creature – full on the mouth, the fact that they had indeed made up was plain for all to see.
‘Tony babe,’ Jasmine purred. ‘Get me another chardonnay, will you?’
‘Maybe they're just snogging for the cameras,’ said Emily, thinking, ‘like, do we care?’
‘Of course we care,’ Ffion scolded her.
Damn it. Emily's annoying habit of thinking aloud had snuck out again. One day it would get her into serious trouble. Luckily Ffion was too preoccupied with the various permutations of Jasmine's love life to take much notice.
‘But yes, you could be right, they could be just doing it for the PR.’ Ffion's beady little eyes lit up with excitement. How she got so titillated by all this stuff was beyond Emily. ‘Word on the street is that ever since Tony got ditched from his club, Jasmine's been looking for ways to get rid.’
‘That's a bit rich, isn't it?’ laughed Emily. ‘For someone whose sole claim to fame is being the first person in Love Shack ever to have performed live fellatio on TV, she's hardly famous for her own merits. At least Tony has talent.’
‘Hmm, tell that to his team mates,’ said Ffion. ‘Wasn't it his lack of talent that caused them to go crashing out of the FA Cup?’ Twinkletoes Tone had earned his moniker by scoring an own goal in last year's FA Cup final, thereby earning the never-to-be-forgotten Sun headline: ‘IT'S ALL GONE TITS UP FOR TWINKLETOES TONE!’
‘Well, I feel sorry for him,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, what has Jasmine got that is so wonderful?’
They watched as Jasmine scrawled her illegible signature across the front of an adoring fan's book.
‘Ooh, Jasmine, I want to be just like you,’ the girl, a spotty fifteen-year-old, gushed.
‘It's easy,’ said Jasmine with a lascivious wink, ‘all you need to do is get your tits out on TV and you can do anything.’
‘Jeez, there's an ambition,’ muttered Emily.
‘I dunno,’ said Ffion. ‘Jasmine's just signed a mega-deal with that cosmetic dental chain Smile, Please! ’ Ffion's PR firm, A-Listers, represented Jasmine so she knew these things. ‘Smile, Please! are going to be huge, you know. Everyone wants cosmetic surgery these days. And if that works out, who knows? According to OK! magazine, her aim is to be the face of L'Oréal.’
‘Jasmine?’ Emily snorted into her glass. ‘I didn't know they were planning to put heifers in their ads.’ ‘Okay,’ admitted Ffion, ‘her looks are more bovine then elfin. But you don't know how she'll look after Smile, Please! have finished with her. And you've got to admit, those teeth … now they do look fantastic.’
They watched as Jasmine flashed her brilliant smile at another sappy group of fans.
‘Well, I think without the smile she wouldn't be the face of anything,’ replied Emily. ‘God, the world's gone mad!’
‘Maybe so,’ said Ffion, ‘but it sure as hell beats going to work for a living. If I had a chance to appear on Love Shack, I'd bite your hand off.’
‘I'm sure you would,’ answered Emily. ‘Listen, I'm knackered, I think I'm going to call it a day.’
‘Don't you want to come to Macy's?’ Ffion looked disappointed. Up until relatively recently, a night like this would always end up with them visiting Macy's. But Emily was tiring of sitting bored in the roped-off VIP area, drinking tasteless cocktails for exorbitant prices. She'd blown Ffion out several times recently, and she had a feeling her friend was none too pleased with her.
‘Not tonight,’ said Emily, ‘I've got an early start tomorrow.’
Despite Ffion's efforts to make her change her mind, Emily refused to back down. Once, the thought of a night out on the tiles would have appealed, but recently, even as a means to drown her sorrows, it was losing its allure. Besides, Callum had hinted he might call. She hated being so in thrall to him, but sometimes she missed him with an intensity that was nearly physical.
Indeed, as she sat on the train, making the long journey home, watching London racing away from her in the dark, Emily realised that she had at least made progress in one area of her life. More and more, Thurfield was feeling like a refuge from the nightmarish world she seemed to be trapped in. Katie had been telling her for years she needed to get out of her job. Emily wished it were that simple. If only her mortgage wasn't so big, the cottage didn't need so much work, her mum didn't owe so much money, and her firm didn't pay quite so well. If only.
Her mobile bleeped and she saw a message from Callum.
Where r u babe? Hope yr hot & waiting fr me.
In yr dreams, she texted back, experiencing the familiar feelings of lust coupled with irritation that Callum always engendered in her. She hoped he wasn't drunk. Or high. Though he had a penthouse flat in town, he had grown up in the town next to Thurfield, and his best mates still lived nearby. There'd been a football match on this evening. No doubt he'd spent the evening tanked up with them, and was now looking for a bed for the night. She leaned against the window and stared into the dark as the countryside flitted past her. She should probably teach him a lesson and not let him into her bed. But knowing what she should do and actually doing it were two very different things. Two very different things indeed …
Rob checked the steps again as they were laid out on the website he'd brought up on his laptop. Then he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the lounge, secure in the knowledge that Mark wouldn't be home for at least an hour. He flicked the button on the CD remote and the sound of South American music filled the room.
‘One,’ Rob counted under his breath, ‘remember those snake-hips, two …’
He took a small step forward. What was it Isabella had said last week? Step forward on the ball of your foot, take the weight onto the flat foot, and swing your hips to the left. Easier said than done, of course, but he'd just about got the hang of it by the end of the lesson. And he had his silly little diagrams to refer to.
‘… three, right foot remains in place, transfer weight onto it,’ Rob muttered. ‘… four – then one, left foot to side, swing hips to left. Fuck this is difficult.’
He stopped, switched off the music and then peered myopic ally at the computer screen again. He really ought to get glasses, but Rob knew he was way too vain for them. And too lazy to keep changing contacts.
‘Okay, so it's forward, rest, side, back, rest, side. Swing those hips. Right, I get it … I think,’ Rob said. He switched the music back on and started again. This time it seemed to work, and before long he actually felt he was getting the hang of those ‘ssssnake-hips’ that Carlo, the hilariously camp Latin American dance teacher he'd found in an online dancing video, had talked about.
‘I am the man!’ Rob declared proudly as he pirouetted round the room. He even felt he'd got the hold right, left hand held high, holding the lady's hand, right hand (the bit that Rob particularly liked) snaked round the lady's back.
He had to crack the rumba. Since he'd started learning to dance, the tally on his bedpost had been the highest since his student days. He felt sure the rumba would only add to his allure.
‘John Travolta eat your heart out,’ he said, before spinning rather madly out of control and crashing headlong into Mark's oak dresser. Getting up, he rubbed his hip ruefully. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’
‘I don't know how you do it,’ Mark Davies laughed at his flatmate later that evening, as Rob bustled into the kitchen to provide drinks for his latest conquest. ‘Here you are, thirty-five, plump, those famous curly locks receding faster than the tide, and still you pull them. I can't think what's sadder – the thought of you practising the waltz, or the stupidity of the women prepared to fall for your lines.’
Mark had been on his way to bed, but Rob couldn't resist showing off his prize, an over-made-up girl whom he had picked up at his ballroom dancing.
‘Well, you either have it or you don't, mate,’ Rob winked knowingly.
‘Mind you,’ continued Mark, loading the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher – living with Rob was like revisiting their student days, only more depressing; at least they had a dishwasher now – ‘it's always been a mystery how you do it. I've never known what women see in you.’
‘Treat 'em mean, keep them keen,’ said Rob with a wink.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Mark. ‘That explains why they never last more than a week.’
‘Well, have you got a hot babe waiting next door for you?’
‘No,’ said Mark.
‘And, of course, there's my natural charm,’ continued Rob.
‘Of course,’ snorted Mark. Rob's mop of unruly curly hair and cute grin seemed to be what got the girls hooked, but his love 'em and leave 'em reputation should have been enough for them to run a mile. But somehow it never was. Presumably, each and every one of his hapless victims thought they would be the one to change him. And of course they never were.
‘You should watch and learn from the master,’ continued Rob.
‘You know there's only one woman for me,’ said Mark miserably.
‘Yes, but she's nobbing a lawyer,’ Rob reminded him.
Mark pulled a face.
‘I'm going to bed,’ he said. ‘Don't do anything I wouldn't.’
‘Now that I can guarantee,’ smirked Rob.
As Mark climbed into bed minutes later, he could hear the telltale sounds of Rob getting his rocks off. Great, that was all he needed. Mark sighed and put Whitesnake on his iPod and turned it up loud. Heavy metal always made him think of Sam, the most unlikely headbanger in the world. Mark lay in the dark, trying to drown out thoughts of Sam. Pictures of Sam. Wishing things had turned out differently.
What had happened to his life? One minute he was happily married to the woman of his dreams, with two beautiful children, and now here he was: thirty-five, a single dad, living in a grotty three-bed semi with his best friend from uni. While undoubtedly there were advantages in rediscovering a bachelor lifestyle after so many years of domestic bliss (not having anyone nagging about leaving the toilet seat up was a real plus), they didn't outweigh the disadvantages, or the vast gaping chasm that Sam had left behind when she had dumped him unceremoniously for Kevin.
And, to add to the ignominy, he'd been left for a lawyer. Mark had never been keen on lawyers. He'd encountered a fair few smarmy law students when he was at dental school, but his hatred for them had been cemented when he'd watched Spike Sutcliffe, a close friend from dental school, being crucified by a patient who claimed Spike had been inappropriate with her. He hadn't, and eventually he was cleared, but not before he'd been dragged through a bruising court case in which the lawyers had dragged up all sorts of insalubrious details about Spike's rather colourful past, or before Spike had spent vast sums of money on his own defence. The costs that he was awarded just about covered the legal expenses, but they didn't make up for the stress of it all. Sam falling for Kevin had just given Mark another excuse to hate lawyers, only now his hatred was so passionate he knew it wasn't entirely rational.
‘What the bloody hell does Kevin have that I don't?’ Mark spoke aloud into the darkness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and it wouldn't be the last.
‘You never listen to a word I say,’ had been Sam's constant refrain during their marriage.
‘That's not true,’ Mark had protested on more than one occasion. He had listened. Or tried to. He'd always been putty in Sam's hands. Ever since the first night he'd seen her, at his first-year dental ball: a tiny blonde vision in a red strapless dress, strutting her funky stuff to Motorhead of all things. He had been smitten in an instant and knew not just that he wanted to take her home with him, but after she'd amazingly said yes to his offer of a dance that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.
And at first everything had been fine. More than fine, it had been brilliant. True, it hadn't been part of the game plan to have children so soon, but he wouldn't be without Gemma and Beth now. Sometimes he wondered guiltily if he'd supported Sam enough when the kids were small. Mark had found it difficult to adjust to fatherhood, especially when Sam appeared to be such a great and totally in-control mum. He'd often felt like a spare part in those days – maybe that was what he'd done wrong. Although she'd never actually said that he wasn't a good dad. Or that he'd failed her as a husband.
Mark had been so content; it had been a shock to hear that Sam wasn't. A year ago (had it only been a year?) she had turned to him clear-eyed and brittle and announced she was leaving him.
‘But why?’ Mark had asked, in a state of profound disbelief.
‘Isn't it obvious?’ Her bitterness had stunned him.
‘Not to me,’ said Mark. ‘If it's something I've done, let me put it right.’
But she had shaken her head, and said, rather sadly, he felt afterwards, though at the time he had been too blinded by fury to see it, ‘It's too late, Mark. I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to know.’
And now, here he was, sixteen years after he first set eyes on Sam, alone in bed in his bachelor pad. This wasn't how it was meant to be at all.
Emily walked down the little footpath that led to her country cottage. Despite the lack of street lighting, and the fact that the common was only a few moments away, she never felt frightened coming down here by herself. The dark comforted her. It hid her and made her feel safe. Although tonight the clear winter sky and the full moon lit her path quite well enough. She let herself in with a relieved sigh. It was gone midnight, she had an early start tomorrow, and with the way the trains had been lately she was going to need to be up at the crack of dawn. But she was home at last.
Ffion still didn't get why Emily had moved so far out ‘into the sticks’, as she put it.
‘I like it,’ Emily constantly said. ‘It's cheaper than London and I get to have fresh air.’
Fresh air was important to Emily, having spent her childhood climbing all the hills she could find in her home county of Pembrokeshire. Besides, Katie had moved here first and had then persuaded her it was worth leaving London for the sight of green fields every morning. Mind you, that was before Katie had gone all ‘desperate housewife’ on her. Now she frequently referred to Thurfield as a fishbowl, and Emily got the impression that her friend missed the bright city lights. Not that Katie ever said as much. Trying to prise a confidence out of her had become somewhat harder than prising an oyster from a clam. But of late, Emily had begun to wonder how happy Katie actually was.
There was laughter coming from the lounge. Loud, raucous laughter. Oh God. Callum had done it again. Decided to bring his mates back to hers. She only hoped they weren't shoving white stuff up their noses. He hadn't yet done it in her home, but she couldn't be sure he wouldn't. Callum liked to live dangerously.
Which, of course, had been part of the original appeal. She still had to pinch herself that someone as gorgeous as Callum was interested in her, the original wallflower. Emily's teenage years had been punctuated by watching her friends cop off with all the good-looking guys, while she, knowing her place as a plain Jane, was left with the geeks. So when Ffion had introduced her to Callum at a PR bash and he showed in interest in her – Emily Four Eyes (an epithet from youth which she could never quite shake off despite having worn contacts for years) Henderson – she was unable to resist. Even though she knew he was spinning lines. Even though he spelled trouble with every single one of them. There was something about Callum that was just – irresistible.
Which is how he had come into her life. And somehow remained there, never progressing beyond the Occasional Screw label Emily had given him from their early days of courtship. If courtship was what it could be called. Callum had never met her parents. Nor she his. They didn't always even see each other on a weekly basis. He had yet to remember a birthday or Valentine's, although he was always charmingly apologetic every time he forgot. And it was difficult not to respond to the dozen red roses that would appear like magic. And the sex. Well, the sex was dynamite.
She knew he was no good for her. Not long term. And not now, when her body clock was beginning to tick rather too loudly for comfort. While in her wildest fantasies she imagined how Callum would react joyfully if she told him she was pregnant, Emily was far too much of a realist not to know this was a pipe dream. And the more she tried to conjure up pictures in her head of Callum holding a baby à la Athena man, the less she was able to envisage it. She had to face it – if she wanted a suitable dad for her baby, Callum wasn't it.
Reluctantly, she pushed open the lounge door to find Callum with his two side-kicks, Jez and Danny, roaring with laughter at – jeez, what were they watching? Emily didn't like to stare, but it seemed to involve animals and naked people. Lots of naked people. It was compelling in an utterly gross kind of way. Someone had spilled beer over one of the cream sofa cushions. There was a fuggy smell of smoke in the air. Smoke with a very definite scent.
‘Hey, babe,’ said Callum, drawing on a spliff.
Callum always said Emily was over-anxious about his pot-smoking, but she was a lawyer and the consequences of being caught with drugs in her house weren't worth thinking about. She knew dope was the least of Callum's vices, but she squared it with herself that if he wasn't taking drugs in her house, then what he did in his own place wasn't her business.
‘Callum, what the fuck are you up to?’ Emily was furious. It was late. They'd trashed her lounge and the three of them were giggling inanely at her. She didn't have the energy for this.
‘Just brought Jez and Danny back for a quick drink,’ said Callum. ‘I didn't think you'd mind.’
‘Well, I do,’ said Emily shortly, ignoring Jez and Danny's muffled giggles.
‘Right, you two, out,’ she yelled.
‘Don't be such a spoilsport.’ Callum turned his smile on her. That devastating smile usually worked so well. But not tonight. Tonight she'd had enough.
‘Callum, I've had a long day, I've got an early start, and I need my beauty sleep,’ protested Emily.
‘Too right you do,’ sniggered Jez, who was immediately stopped dead with an icy look.
‘Just go, will you,’ said Emily tiredly. ‘All of you. I need to go to bed.’
‘Me too,’ said Callum.
‘Alone,’ said Emily. ‘Call a cab and you can just piss off home. I've warned you, Callum. I cannot have you smoking dope in my flat.’
‘You know your problem, babe,’ said Callum, as he eventually swaggered out of the door. ‘You take things too seriously.’
‘And you don't take them seriously enough,’ said Emily. ‘Now go, before –’
‘Before what? You change your mind and say I can stay?’ He was like a puppy begging for a treat. But for once Emily wasn't in the mood for giving in.
‘No, before I say something I might regret. Now go on, get out of here,’ she said, practically pushing him out of the door before she weakened.
She slammed it behind her and leaned back against it, sighing deeply.
Damn it! She blinked away angry tears. She was not going to go on like this with Callum taking advantage of her. She was going to take control of her life and start making some changes.
Emily walked slowly into the lounge and stared in dismay at the chaos in front of her. She was too tired to deal with it now, she'd sort it out in the morning.
Take control of her life? She couldn't even take control of her lounge.
Chapter Two (#u38a7811d-d6e3-57b9-8b2b-7b70efcba029)
‘Mark, you have to take the girls in for me.’
Mark had been shaving on Monday morning when the doorbell rang, and he found Sam and the kids at the front door.
‘But I'll be late for work,’ Mark protested. Why the hell did Sam always do this to him?
‘And so will I. My boss has called an urgent meeting and I have to get up to town.’ Sam worked for an American-based cosmetic-surgery company called Smile, Please!. It was a far cry from her humble beginnings as a dental nurse, but presumably the pay and perks were what she'd been after all along. The downside, as far as Mark was concerned, was that as he worked locally, she felt the school run was now his God-given duty.
‘Besides,’ as she frequently told him, ‘you owe me. I stayed at home all those years with the kids. Now it's my turn.’
Quite why it being ‘my turn’ meant Mark had to drop everything every time Sam asked him to, he hadn't yet worked out, but knowing she could get arsy about access if he made too much fuss, he went along with it.
‘Remind me again why Gemma needs a lift?’ Mark asked. ‘I used to cycle to school at her age.’ Gemma, at thirteen, was more than capable of getting to school under her own steam. Her school was at the other end of town from Beth's, which meant a round trip of half an hour. There was no way he was going to make it to work on time.
‘We're not in the Dark Ages now, Dad,’ muttered Gemma from underneath her dark spiky fringe.
Sam gave him a withering look.
‘Gemma's right,’ she said. ‘You do live in the past. Things are different now. It's not safe for kids to cycle. Or walk. There are all sorts of weirdos about. She just wouldn't be safe on her own.’
And it's nothing to do with you worrying that Gemma can't be trusted to actually go to school, is it? Mark thought to himself. Sam would never admit it, but though Gemma had never actually bunked off school to their knowledge, she was probably the most likely candidate to. Taking her in every day meant Sam knew Gemma had actually got there. Mark blamed the influence of Gemma's new best friend Shelly. Shelly was the reason Gemma had adopted her goth-like stance, eschewing all other colours in favour of black, and listening to bloody miserable music, which Mark had discovered was known as ‘emo’, whatever that was.
Sam had been quite frantic about it for a time, claiming that all kids who were into emo either committed suicide young or self-harmed. So far there was no evidence of either, but Gemma was displaying a singular reluctance to go to school. And while Mark was all in favour of his daughter getting a decent education, there were days when he hoped Sam would finally trust Gemma to make it to school on her own. The thought of Sam going to prison for Gemma's non-compliance in matters educational was one of the few things that had made him smile in recent months.
Sam dashed off in a flurry of self-importance while Mark went to finish shaving and ring Diana, his wonderfully efficient area manager, to say he'd be late. Then he bundled the kids in the car and drove as quickly as possible to Gemma's school.
He watched Gemma going in (if she did bunk off, he didn't want Sam accusing him of negligence), shoulders hunched, head down, bag slung loosely over her shoulder, presenting a glowering presence, and wondered with dismay what had happened to his cute little girl. Gemma was definitely not cute now, with her punky hairstyle, dyed a different colour every week – Mark frequently pointed out to her that what she thought was groundbreaking was in fact only the style his girlfriends had adopted twenty years previously, but he was always silenced with a, ‘Whatever, Dad. It's just different now. You wouldn't understand.’
No, of course not. To Gemma, he'd never been young.
Once Gemma had been dispatched it was on to school with Beth. An entirely different proposition. Though she was ten, Beth was still cuddly enough to remind him what he enjoyed about fatherhood, not yet too embarrassed to kiss him goodbye. He felt vaguely guilty about comparing his children, but it was restful to be with Beth, whose sunny disposition made a nice contrast to Gemma's spikiness.
Then he drove like a maniac to the surgery. Despite the phone call to Diana, Mark still felt stressed. He hated being late and he hoped that anyone waiting wouldn't be too grumpy – some of his patients had a tendency to think that, as their dentist, his sole function in life was to be ready and waiting for them at all times. The fact that he might have an existence, a family, a life even, outside the narrow confines of his surgery seemed to be beyond them.
Mark squeezed his ageing Volvo into the one remaining parking space outside the surgery and got out to the distinctive wail of the alarm going off. That was all he needed.
He ran into the surgery and found Maya standing looking helpless, while three patients sat around looking pained.
‘I'm so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was here first and there were patients waiting so I opened the door, but I had forgotten about the alarm and I don't know the code.’
Mark keyed in the right number and thankfully the alarm fell silent. It wasn't Maya's fault, she'd only started working at the practice two weeks ago, and as a newly qualified dentist it shouldn't be her job to make sure the surgery was open on time. That's why they had a practice manageress. Talking of which –
‘Where the bloody hell is Kerry?’ asked Mark.
Maya shrugged her shoulders.
‘I was the first one here,’ she said.
There was no sign of either of the nurses who were supposed to be working with them today. Mark sighed. It was going to be one of those days.
He apologised to the bemused patients sitting in the waiting room, answered the phone to Lorna's (nurse number one's) mum, whose defiant explanation that ‘Lorna had a stomach ache, innit’ didn't fool him for a second, and called in the first of his patients.
By the time he'd seen the second, Kerry had swanned in breezily. ‘Sorry I'm late, the trains were bad.’
‘But you drive,’ replied Mark.
‘Oh, not today, I was out last night.’ She leered lasciviously and bent down over the desk to reveal a rather lacy thong peeping out of a somewhat less than sexy behind. It was more than a man could take first thing in the morning.
‘I think that's what you call a whale tail,’ whispered Maya, who had come out to get her next patient.
Mark snorted, before insisting that Kerry went and nursed for Maya, who needed the help more than he did. While he was phoning Diana, who unfortunately today was working at another surgery, in order to get her to find some cover for them, Sasha (nurse number two) walked in. Sasha, their latest recruit, seemed to be the only Eastern European in the country who didn't understand the value of hard work. Mark considered admonishing her, but, mindful that there were still patients in the waiting room, and aware that she probably wouldn't understand him anyway, he decided that, like much of his life, there really was No Point.
He looked down at his day roster to see what else lay in store for him, and groaned out loud. Jasmine Symonds – a so-called celebrity who was famous for shagging on some god-awful reality TV show, and, if the rumours were true, was the new face of Smile, Please! – was coming in. It was one more indication that someone somewhere didn't like him. Not only had Jasmine and her ghastly mother Kayla been his patients for years, but despite her newfound fame she wouldn't go to any other dentist. Trust him to have the misfortune to have Jasmine as his most loyal patient …
Katie Caldwell was standing at the school gates and watching her ten-year-old son, George, walk mournfully away from her. It cut her heart to the quick to watch his misery and be unable to help. But what could she do when any questions about what was upsetting him were just met with a shrug? George had been in a foul mood this morning, still sore about the fact that he'd spent the previous day on the subs bench – again. He and Charlie had both been peculiarly reticent about why George, the team's best striker, seemed to spend more time off the pitch than on it, but Katie had the deepest suspicion that there was something Charlie wasn't telling her.
It was probably nothing, but Katie knew if she did ask Charlie about it, he would just do that annoying trick of touching his nose and saying ‘A Caldwell never blabs’ – a phrase no doubt passed on to him by his mother. Was it rather pathetic, she won dered, to have been married for ten years and still be frightened of your mother-in-law?
She sighed, and kissed her younger son, Aidan, goodbye. At least she had no worries on that score. Aidan was a happy-go-lucky child who rarely cried and seemed to shrug off life's slings and arrows with an insouciance she envied, and which she longed for her older, more sensitive son to have too.
‘Charlie been winding them up at football again?’ Katie turned away from waving Aidan goodbye to see the tall shadow of Mandy Allwick, school gossip extraordinaire, framed in the early-morning sunshine. That was all she needed.
‘What do you mean?’ Katie squinted up at Mandy, who, as usual, looked perfectly (if a little tartily) manicured and well turned out for first thing in the morning. With her tight leather miniskirt and crop top (revealing as it did a ridiculously well-toned stomach for someone with three children), her high heels, painted nails and even more painted face, a casual observer might have fancied she was on the pull. Though the choice among the stay-at-home dads was hardly wonderful. Still, tarty or not, Mandy always had the knack of making Katie feel wrong-footed.
‘Oh, you know Charlie,’ Mandy laughed heartily. ‘He's always giving that poncy coach a mouthful. And quite right too. That guy goes on and on about being fair to all the kids when it's obvious that your George is one of the best players. And your Charlie is only sticking up for George.’
‘How exactly is Charlie sticking up for George?’ Katie had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What had Charlie done now? Katie had given up going to football when Molly arrived, using the excuse that it was too cold to be out with a baby, but really it was because she couldn't stand the embarrassment anymore of listening to Charlie's roars of disappointment from the touchline when George missed a shot at goal, or succumbed to a tackle. George always looked embarrassed at this, and Katie felt for him, but being unwilling to undermine his father's authority in front of him, she never said anything. And, in the end, she just stopped going.
Still, in all other aspects of their life, she couldn't complain. If it was inevitable that their early feelings of lustful desire had settled down into something more sensible and solid, she knew Charlie loved her, and she loved him. They were comfortable together. Despite the stress of being dragged over to his parents' once a month and having to endure Marilyn's withering scorn as to why Charlie still hadn't made it to the top of his firm of accountants: ‘His father was at the top in his thirties, though, of course, not everyone can be as talented as him.’ But other than that, she was happy enough.
Of late, though, Katie had been getting the feeling that Charlie perhaps wasn't so happy. He hadn't said anything, but she wondered if he was getting twitchy about his fortieth birthday later in the year. He seemed a bit down about it. Or maybe it was that combined with the vasectomy he'd insisted on having after Molly was born. He'd certainly changed lately. He could be moody and difficult. Making a spectacle of himself on the touchline was probably just a symptom of a wider malaise.
‘Only doing what any dad should,’ said Mandy. ‘Shouting for George, yelling at the opposition. It's what I always do.’
I bet you do, thought Katie silently.
‘It's that arse Bill who's at fault,’ Mandy continued as they made their way out of the school grounds.
‘How so?’ asked Katie, thinking, poor bloody Bill, someone has to stand up to the hecklers.
‘Oh, you know what he's like,’ said Mandy, tossing her long fair mane back. ‘He goes on and on about not being too com petitive and not putting pressure on our kids. But the way we all see it, it's a competitive world, innit? They‘ve got to learn sometime.’
Have they? thought Katie. Do they have to learn this way?
‘So why was George put on the subs bench?’ Katie asked, but deep down she knew what the answer would be.
‘Bill said your Charlie was putting the other players off, and George was taken off as a punishment.’
Katie frowned. It didn't seem at all fair to George to make him suffer for Charlie's bad behaviour. But then it wasn't the first time Bill had warned Charlie off.
Charlie would be bound to shrug it off if she raised the subject. Maybe it was time she started going to football again to see for herself.
A squawk from the buggy indicated that Molly was getting tetchy, so Katie made her excuses and was slowly pushing her way home when she had a better idea. Sod going to football. Who wanted to get their feet cold? What Charlie needed was cheering up. And that was her job. So that's what she'd do. She'd start tonight by cooking him a nice meal. Who knew where it might lead …
Emily arrived into work late. She'd spent the night at Callum's, despite her best intentions. But weekends on her own in Thurfield were so lonely. She could have gone to see Katie, but she felt she'd imposed on Katie's friendship too much of late. Besides, despite acknowledging to herself the meanness of the thought, Emily couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when she spent time in Katie's perfect house with her perfect family. It only highlighted the complete and utter mess her own life had become.
The trouble was, Emily thought moodily, she was always so busy at work, and her weekday social life revolved around London, so at the weekend there was nothing for her to do. Or, rather, there was plenty. If she didn't work such long hours, she might have made some friends here other then Katie. Then she could spend her weekends with friends on long walks and cycle rides on the Downs, or going to the cinema or out for a meal. Normal stuff. Like other people did.
Instead of which she was practically chained to her desk, and when she wasn't, she was out late schmoozing people she was coming to despise, or partying like there was no tomorrow with so-called friends with whom she had increasingly little in common.
This wasn't how she'd planned things, back when she'd started law school in Cardiff, all those years ago. Then she'd been full of naïve optimism about how she was going to take on cases like her dad's (languishing at home a semi-invalid thanks to the incompetence of the firm he'd given most of his life to). She felt ashamed that she'd ended up at Mire & Innit – a small media law firm which specialised in defending the low-level famous, in cases which, in the main, were pretty indefensible. Her boss Mel had promised her the earth at her interview seven years ago.
‘This is a small firm,’ she'd purred silkily, ‘but we are going places, and for the right person the rewards are high.’
The rewards had certainly been high financially. Emily was earning far more than in her previous job, but the mortgage on the cottage was correspondingly high too. And the promised promotion to senior associate seemed as elusive as ever, while Mel continued to pile on the work. One thing she'd failed to mention at interview was that, being a small firm, they were constantly short-staffed. Great in one way, as it had given Emily opportunities she would never have had elsewhere, but not so good in terms of having any kind of decent life outside the workplace.
Emily sighed. It had all seemed so glamorous when she'd first come to London. Now it just seemed tawdry to be raking through the muck of zedlebrity lives.
Callum, too, had seemed the height of glamour when she first met him – the gorgeous public school boy with the golden tongue had bowled her over from the start, and though she'd always known he was incredibly bad for her, now he was like a bad habit she couldn't quite shake. When Callum deigned to let her, she was allowed into his world, in small bite-sized pieces. He had perfected the knack of just keeping her interested. She hated herself for giving in to him.
Take this weekend, for instance. She had resolutely ignored his calls all day Friday, cried off a party that Ffion was going to, claiming a headache, and crashed out in front of the TV with a pizza and a bottle of wine.
But come Saturday, after a desultory morning spent catching up on household chores, and a dull afternoon alone trailing round the shops in Crawley, Emily had let herself into the flat to find three messages from Callum on the answerphone. When she switched on her mobile (which she had purposely left behind), she discovered he'd inundated her with messages.
‘Come on, babe,’ the last message had urged her, ‘what else do you have to do tonight but come out clubbing with me?’
What else indeed? In the end, she'd given in and driven up to his flat in town, where they had made up over a bottle of wine, before dancing the night away at a local grungy club that Callum and his less salubrious friends liked to frequent.
‘I promise to be good,’ Callum had said as they left the flat. He'd looked so solemn and schoolboyish when he'd said it, Emily couldn't help but laugh.
‘You better had be,’ she'd said. And then he'd kissed her, and she'd forgotten why she'd been so cross with him in the dizzying intoxication she always felt when he was near.
Callum had been as good as his word, in that he hadn't taken any drugs in her presence, which wasn't to say that he hadn't taken any at all, but it was enough for her to maintain the fiction that all was right with the world.
They had got up late on Sunday, gone for a pub lunch, and though Emily had known she should really have headed back home on Sunday evening, Callum's urgent plea of, ‘Stay, babe,’ coupled with the thought of another long, lonely evening, was enough to keep her from going back. Maybe that was why she couldn't quite let Callum out of her life. She knew he was bad for her, but he was pure escapism. Maybe she needed that right now. Perhaps it was worth it to avoid the pain of thinking about Dad, though it never felt worth it when the downside was being late for work.
Emily's nerves were jangling as she walked through the door. Mel didn't tolerate slackers on her team, as she put it.
Luckily, Mel was late too this morning, which allowed Emily enough time to get herself a latte and calm down before she started work. She sat down to a pile of paperwork and opened her emails, to find there were still hundreds she hadn't responded to from last week, including one from an ex soap star whose efforts to revive her career by applying for the next series of Love Shack looked doomed since she'd got into a racism row with another would-be contestant. Emily groaned loudly. She could feel another late one coming on. It was too bad they were so short-staffed and the secretary she had shared with her colleague had left, but at least working long hours kept her from thinking too much about everything. It was another form of escapism, she supposed, but not quite as satisfactory as shagging an unsuitable boyfriend.
‘So that tooth we root-treated last time is still giving you gyp?’ Mark asked once Jasmine was ensconced on his dental chair. Her crop top was hitched halfway over her stomach and her hipster jeans sagged below it. She had less of a muffin top and more of a meringue mountain … God, it amazed him that someone so foul-mouthed, foully dressed and generally appalling as Jasmine could be deemed worthy of being in the public eye. Once upon a time people actually did something worthwhile to be famous. Not any more.
‘Too right it is,’ whined Jasmine. ‘It's bloody painful all the time. Those antibiotics were useless.’
‘You do realise that if I can't sort it out this time, I shall have to take the tooth out,’ Mark said.
‘No way!’ Jasmine was horrified.
‘I'm sorry,’ said Mark, a little nonplussed. ‘I did warn you.’
‘You can't mess with my teeth,’ shrieked Jasmine. ‘I've got a contract which says my teeth are all me own.’
‘She's got a contract,’ growled Jasmine's mother from the sofa. Kayla followed Jasmine everywhere and, Rottweiler-like, was always on hand to defend her daughter's interests.
‘Well, if you want a second opinion …’ This was Mark's get-out clause for all his difficult patients. Sadly, Jasmine had never yet taken him up on the offer, and she wasn't about to now.
‘Oh go on then,’ she said sulkily.
Mark felt his way round Jasmine's mouth. Despite her brilliant white smile, her teeth were shot to pieces. The dazzling grin covered a multitude of sins to all except her dentist. The rate Jasmine was carrying on, it wouldn't be too long before he provided her with dentures. He prodded around for a while. Jasmine responded when he poked the molar two doors down, but the tooth she was moaning about didn't evince a single response. Which meant it was as dead as a doornail.
‘I'm really sorry,’ he said. ‘Your tooth's died. I'm going to have to pull it out.’
‘You can't!’ Jasmine shrieked.
‘What about her contract?’ Kayla demanded. ‘You must be able to do something.’
‘I'm touched by your faith in me,’ said Mark, knowing that sarcasm was completely wasted on these two, ‘but even I can't work miracles.’
Jasmine winced dramatically as he gave her the strongest injection he could. Her pain threshold was notoriously low, and this was a back tooth which would take a fair amount of work to get out. Mark toyed with asking Sasha for the right instruments, but as she leaned back against the sink, looking bored and playing with her nails in between taking text messages (even though he had asked her hundreds of times not to), he figured that in the time it would take to explain what he needed, he could have got it all himself. One day, God would take pity on him and send him a decent nurse.
‘I can't lose a tooth,’ Jasmine wailed. She was clearly not going to take this lying down. ‘What about my contract?’
‘I'm very sorry,’ he said. ‘But the tooth has got to come out. I'll make you a bridging unit, which I'll attach to the adjacent teeth. No one will ever know the difference.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jasmine eyed him suspiciously. ‘What if someone finds out?’
‘No one will find out,’ said Mark. ‘Your records are completely confidential.’
‘You sure about that?’ the Rottweiler jumped in, looking uncertain.
‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Now, I have to do something about this tooth. I can't leave it like this.’
Eventually, Jasmine agreed. Luckily, the tooth came out relatively easily, and Mark took some impressions for her crown.
‘What if someone sees the gap?’ Jasmine demanded as she got down from the chair.
‘It's pretty unlikely,’ said Mark, ‘it's a back tooth, no one is likely to be looking. You could always try not to get photographed for a bit.’
Which was as unlikely as him getting back with Sam, he realised. Jasmine was always splashed over one tabloid or another.
‘You'd better be right,’ Jasmine said, ‘or there will be trouble.’
‘I'll bear it in mind,’ Mark replied, before showing Jasmine and Kayla out to the desk, where Kerry was chatting animatedly to Tony, Jasmine's third-division footballer boyfriend. Jasmine shot Kerry a dirty look, clicked her fingers at Tony, and swept out imperiously, leaving Kayla to pay. Mark made a mental note to remind Kerry that it wasn't done to flirt with the clientele, before calling his next patient.
Great. It was Mrs O'Leary, or Granny O'Leary as the girls had christened her: an ancient crone and toothless wonder who steadfastly clung to the ill-fitting dentures that her original butcher of a dentist had given her eons ago.
Mark reflected that he must have done something really bad in a previous life to deserve Jasmine and Granny O'Leary on the same day. But he couldn't for the life of him think what.
Chapter Three (#ulink_0c71a33a-30bf-5971-b7b6-9457d60a1cb4)
‘You're late,’ Katie said as Charlie came through the door. She didn't mean to sound accusing, but she was worn down by a hard day coping with the kids. The boys had been really naughty at bedtime and Molly had only just gone to sleep. The kitchen was still in chaos from tea, and she hadn't even managed to get into the lounge yet to tidy up. She could feel all her good intentions to rekindle their spark leaching out of her. Her plan to cook a candlelit dinner had gone completely to pot.
‘What's for tea?’ Charlie asked, ignoring her. She hated it when he did that.
‘Beans on toast.’ Katie felt wrong-footed.
‘You used to love cooking. You'd always have dinner ready for me,’ said Charlie.
‘Well, that was before we had Molly,’ snapped Katie.
Katie would be the first to admit she was a control freak extraordinaire who wanted everything to be so perfect she made Anthea Turner look positively sluttish. She was the sort of woman who rose at six to clean out her kitchen cupboards, or iron and fold laundry. Charlie always teased her that her favourite room in the house was the large walk-in airing cupboard on the landing, where sheets, pillow cases, towels and blankets all sat neatly side by side in carefully orchestrated rows. White single sheets next to white doubles, coloured singles next to coloured doubles. Everything in its place, and everything easy to find.
It always smelled fresh and wholesome, and Katie would never admit to anyone the illicit pleasure she felt in running her hand over the smooth surfaces of freshly ironed sheets. But it was hard work maintaining such high standards with children in the house, although, by and large, till Molly had come along she had managed. Of late, Katie could feel those standards slipping. She had been so desperate for a third baby, despite Charlie's reservations. Now there were days when even she wondered why.
Charlie had touched a nerve, damn him. In the past Katie would have had the house tidy and tea on the table when Charlie walked in. To her that was part of the deal. She was the one at home, after all, it only seemed reasonable to cook the bacon for the person who provided it.
Emily had never got on with that attitude. ‘It just seems so regressive,’ she'd frequently said to Katie over a glass of wine when Charlie was away on business.
Katie had shrugged her shoulders.
‘I don't expect you to understand,’ she'd said. ‘But if you knew my mum, you would. She put her career above everything: her marriage, her family. It tore our family apart. I'm never going to do that.’
Katie had had feminism shoved down her throat from an early age, and was sufficiently her mother's daughter to buy into the career dream until she'd met and fallen for Charlie. The minute she knew she wanted to have children with him was the day Katie said goodbye to her career. She was not going to make the same mistakes as her mum. Her children and husband would always come first. The trouble was, no one had told her how hard that would be. Or that she'd feel a small part of herself dying every day, subsumed into becoming someone's wife, someone's mother. What had happened to Katie? No one really cared any more …
‘Let me know when it's ready,’ said Charlie, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘I've just got to go online and check some deals out.’
‘What now?’ Katie was dismayed. She was rather hoping that Charlie might join her in the kitchen and share a glass of wine with her as she cooked, like they used to do. She knew she should be glad about Charlie's recent promotion, as it meant more money and security, but his job was beginning to take over their life. The company seemed to be expanding at an alarming rate. Charlie's whole topic of conversation these days seemed to be about acquisitions and mergers, and he was away on business more than he was home.
‘Five minutes, tops,’ he said, already heading for the stairs.
Katie sighed. The chances were she wouldn't see him for another hour.
‘I'll just get on with the tea, then,’ she said disconsolately.
‘Okay,’ said Charlie. ‘At least it's not chips.’
‘Why?’ Katie had a feeling she knew where this was going. Charlie had been having little digs for weeks now.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Charlie sheepishly, stopping on the half-landing
‘Don't do that,’ retorted Katie. ‘Tell me what you meant.’
Charlie looked a little embarrassed. ‘I was only joking.’
‘About what?’ Katie's tone was icy. Even Charlie, who had the skin of a rhino, picked up on it.
‘It's just … Since Molly …’ Charlie was looking like he'd rather be anywhere than here. ‘You didn't used to be – it's just that – well, you're looking a bit more cuddly these days.’
‘You mean I'm fat.’ Kate felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.
‘No. No. Not fat.’ Charlie was desperately trying to recover the situation. ‘It's – well, I mean, after the boys you lost weight much more quickly. Anyway, cuddly's good. You know I don't like skinny women.’
His voice trailed off. And it was true. In the past she had managed to shed the baby weight in a few months, but this time around it seemed not to want to budge.
‘You think I'm fat.’ It was a statement. Not a question.
‘Nooo – not fat exactly, but you have to admit it, love, you're a – a tad on the lardy side. Nothing that a few weeks on a diet won't cure.’
The comment was delivered in a manner that was clearly intended to be light and humorous, but the result was anything but.
Katie stood open-mouthed as Charlie disappeared upstairs. Not for the first time she wondered if workload was the thing that really kept him late at the office …
‘How was your day?’ Rob greeted Mark as he came through the front door.
It had been a long day and Mark was glad to be home, even if it wasn't quite the home he wanted.
‘Bloody awful. You?’
‘Oh, you know. Kids running riot. Kids taking drugs. Kids being suspended. The usual.’ Rob's job as head of history at the local comp gave him nearly as much pleasure as Mark's job gave him.
‘Fancy a beer?’ Mark kept resolving that he wasn't going to drink this early in the week. And kept giving in.
‘Thought you'd never ask,’ said Rob. ‘Pint at the Hookers?’
The Hookers' real name was The Boxer's Arms, but because of the propensity of rugby players who went in there, it was commonly known as the Hookers. Although urban myth had it that it was once a knocking shop – a myth that Barry, the urbane landlord, did very little to dispel.
‘Just let me wash my patients’ spit off my face and get changed,’ said Mark, ‘and then I'm all yours.’
Ten minutes later they were propping up the bar and putting the world to rights.
‘The usual, gentlemen?’ Barry already had their pints lined up for them. ‘You're a bit late tonight, if I may say so.’
Bloody hell, Mark thought in dismay, I'm becoming such a regular the barman knows what time I usually come in. How the hell did that happen?
‘If we're not careful, we're going to end up becoming permanent fixtures,’ Mark said glumly, looking round to see the usual regulars transfixed to their usual spots. Is that how people already saw them?
‘So?’ said Rob. ‘I like it here. It's my kind of pub.’
‘You know what's going to happen to us,’ Mark said moodily, staring into his pint.
‘No, what?’ Rob was scanning the bar for possible talent. Rather a waste of effort considering most of the regulars were middle-aged men, but, ever the optimist, Rob never liked to miss out on any opportunity that came his way. Mark envied that optimism and the confidence that went along with it.
‘We're still going to be sitting here in ten years’ time,’ said Mark. He paused to listen to a song on the jukebox. ‘It's like this song – the laughs in the late-night lock-in will fade away and we'll have nothing left but sad, pathetic memories.’
‘And your point is?’ said Rob.
‘Well, look at us. We‘ve already been drinking in here for years. We stay here any longer, we'll end up fossilised.’
‘You know your trouble?’ asked Rob.
‘Nope, but I have a feeling you're going to tell me,’ replied Mark.
‘You need to get out more. It's time you faced up to the truth. You're wasting your time with Sam. She's gone for good. Time you moved on, mate.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mark responded with a wry smile. ‘And this is really the place to do that.’
‘It has been known to happen,’ said Rob, tapping his nose and looking smug.
‘When was that then?’ teased Barry, earwigging their conversation as he wiped down the bar. ‘The dark ages?’
‘You remember those two art students who used to come in here a while back?’ Rob said.
‘What, the short tarty one and the goth?’ Barry looked impressed.
‘Yup,’ said Rob. ‘Didn't you wonder why they stopped coming in?’
‘I thought they'd just finished their course,’ said Barry.
‘Nope,’ said Rob, ‘they just couldn't cope with the rejection. Once you've had a taste of the Robster, everything else pales by comparison.’
‘That's right, Rob,’ said Mark, ‘and it's got nothing to do with the fact they found out what a bastard you are and never want to see you again.’
‘You're just jealous,’ laughed Rob.
‘I keep telling you,’ said Mark, ‘I'm happy to be single.’
‘Now that's where you are so wrong,’ said Rob. ‘It's not normal for someone to be celibate as long as you have been. You need to listen up and hone your seduction skills.’
‘And how should I do that?’ said Mark with amusement as he glanced round the pub. ‘Now you've chased the art students away, I don't exactly see them queuing up.’
‘Not here,’ said Rob. ‘You really must pay attention to your Uncle Rob and learn from a master. Dancing classes is where it's all at. There are tons of single women there. Come ballroom dancing with me and I guarantee you'll get laid.’
‘I do want to actually like a woman when I go to bed with her,’ said Mark. ‘Besides, I don't want anyone but Sam.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Rob. ‘You just don't know it yet. Come on. Live dangerously for once.’
Mark sipped his pint and looked round the Hookers. Warning signs littered the pub. Paranoid Pete (catchphrase: ‘They're watching us, you know’) was swaying ominously over a pint. He appeared to be talking to a wall. In another corner he spotted Jim ‘n’ John, who were so well-known in the Hookers, people had forgotten which was which now. Their beer bellies (twice the size they'd been when Mark first met them) were the fruits of the time they'd both been drinking there. Oh God. This was his and Rob's fate if they weren't careful.
‘Oh go on then,’ said Mark. ‘I suppose it will make a change from a night in the pub.’
‘That's the attitude,’ said Rob, ‘and you're wrong about the song, you know.’
‘I am?’
‘Yup. I've got a much better theme tune for us.’
‘Which is?’
‘“The Boys are Back in Town”,’ said Rob, raising his pint.
Katie paused from cleaning the bath, keeping a weather ear out for Molly, who could still just about be relied on to nap in the morning, allowing Katie to get on with some household chores. She looked around at the chaos of the bathroom (one day her sons would eventually learn not to miss) and sighed.
Katie had neglected the bathroom of late, and it showed. Another by-product of living with a mother with her head in the clouds had been a childhood spent in chaos. Katie, a type-A personality if ever there was one, hated the messy disorder of the place she had called home, and had spent the best part of her adult life ensuring she didn't replicate it.
Katie had just about managed to keep ahead of the game with two children, but the arrival of Molly had made it that much harder. Sometimes she was up at six in order to get the vacuuming done, and she frequently went to bed at 1 a.m. having got stuck into mopping the kitchen floor. The sheer exhaustion of keeping up with it all was taking its toll, mainly in the bedroom, where she frequently crawled in so dog-tired that even if Charlie had shown any interest, she would have been completely unable to rise to the challenge. No wonder he'd lost interest. Perhaps all that they needed was for Katie to initiate things a bit more. Trying to cook a candlelit meal the other night hadn't worked, it was true, but that was because it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. She should have planned it properly. She'd try to do it again, on a Saturday night, when the kids were in bed and Charlie didn't have to worry so much about work.
Feeling a bit better, Katie got up from her kneeling position and went to pick up the bleach so she could start cleaning the loo. Damn. She'd run out. She ran downstairs to the loo there, but that was empty too. When Molly got up, she'd have to go and get some more.
Molly conveniently chose that moment to wake up so Katie wrapped her up warmly, popped her in the buggy and walked down the road towards the High Street. She and Charlie hadn't quite afforded a house on the Hill, the posh part of town (much to Marilyn Caldwell's sniffy disgust). But Katie liked their house, it was homely and comfortable, and close to town, and even on cold February days like today she liked to walk.
The advantage of living in a small town like this was that you were never far from anywhere. The disadvantage was that sometimes it was like living under a microscope and everyone knew your business. Invariably, if Katie met someone she knew on the High Street she would be regaled with the sordid details of some petty scandal, or told where she and Charlie had just been on holiday. Once, an acquaintance had even come and congratulated her on a nonexistent pregnancy. It could be very stifling. There were days when she just longed to get on a train and go somewhere, anywhere. Just to get away from where she was.
It wasn't just the feeling of being trapped in domesticity that was bothering her either. Although Charlie had apologised for the comments he'd made about her weight, his words still rankled. Especially as she knew he was right. From a size ten in her pre-children days, Katie had ballooned up to sixteen at one point, and was just heading back towards a fourteen when she had fallen pregnant with Molly. Now, just over a year later, she was hovering around the sixteen mark, and her exhaustion meant the idea of ever getting any exercise in was a complete joke. Her smallish frame didn't help. If she had been tall and buxom, she could have carried the excess weight, but now she felt like a little round barrel. Her fair hair flopped languidly around her shoulders. For practical reasons it would be better to tie it up, but then she risked exposing her double chin. Charlie was right. She had let herself go.
As she approached the corner shop her eye was caught by a poster.
Tempted to Tango? Ready to Rumba? Can't wait to Waltz? Come to Isabella's Dancing Classes on Tuesday Evenings at 8–9.30 p.m. Beginners welcome
Tempted? Was she ever. In her early twenties, Katie had spent a happy summer learning how to waltz. She had been young, carefree, in her first job in London, where she knew no one. Week after glorious week in a summer, filled in her memory only with sunshine and happiness, Katie had gone along to dance, and had discovered that she was rather good at it. Then she had met Charlie through a mutual acquaintance. Nothing much had happened between them till she'd persuaded him to come dancing too. Katie was fond of saying he literally whisked her off her feet. And when the summer ended in the tragic and sudden death of Katie's beloved father, it had seemed natural to fall into Charlie's arms and seek comfort there. Within the year they'd been married, but somehow they'd never gone dancing again.
She stared at the notice. Perhaps she could give it a whirl. Maybe she should ask Charlie if he wanted to come along. She knew her mum would babysit for them, and it was certainly a way of spending more time together. Besides, if he made any objection, she could always say she was doing it to lose weight. That should shut him up.
‘Ballroom dancing? What, like on Strictly Come Dancing?’ Emily collapsed in fits of giggles on Katie's comfortable sofa at the idea. It always did her good to come here. Katie's house was so serene, a haven of ordered domesticity which provided a sharp contrast to the chaos of Emily's own life. She had no idea how much effort went into keeping a four-bedroom house inhabited by three males so tidy, but given how much mess Callum always seemed to make in her place, Emily guessed it was rather a lot.
‘Yes, why not?’ said Katie.
‘And you want me to come along?’ asked Emily. ‘What about Charlie?’
‘I did ask him,’ admitted Katie, ‘but he didn't want to come. Will you come with me? I used to go years ago and it's great fun.’
‘So you'll know what you're doing, then,’ said Emily. ‘Me, I've got two left feet.’
‘Oh go on,’ said Katie. ‘I need someone to keep me company. Anyway, what else are you going to do on a dull February evening?’
What else indeed? Emily thought over her options. Tuesdays usually involved getting dragged to one of Ffion's PR bashes, but Emily had scarcely seen her since Jasmine's book launch. Ffion was notoriously touchy, and had clearly taken offence that Emily had gone home early on that occasion. Not that Emily minded all that much. To be honest, it made a nice change not to have to hang around sweaty nightclubs. There was always Callum, of course. Although, since their loved-up weekend she'd scarcely seen him either. That, too, she was finding peculiarly restful. It was always exciting being around Callum, but also incredibly stressful. You never knew what to expect. And of late the excitement didn't seem to be counteracting the stress all that much. Which only left –
‘Is working late a good enough excuse?’ Emily knew the answer to that question.
‘No, it is not,’ said Katie firmly. ‘you've used that one on me far too often recently. It's about time you got a life.’
‘Yeah, you're right,’ replied Emily. ‘I must admit, the thought of doing an all-nighter at work doesn't hold the same appeal it once did.’
‘And what about Callum?’ Katie asked. ‘Does he hold the same appeal?’
Emily sighed and sipped her wine.
‘Now there you have me,’ she said. ‘I just don't know any more. When I'm with him it's great – well, most of the time. Although he was absolutely useless about Dad. He says he doesn't do that kind of stuff very well.’
‘Didn't that make you want to deck him?’ Katie said. ‘I don't think I could put up with that. Charlie was truly fantastic when my dad died. He took a week off work to be with me, and was really brilliant to my mum. And he spent weeks afterwards giving me little treats to cheer me up. Flowers, chocolates. That sort of thing. He even remembered the anniversary, and took time off to visit Dad's grave with me. I couldn't have got through it without him.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Emily. ‘You're right. Callum uses me horribly. And when I'm not with him I'm fretting about him not texting me, or worrying that he's flirting with some other woman. And then we go out and I'm anxious the whole time in case he gets too drunk and does something stupid or comes to meet me from work high as a kite.’
‘He hasn't, has he?’ Katie looked suitably horrified.
‘Once, although he promised not to do it again,’ admitted Emily, ‘but I can't really trust him not to.’
‘What you need’, declared Katie, ‘is a change of scene. Come on, you're always banging on about how much you hate going up to town. Spend some proper time here once in a while. Get to know people round here. It might do you good.’
‘I thought you hated it here,’ said Emily with some surprise.
‘Well, I'm here too much,’ said Katie. ‘I could do with an injection from the metropolis once in a while. But you, you need to take a break from all that. So come on, cut me some slack here. I'll feel too much like an idiot if I go to dance classes on my own. After all this time, I probably can't put one foot in front of the other any more. Please come with me.’
‘I am so going to regret this,’ said Emily. ‘But go on, you've twisted my arm. I'll come.’
‘Great,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’
‘Yes,’ Emily agreed, taking another sip of wine, 'so it is.’
Chapter Four (#ulink_8c181b9d-bfe5-5ad6-86fd-329c7d8fa71d)
‘Bienvenida, welcome,’ a small dark woman ushered them in. An off-the-shoulder top clung to the contours of her lean body and her red skirt swished and swirled as she moved on gold open-toed sandals with a heel, which Katie coveted immediately. With her long, raven-black hair tumbling down her back, and her gold hoop earrings, the woman resembled a glamorous gypsy queen. She motioned Katie and Emily to follow her into a large studio lined with tables and chairs. The lights were dimmed, the Blue Danube was playing in the background and couples were already dancing. Katie and Emily exchanged worried glances. They all looked scarily proficient.
‘You must be Isabella,’ said Katie. ‘I'm Katie Caldwell and this is Emily Henderson.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Isabella, with the faintest hint of a foreign lilt. She looked part Spanish, or Portuguese perhaps. Katie already felt clumsy beside her, and wondered whether she'd made a terrible mistake. Charlie had teased her mercilessly about going dancing, conveniently seeming to forget that at one time he'd enjoyed going himself. He was spending the week at his company's headquarters in Amsterdam discussing a potential takeover bid, so Katie had organised a babysitter. At least she didn't have to put up with Charlie's ribbing tonight.
‘Right, first things first,’ said Isabella. ‘Have either of you done any dancing before?’
‘I can waltz after a fashion,’ said Katie, ‘and I know how to rumba. But it's been a long time.’
‘Me, I can't dance to save my life,’ admitted Emily cheerfully.
‘Excelente. We'll put you both in the beginners’ section for now. Katie, if you find it too easy there, we'll think of moving you on. Have you ever tried for any medals?’
‘Oh God no,’ said Katie. ‘I'm more of an amateur enthusiast.’
‘We cater for all sorts here,’ Isabella reassured them. ‘Though be warned, there are some who take it very seriously.’
Having extricated their fee for the evening, Isabella bustled off to deal with some other new arrivals.
The women sat down and looked around the room. Predictably, there were more women than men. The dearth of decent ones ensured they all at least had partners. The room was lined with women sitting alone.
‘Oh God,’ said Emily, ‘this feels like the school disco all over again. I am so going to feel like a wallflower tonight.’
‘You'll be fine,’ Katie assured her. ‘Though I'd be a bit cagey about what you tell people about yourself, if I were you. In my experience a lot of these things tend to be full of sad blokes on the pull.’
‘What, you mean like those two?’ Emily nodded towards the door where two men had just entered. One of them was rather plumpish and balding, though the other –
‘Actually, the one on the left looks quite dishy, don't you think?’ Katie nudged her friend. ‘If I wasn't married already, I wouldn't say no.’
The one on the left was tall and dark, and looked ill at ease. Unlike his friend, who strutted confidently into the room and looked around him with a cheeky grin, eyeing up the talent. As if aware of the women's scrutiny he whispered to his friend then turned towards them and winked.
Katie and Emily snorted into their hands.
‘I see what you mean,’ said Emily. ‘Right, my name is Amelia Earhart and I'm a pilot.’
‘Aren't you a bit lost, then?’ said Katie.
‘You're not the first to say so,’ Emily replied. ‘Come on, I think it's time we got going.’
Isabella was busy rounding people up and organising them into groups. Katie and Emily followed her.
‘God, I hope I don't make too much of a fool of myself,’ said Emily. ‘I have a feeling I might regret this.’
Mark had been having similar thoughts all day. He had very nearly cried off when he'd got home from a hideous day at work. Despite accepting his decision the previous week to pull out her tooth, Jasmine had put in a complaint to Head Office to say that not only was she unhappy with Mark's treatment, but he had been 'really brutal, know what I mean?’ It wasn't the first time she'd made a complaint, and as she didn't really have any grounds to do so, Mark was intending to ignore it, but it was tedious nonetheless and he could have done without it.
However, Rob was having none of it when Mark tried to get out of going.
‘You're coming out tonight, and that's that,’ said Rob. ‘So quit moaning and get your coat.’
Mark felt even more ill at ease when they walked through the door and saw the place was heaving with women, many of whom were dancing already. Rob had insisted Mark couldn't go in the jeans and trainers in which he felt comfortable, so he'd dug out a pair of smart trousers he barely ever wore and a pair of ancient brogues. Rob himself was dressed in black chinos, a dark blue shirt and tie, and black shoes with a Cuban heel. He had piled on the aftershave, evidently hoping to make a conquest. Mark looked around the room. There were hardly any other men there, so Rob wasn't likely to have much competition. But it made Mark feel more self-conscious than ever. He was going to stick out like a sore thumb.
Rob had no such worries. He swaggered through the room, smiling at the women he knew, and trying to catch the eyes of those he didn't. He nudged Mark.
‘See those women over there,’ he said. ‘Gagging for it. They‘ve been watching us since we came in the room.’
Mark glanced over at the women in question: a slim, dark brunette with a smart bob wearing a sleek black dress, and a rather plumper blonde, dressed in a frumpy skirt and baggy top. She was also quite pretty, and would have probably looked slimmer if she'd been standing up straight. Rob nodded over to them, and then turned back to Mark. ‘Keep 'em keen, that's the trick of it. I've got them interested, and now I'm going to ignore them. They're bound to come running.’
Mark wasn't so sure. The women had gone off into peals of giggles, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being laughed at.
‘Oh, and a word of advice,’ added Rob. ‘If you do start chatting someone up, for God's sake don't tell her you've got kids. She'll run a mile.’
Thinking that the chance of even talking to a woman was about zero, Mark nodded absently. He wished he was anywhere but here.
‘Ooh, I didn't have you down as a dancer,’ a familiar voice squawked in his ear. Mark turned round. A tarty-looking blonde was eyeing him speculatively. Where did he know her from? Working in the same town he lived in meant he was always running into people he vaguely knew, and he could never work out if he had filled their root canal or met them over the fish counter in Sainsbury's.
‘Your Beth looking forward to going to the Isle of Wight?’ Oh. Right. School. Mark delved into the furthest recesses of his brain. She had a son in Beth's year. What was her name?
‘Yes, I think so,’ said Mark politely, though he couldn't remember Sam mentioning the trip.
‘It's about time I made an appointment,’ the woman continued. ‘You'll be telling me off again about the state of my molars.’
Oh bugger. A patient as well.
‘I'm a bit booked up at present,’ said Mark, ‘but give the surgery a ring. Diana may be able to find you a cancellation.’
Mandy Allwick. That was it. A single mum whose predatory nature was renowned. That was all he needed. Maybe he should palm her off on Rob. It would serve him right for getting Mark into this mess.
‘Save a dance for me, Doctor Davies,’ was Mandy's parting shot, as she wandered over to the double doors at the end of the room, where a petite dark-haired woman was sorting people into groups.
Forbearing to mention that he wasn't technically a doctor – calling dentists doctor was a stupid fashion that had come over from America, along with too much litigation – Mark got up and followed Rob into the crowd.
This was going to be a long evening.
‘Tonight, chicos, we will start with the social foxtrot,’ announced Isabella with a smile. ‘For those of you who‘ve come for the first time, it is quite simple and is danced in four/four time. Take your partners – if you are two women one of you will need to learn the man's steps, but remember it is always the man who leads.’
‘That had better be you,’ said Emily to Katie, who was suddenly feeling ridiculously nervous about the whole thing. ‘After all, you've done it before.’
‘For the social foxtrot, you need to learn the cuddle hold,’ continued Isabella. ‘The man places his right arm round the lady, and rests his hand under her right shoulder. The lady puts her left hand on the man's shoulder and holds the man's right hand in her left hand like so.’ She demonstrated with a baby-faced lad who looked nearly young enough to be her son, before going round the room and checking everyone was in the right position.
‘Now, the man leads off first with his left foot, to two beats of music, while the lady steps back with her right. Then the man takes a step to the right, the lady to the left, the man's left foot closes to the right, and the woman's right foot to the left.’
‘I don't think I'll remember a word of that,’ muttered Emily.
‘It's okay,’ said Katie, ‘just follow me.’
Miraculously, mainly thanks to the fact that Katie clearly knew what she was doing, Emily did get it right, and was able to follow the next steps, which involved her stepping forward with her left foot, then stepping to the right, before closing with the left foot.
‘Right, now we put it together,’ announced Isabella with a clap. ‘I will clap out the time and you dance the steps. Slow step forwards, quick to the side, quick and close, slow step backwards, quick to the side, quick and close.’
‘I'll never get the hang of this,’ said Emily, muddling up her lefts and rights and stepping on Katie's toes.
‘Yes you will,’ assured Katie, ‘you just need practice, that's all.’
After twenty minutes, Emily wasn't convinced. Once they'd mastered the basic steps, Isabella had them trying it to music, and then she added in another set of steps which involved turns as well, and Emily got completely lost. Particularly as she'd had to change partners, and none of them bar one were as good as Katie, so she kept getting it wrong. She was sweating profusely and feeling like a total idiot. In her efforts to get it right, she had had her feet stamped on, and done her fair share of feet stamping too. She knew that dancing wasn't her thing, but she'd had no idea how little natural rhythm she actually had, or how hard it was keeping time to the music. That was until she was apprised of the fact in no uncertain terms by a gay dancer, who was training at the local dance school and had only come along to expand his repertoire. His were the only toes she'd trod on deliberately after hearing him mutter ‘bloody amateurs!’ one too many times under his breath.
Eventually the torture ended and Isabella announced it was time for social dancing, ‘So you can put it all together.’ Apparently this meant pairing up with just one other person. Emily looked at Katie, whom she'd been watching gliding around the room with a serenity she felt deeply envious of. Despite her post-baby weight gain, Katie had the natural poise and grace Emily lacked.
‘I'd say I'd partner you,’ she said, ‘but I don't want to be the cause of hospitalising you.’
‘You're not that bad,’ Katie grinned.
‘You know I am,’ answered Emily. ‘So stop being nice. We'll have to find someone else decent for you to dance with.’
‘Ladies, would you care to dance?’ The plumpish bloke from earlier on was pushing his way over, with his good-looking friend.
Katie and Emily looked at each other uncertainly.
‘Please, we don't bite,’ said the good-looking one. ‘Besides, you have to take pity on us. I'm being chased by a raging nymphomaniac, and I need to seek sanctuary.’
Katie laughed. She had been watching Mandy Allwick in hot pursuit of their new companions all evening.
‘Well, if you need rescuing from Mandy, I think we might be able to help,’ she said.
‘Oh, you know her?’ Mark asked.
Katie pulled a face.
‘For my sins.’
Mark was about to chip in with something about Beth being at school with Mandy's son, and then, remembering Rob's strictures, thought better of it.
‘As it's your first time,’ Rob whispered to Mark, ‘I'll give you the pretty one, and I'll have the one with the fat thighs.’
Mark, who thought the not-so-pretty one had seemed rather nice, smiled awkwardly at Emily and said, ‘Shall we?’
‘If you like,’ said Emily. She felt awkward too. The new arrival was even better-looking close up. He had rather soulful eyes, she thought. There was a kind of brooding intensity to him that she found appealing. She felt a brief flickering of interest, which she dismissed instantly. She was here for fun, not to pick up men.
Katie was fuming. She'd overheard Rob's whispered aside, and her poor opinion of him, based soundly as it was from two minutes' observation of his cockiness as he came into the room, had increased a hundredfold. She would have liked to tell him where to get off, but she thought Emily deserved a decent shot at his friend, who seemed altogether nicer.
‘The one with the fat thighs heard you, by the way,’ she said, as Rob took her by the hand and started to quickstep.
‘Oh.’ Rob had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Did I say fat thighs? I meant to say gorgeous eyes.’
‘Of course you did,’ said Katie drily. The cheek of him. He was so sure a pathetic compliment would make up for insulting her. Still, he was so sure of himself, maybe she could have a bit of fun with that …
‘Do you come here often?’ Mark decided that a mocking approach was the best way to deal with the situation. It was so long since he'd asked a woman to dance, and the hour he had spent trying not to trip over people's feet had made him very aware that he was a contender for the most useless dancer in the room. But for the first time since Sam had left he felt the spark of interest in another woman. Mark wasn't sure if it was the determined look that had come across her face while she was listening to Isabella's instructions, or the rather panicky eye rolls that had set in when she had clearly forgotten them again. Or it might have been the way that she pealed with laughter when he stepped on her toes. He was so grateful that she hadn't slapped him.
‘This is my first time,’ she said, laughing again, her whole face lighting up. ‘So be gentle with me.’
‘If you're gentle in return,’ Mark batted back. ‘The name's Mark, by the way.’
‘Emily,’ she replied. ‘You honestly can't be a worse dancer than I am,’ she added, as Mark took hold of her. His hands were sweating, and despite trying to remember Isabella's admonitions about relaxing, he felt stiff and awkward.
‘I don't know about that,’ said Mark as he stepped on her toes once again. ‘Sorry. You see what I mean.’
‘It's okay, really,’ she said, ‘I think we're probably quits on that front.’
‘This is horrible, though, isn't it?’ said Mark, desperately trying to maintain a closed position and keep four/four time. ‘I don't know why I'm here.’
Emily laughed again as she realised that once more they were out of step with each other.
‘Just dance like no one's looking,’ she said, as they both paused for breath.
‘Do you think that will work?’ asked Mark, looking around. ‘I can't help feeling everyone's staring at us.’
‘I'm sure they're not,’ said Emily, ‘but if we dance as if they're not, it doesn't matter, does it?’
‘Dance like no one's looking,’ said Mark. ‘Where have I heard that before?’
‘On Green Wing?’ suggested Emily. ‘That's where I heard it first.’
‘Oh, I love Green Wing,’ Mark replied.
‘Me too,’ said Emily. ‘It's one of those proverb-type things. No one knows who wrote it. It goes like this:
Dance like no one's looking. Love like you've never been hurt.
Work like you don't have to
Live like it's heaven on earth.
* * *
I think that's rather lovely, don't you?’
‘Dancing like no one's looking is probably the best recipe I can think of for getting through this excruciating experience,’ said Mark.
‘Charming,’ she replied.
‘Oh God, that didn't come out right,’ said Mark. ‘It's not all.’
‘It's not all what?’ Emily teased.
‘Excruciating,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, you're not.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ said Emily. She felt secretly flattered. She hadn't come here on the pull, but as they continued their awkward trotting around the room, she reflected that it was nice that someone other than Callum had showed an interest in her. However vague, it was a very welcome boost to her ego. Even if he did keep treading on her toes.
Chapter Five (#ulink_40ea859b-e3f6-5aed-9a09-6701651e21f4)
‘The name's Rob Dylan, by the way,’ Rob said as he expertly led Katie round the room. Irritatingly he seemed to be rather a good dancer, ‘as in Bob's younger, more good-looking brother.’
‘Of course,’ said Katie. ‘I spotted the resemblance instantly.’
Rob was a bit of a revelation actually. Katie's previous experience of dancing lessons had been fun, but had not exactly filled her with confidence about the dancing abilities of the majority of the male of the species. Charlie wasn't bad, but their wedding day was probably the last time they'd danced together. Not only could Rob dance, but he knew how to lead her properly too. Which meant that, rusty as she was, she felt she was actually dancing the foxtrot the way it was meant to be danced. With Rob, she was gliding round the room with perfect confidence. For a few fleeting moments she felt graceful again. She was grateful to him for that at least, even if he was a bit of a twat.
‘I'm Katie Caldwell,’ she said. ‘And I bet your brother doesn't dance as well as you do.’
‘Nah,’ said Rob. ‘But he sings a bit better.’
Katie laughed. Dancing with Rob was turning out to be a lot more fun than she'd expected. Actually, she hadn't laughed so much in ages, she suddenly thought ruefully. When had she and Charlie stopped laughing together?
‘Has anyone told you, you have a lovely smile,’ said Rob, pulling her slightly closer than was strictly necessary.
‘Yes,’ said Katie firmly. ‘You did.’ She had been going to say, ‘my husband’, but then a mischievous desire stopped her. Rob clearly couldn't help himself. He was a serial flirt who thought he was God's gift to women. He really needed nipping in the bud instantly, but it wouldn't hurt to string him along a little bit. Just for fun.
‘So I did,’ said Rob. ‘And did I mention your gorgeous eyes?’
‘Hmm, I seem to remember you mentioning my thighs,’ said Katie. What was this guy like? He couldn't seriously be thinking she'd have forgotten his earlier comments.
For a minute, Rob looked slightly nonplussed, but he recovered himself well.
‘That was before I had stared into your gorgeous eyes,’ he said, kissing her hand gallantly as the dance came to an end.
‘Yes, that'll be it,’ Katie said, with only the barest hint of sarcasm.
People were milling about chatting together, or heading for the pub next door. It was really time she got going. Katie wasn't used to staying out late midweek, and with Charlie away it was harder than normal to get herself out of bed in the morning and organise the kids. She needed an early night.
‘You're coming next door for a drink.’ It was a statement, not a question. Rob was steering Katie towards the door in a rather well-practised fashion. Despite herself, she couldn't help admiring his ridiculous self-confidence.
‘I don't think so,’ said Katie. ‘I really have to get on.’
‘Oh yes you are,’ said Rob, ‘you just don't know it yet. Expect the unexpected. That's my motto.’
‘Well, how's this for unexpected?’ said Katie. ‘A woman saying no to you.’
‘I wasn't chatting you up,’ said Rob.
‘You so were,’ said Katie. ‘And I'm not the slightest bit interested.’
‘Don't flatter yourself, darling,’ Rob replied. ‘You're not my type.’
‘And what's your type then?’ Katie was furious. Which was ridiculous. Why should she care what he thought of her?
‘Thin,’ was the hurtful rejoinder.
Katie stood with her mouth open. The cheek of him.
‘Well, you're hardly likely to win Mr Universe, are you?’
They glared at each other for a second.
‘Are you coming next door for a drink?’ Mark and Emily came up. Emily looked flushed and pretty. Her slimness accentuated Katie's curves. Katie wasn't normally the jealous type, but suddenly, next to Emily, she felt like a walrus.
‘No, I don't think I am,’ said Katie. ‘It's time I was off.’
‘Me too,’ said Emily. ‘I've got an early start in the morning.’
‘Will we see you ladies here again next week?’ Rob asked.
It was all Katie and Emily could do to keep straight faces. He was so ridiculously pompous. Despite her irritation, Katie realised it was hard to stay cross with someone who was clearly so deluded about his charms.
‘Maybe,’ said Katie. ‘We'll have to see.’
‘So you're not dancing again?’ It was clear from the look on his face that this was not the answer Rob was expecting. He looked like a disappointed spaniel.
‘Depends who's asking,’ said Katie in an outrageously flirty, mischievous manner, before she and Emily made a bolt for it, laughing like demons.
‘I think that went well,’ said Rob, watching them go.
‘And you've worked that out how?’ said Mark. ‘They‘ve both just left. And they were laughing at us.’
‘Sure sign they fancy us. Besides, you know my motto,’ said Rob, touching his nose with a conspiratorial grin. ‘Expect the unexpected. Don't you worry, they'll be back. Like I said, they're gagging for it. I can tell.’
* * *
‘How dare he!’ Katie was still apparently brooding on Rob's words about her weight the next day when Emily rang her to see if she'd calmed down yet. ‘I mean, obviously I don't care what that idiot Rob thinks, but – first Charlie told me I'd put on weight and now that prat says I've got fat thighs. I must be enormous.’
Emily made soothing noises down the phone while glancing anxiously at her watch. She had a mountain of stuff to shift before the end of the day, and having rung her soap star and discovered what she'd actually said about the black girl she was meant to be sharing a room with on Love Shack was somewhat worse than even the papers had inferred, Emily had a feeling she might be up all night sorting out the mess. She really didn't have time for a long chat. But Katie always listened to her troubles, so it seemed mean not to do the same. The problem was, Katie had spent so long at home, she'd forgotten what it was like to be in a busy workplace and not have time to make personal calls. Emily looked across the corridor at her boss's office. In a moment, she felt sure that Mel would be on her like a ton of bricks for chatting during office time.
‘Liar,’ said Katie. ‘Thanks for humouring your best friend. I do know I have to lose some weight. But it's not as if he's God's gift, is it?’
‘Hardly,’ said Emily.
‘Mind you, his friend was nice,’ said Katie. ‘You looked very cosy together.’
‘We were not, as you put it, cosy,’ said Emily. ‘Besides, I've got Callum. Why would I look elsewhere?’
‘Why indeed?’ said Katie with just the barest hint of irony.
‘Oh shut up,’ said Emily. ‘Look, I've got to go, Mel is exiting her office and heading my way. So the burning questions is: are we going again next week?’
‘I'll let you know,’ said Katie, and put the phone down.
Katie stared out of the window at her neatly ordered garden. Why had she let Rob get under her skin? Was it because he'd said the same thing as Charlie had about her weight? Or was there something more to it? She shook her head. Thinking about it was a waste of energy. She had a house to clean, a baby to feed, children to pick up from school and dinner to cook. Besides, Charlie was going to be home on Friday, which gave her the perfect opportunity to have a romantic evening in with him. Time she got on and started planning it properly.
Rob wound up his Year Ten lesson on Hitler. Sometimes it felt like the only subject he taught was the Second World War. A whole generation of children were growing up to whom history simply meant the Tudors and Hitler. Oh, and the slave trade. It made him despair.
‘Got a hot date tonight, sir?’ Matt Sadler, one of Rob's more irritating students, piped up in the kerfuffle that followed the end of the lesson.
‘None of your business,’ said Rob, picking up his books.
‘Ooh, are you sure?’ Matt was one of those who just wouldn't leave it alone. He nudged one of his mates and whispered something they both clearly found funny. ‘Only my mate's sister fancies you.’
‘Well she's clearly a woman of taste,’ said Rob, resisting the urge to throw a piece of chalk at him. When Rob had been at school, that's what his Maths teacher, Mr Coombs, would have done. But in these more touchy-feely times, should Rob even contemplate doing something that might cause a moment's misery to one of his charges, he'd end up explaining himself before some snotty tribunal. So instead he swept out of the classroom, ignoring the wolf-whistles and giggles that followed his departure.
Rob shivered. However irritating the likes of Matt Sadler might be, he would never dream of actually throwing the chalk. In the old days, the days when he was a student teacher and he and Suzie had been together, he would have been much more reckless. But that was then and this was now.
Suzie. He hadn't thought about her in years. Maybe Mark was right. That Levellers song in the pub the other night – “Fifteen Years”, wasn't it? – should be their theme tune. He was going to end up a sad, lonely old drunk, sobbing into his pint.
Rob entered the staffroom feeling a bit odd. He wasn't normally this introspective, what had got into him this morning? What he needed was half an hour's sit down and a cup of coffee. He was actually gasping for a fag, but the whole school was now a smoke-free zone. Soon he'd be joining his Year Eights behind the bike sheds.
Rob made himself a coffee and sat down in an uncomfortable ancient chair shoved in the corner of the staffroom. Thanks to Matt he was too late to join in with the conversations already in progress. Not that he felt much like chatting with the twittering women who ran Modern Languages and spent most of their breaks moaning about how unfair it was that the PE department were always trying to muscle in on their lesson time. And he'd had one too many conversations about the latest views on the Big Bang theory with Andy Peacock, head of Physics, just recently.
In the good old days, when he'd first started teaching, you wouldn't have been able to see from one end of the room to the other through the fug of smoke. Now, of course, the diehards like him were among the two per cent of the population made to feel like pariahs.
He leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. Katie's face floated in front of him. How odd was that? Why was he thinking about her? Her and her fat thighs. He tried to dismiss her from his thoughts, but Katie's face stubbornly refused to go away. Then it came to him.
Katie reminded him of Suzie. Granted, Katie was much plumper, but there was something about her that was so like Suzie it made him wince. Perhaps it was her fair hair – or her petite form. Maybe it was that bright, joyous laugh. Suzie had laughed like that. She had been full of fun and life and joie de vivre. Until that day. Then all the light and love had gone out of her. Gone out of them. Rob tried not to think about all that any more. But damn it, Katie had brought it back.
This would never do. Rob picked up a Guardian someone had left lying around. It wasn't like him to be so anal. And it didn't get him anywhere. Besides, he'd left all that stuff behind a long time ago. He turned to the crossword and had a go at that instead. Much better than dwelling on the past.
Mark was whistling as he entered the surgery that morning.
‘You're cheerful today,’ Diana greeted him.
Ah, good. That made the morning even better. If Diana was here it was much more likely that things would go smoothly for a change.
‘Yes, I am rather,’ said Mark. It was an odd feeling, to be this cheerful. He had spent so many months embroiled in gloom, it was a refreshing change. And one he could only put down to one thing.
Emily.
Mark had thought of nothing else all night long. He hadn't enjoyed being in the company of any women since Sam had left him. And now, suddenly, here was one who had made him sit up and take notice.
It wasn't that he fancied her exactly. Although she did have, as Rob would have put it, All That. But more than that, they had had a laugh. And they had seemed to find common ground really quickly. The time he had spent with her had been all too brief. He hoped that she'd be going along next week.
He had a quick look at his day list, where he could see three root treatments, endless amounts of drilling and filling, a bridge to repair and Granny O'Leary to boot. It would have normally sent him into the doldrums. But not today. He was in too much of a good mood. And thankfully, there was no sign of Jasmine.
‘Have we heard any more about Jasmine's complaint?’ Mark asked Diana at lunchtime.
‘Not a dicky bird,’ said Diana.
‘Perhaps I should ring her?’ Mark asked, not really relishing the task.
‘Oh, you know what Jasmine's like,’ said Diana, 'she'll be on to the next thing soon and it will all be forgotten. Particularly when she's in pain again.’
‘Good,’ said Mark. Diana was right. It would doubtless blow over.
As usual, he barely had time to pause for breath, and by the end of the day three cups of cold coffee were lined up on the side. It was only as he got into his car to go home that he allowed himself to think about Emily again. She was the most attractive woman he'd met since he'd been single and he didn't even know her surname. Or where she lived. Or her phone number.
There was no help for it: he was going to have to go dancing again.
Emily was coming to the end of a long day and feeling absolutely exhausted. She had enjoyed the previous evening much more than she would have thought possible. And it hadn't actually mattered that much that she was crap at dancing. Mark had been equally crap. And she had enjoyed dancing crappily with him. It had been fun. Plus he had been, well, so gentlemanly and attentive. She wasn't used to that after Callum.
She paused from filing away some case notes. Callum versus Mark. Callum was gorgeous, of course. And made her feel gorgeous. He was sexy. He made her feel sexy. He was dangerous, which gave him that edge.
Mark, on the other hand, didn't seem the dangerous type. He seemed sweet and kind and thoughtful. Could she do sweet and kind and thoughtful, after mad, bad and dangerous to know?
Emily laughed out loud. Listen to her. She'd spent, ooh, half an hour in the presence of a very attractive man, and already she was lining him up against Callum. She was being ridiculous. As if he was even interested.
The phone on her desk rang.
‘Someone to see you down here,’ drawled the bored-sounding receptionist.
Emily frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone.
Oh God, no. As she approached the front desk she vaguely remembered Callum had had a big pitch on today. Please don't let him be here and be drunk.
‘Hey babe,’ he said. ‘Am I the dog's bollocks or what?’
‘What, I think,’ said Emily, squirming under the gaze of the supercilious receptionist.
‘I just won the shittest, hottest pitch in town. You are looking at the new account handler of Smile, Please! I am the man. ‘Callum raised his hands above his head and practically beat his chest.
‘Callum,’ hissed Emily. ‘I'm at work.’
‘I just wanted to see you, babe,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette.
‘This is a non-smoking office,’ said John Turnbull, one of Emily's more likeable colleagues, who'd just walked in.
‘Sweets for my sweet,’ said Callum, ignoring him and proffering a rather squashed box of chocolates.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Emily. ‘But can you just leave now. I've got stuff to do.’
‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ Callum pleaded with her. For once it had no effect. She was furious. How dare he show her up here? How dare he?
‘Callum, I'll be any way I like,’ she said, her manner cold and stiff. ‘Now just go, please.’
‘Do you want any help escorting this waste of space off the premises?’ said John.
‘No, it's all right,’ said Emily. ‘Callum's just leaving, aren't you?’
Something of the coldness of her tone seemed to have pierced through Callum's skull because he shambled off with his cans of Stella. Jeez, he stank like a brewery.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Emily, shamefaced.
‘No problem,’ said John, ‘but you're hot to trot, and he's a wanker. What on earth is a babe like you doing with a twat like that?’
What indeed, thought Emily, as she made her way back upstairs. What indeed … ?
Chapter Six (#ulink_ab88679c-33b4-5721-9ead-6d3622981e8a)
‘You're going away again?’ Katie sat and faced her husband across the table, laid with her white damask cloth, their Royal Doulton blue and white wedding china, their poshest Sheffield steel cutlery, a vase full of freesias and daffodils and two scented candles.
‘Needs must,’ said Charlie, tucking into the steak Diane that Katie had lovingly prepared. ‘This is jolly good, by the way. I have to go. The takeover is turning out to be trickier than we thought. In fact,’ he paused, as if uncertain as to what to say next, ‘you may not like this, but there's a distinct possibility that I might have to be permanently in Amsterdam for a while.’
‘No!’ Katie put down the glass of Chablis she was sipping and stared at her husband in dismay.
‘I'm afraid so,’ said Charlie. ‘So we'd better start looking for schools and things.’
‘Woah!’ Katie stood up and looked at him. ‘Charlie, one thing at a time. When you say you have to be there for a while, how long is a while?’
‘Six months – a year tops,’ said Charlie.
‘Don't you think,’ Katie tried to choose her words carefully, knowing how capable Charlie was of twisting them, ‘you might be jumping the gun a bit? We can't just pull the kids out of school. It will be so disruptive for them. When are you going?’
Besides, a little voice was hammering insistently in her brain, we tried living abroad as a family before, and it was a disaster. And you promised …
Charlie had relocated once before, in his previous job, and Katie had had to leave the job where she had met and made friends with Emily. She probably would have done so eventually anyway as she had found it increasingly difficult to manage a career and two young children, but having the decision forced on her hadn't helped. Katie had gone on to spend a miserable year in Frankfurt with a five-year-old and a toddler. She didn't speak the language, had no social network and found the other English wives dreary beyond belief. When he'd seen how unhappy it had made her, Charlie had switched jobs and sworn he'd never put her through that again.
‘Oh, I didn't think of that,’ admitted Charlie.
‘No, you never do.’ Shock and disappointment – that her romantic evening was being tainted by the prospect of changes that could only make her home life worse – made Katie's response more acidic than she'd intended.
‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Charlie looked belligerent.
‘That you only think of what you need and want, and forget about the rest of us.’
‘Don't be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I work the hours I do, if not for the family?’
Great. He'd done it again. He could always get her there. Charlie had always worked incredibly hard for them. Now Katie felt guilty. But she was still angry. How dare he just waltz in and assume they would all up sticks without a by-your-leave?
‘I know,’ said Katie, ‘but I don't want to live abroad again. It was bad enough last time, and now we‘ve got three kids. It's okay for Molly, she won't know the difference. But the boys have all their friends here. You can't expect them to uproot themselves.’
Charlie seemed to take a step back.
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘I don't know,’ said Katie. ‘Why not try commuting? you've been away more than you've been home recently anyway. And if it's not for long, I'm sure I can manage here.’
‘I'll think about it,’ shrugged Charlie. ‘It's not definite yet anyway.’
‘Oh good,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’ But later, as she followed Charlie into the lounge and cuddled up with him to watch TV, she couldn't help dwelling on it. Neither choice was a great one. And Charlie didn't really seem as bothered as he ought to be about spending the week away from her …
‘Dad, can we have Domino's tonight?’
Beth put on her special pleading look, but Mark was having none of it.
‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not tonight. Your mum will kill me if I give you a takeaway again.’
‘Aw, that's so unfair,’ said Beth, with a pretend pout. With her long fair curls and dimples, even at ten she was still able to make a bid for cutest kid on the block.
‘Yup,’ said Mark. ‘But then so is life. Get used to it.’
Sam was always on at him to feed the kids healthily. Mark wasn't a brilliant cook, but he could rustle up spaghetti bolognaise or roast chicken (the kids' favourite) when he had to. And of late, he'd noticed that Rob's bad influence of late-night beers and takeaways were having a rather disastrous effect on his waistline. In order to make amends, Mark had bought a low-GI diet book and was busy trying to find out what constituted low-GI food. White bread, which he loved, alas did not. While rye bread, which he hated, did. One day someone would invent something that was good for him which he'd actually like …
The middle-age spread had come as a shock. Throughout his twenties, Mark had taken it for granted that he would retain his lean, rangy shape without too much difficulty. But when Sam had left him he hadn't bargained for the downward spiral of depression that would follow; a downward spiral which inevitably sent him and Rob to the curry house late at night. Mark was at least grateful that he hadn't started smoking again, though the temptation had been great at times.
Recently he had made more of an effort to get to the gym or to go for the occasional run. He'd never get another woman interested in him if he looked too porky. Not that that seemed to stop Rob, but if Mark was sure of one thing, it was that he didn't want to end up like Rob. And somehow, he intuitively felt, Emily wasn't the sort of person who would want him to be either.
‘How about I make us a stir fry?’ Mark had discovered from his GI reading that this was apparently Good For Him, and Rob, who was a bit of a foodie, had moved in with a wok, so it couldn't be too hard.
‘Can we have sweet and sour?’ Gemma had mooched in from the room she shared with Beth.
‘I think there's some in the cupboard,’ said Mark. He had done a big shop the previous day, knowing that the kids were coming for the weekend. He loved having them and hated being apart from them. Something people often didn't understand. Oh well, they'd say, at least your time is your own now. Or, you've got your freedom back, nudge, nudge, wink, wink – the implication being, You dirty old dog you, why not go and play the field?
But playing the field wasn't as easy as all that. For a start, until meeting Emily, Mark hadn't had the slightest inclination to do so; but also, what people – even women – failed to understand was that Mark came as a package. It wasn't only him, it was his kids too. Love me, love my children. Not all the women you met were likely to want to do that. Mark wondered whether Emily would. He'd gone along with Rob's strictures not to mention the children, but it had felt a bit odd.
‘Here it is.’ Gemma passed over the jar. She hoisted herself onto the worktop. ‘Da-ad,’ she began in a wheedling tone Mark knew all too well.
‘Whatever it is, I'm going to say no,’ said Mark firmly as he cut up some peppers.
‘But Da-ad. You don't know what it is yet!’
‘Okay, what is it?’ Mark turned the heat on and put the wok over the gas.
‘Shelly's-invited-me-to-the-park-and-sleepover-tomorrow-night.’ The words came out in a nervous gabble. Clearly rehearsed, and desperate to get his assent.
‘Who's Shelly again?’
‘You know. Shelly. The one who does dancing with me.’
Oh. That Shelly. The one with the tattoo. And the ring through her nose. And the one who Mark suspected had persuaded Gemma to smoke on at least one occasion.
‘I don't think so, Gemma, do you?’ Mark chucked the vege tables into the wok.
‘Oh Da-a-ad,’ said Gemma. ‘Why not?’
‘Because I don't want you hanging round the park after school,’ said Mark with half an eye on the recipe. He had found a sachet of black bean sauce in the cupboard and tore it open with his teeth.
‘But why can't I go to Shelly's?’
‘Because I say so.’ Mark hated himself the minute the words came out. He'd always sworn he wouldn't use that one on his kids. How parenthood makes hypocrites of us all, he thought. At least he hadn't done the one thing guaranteed to make sure she would stick to Shelly like a limpet, namely let Gemma know just how much he disapproved of her friend. ‘Besides, it's a school night.’
‘So?’ Gemma wasn't going to give up that easily.
‘So don't you have homework or something?’
Mark had chucked the sauce into the pan and turned the flame up a little – the stir fry didn't seem to be frying quite as quickly as it should.
‘Homework sucks,’ said Gemma sulkily.
Mark turned away to face her.
‘So does going to work, but I still have to do it,’ he said. Suddenly he was aware of the smell of burning. He turned round to see the pan had caught fire. ‘Holy shit!’ Mark turned the heat off and grabbed a lid to smother the flames, while simultaneously soothing Beth who had started to scream.
‘But Da-ad –’
‘Not now, Gemma.’ Mark surveyed the charred content of the pan. Apparently stir fry was much harder than he'd imagined.
‘You are so unfair!’ Gemma stomped off to her room. It was only the third time she'd performed that trick that evening. ‘Yup,’ said Mark.
‘What's up with Wednesday now?’ Rob wandered in from the shower, rubbing a towel on his head. He'd christened Gemma ‘Wednesday Addams’ the first time she'd dyed her hair black. And, realising how much it annoyed her, he'd kept it up.
‘Oh, the usual. I'm the meanest dad in the world for not letting her out with her mates.’ Mark was scraping the remnants of his stir fry into the bin.
‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Rob. ‘Burn the house down?’
‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Mark. ‘Domino's anyone?’
Emily sipped her drink, stared around the glitzy nightclub and sighed. The tubthumping music blaring out from DJ Rappa, The Sugar Daddy, who, despite the moniker, was actually a former accountant called Tim Seiver, was giving her a major headache.
Jeez. She was too old for this. But it was the sort of happening place that Callum liked. Though she still hadn't figured out how he'd managed to persuade her to come here after the whole work debacle. Somehow he'd sweet-talked her into it, and a late night at her desk for the third night running hadn't been immensely appealing. So here she was.
Emily leaned her head against the wall. It was cool and felt like a haven in this dark maelstrom of sweating bodies and flashing lights. Once she'd have thought it was the height of cool to be here. She'd have been wowed by the bright city-lights appeal of it all; impressed by the zedlebs all crowding over each other in a desperate attempt to behave in a sufficiently outrageous manner to merit a picture in Heat magazine.
Once.
Now she wondered what had happened to her. When she had become a lawyer, Emily had been fired up with youthful idealism inspired by what had happened to her dad. He had never got the compensation owing to him after the accident, thanks to the fat cats who always covered their lardy arses. She would make up for that, and fight for all the little people: the ones like Dad who sat for years living a kind of half life breathing the shallow breaths of someone infected with asbestosis. An old man before his time. He'd been so proud of her when she'd told him.
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Oh God, no, not here. She still wasn't used to these overwhelming surges of grief that took her when she was least expecting them. They seemed to come at any moment, unannounced, like a huge shock wave, each one larger than the last. Would she ever get used to the fact that he wasn't here any more? She wondered if he had been disappointed in her. He'd never said if he was, but she wouldn't have blamed him. The idealistic Emily her dad had loved had turned into a shallow narcissistic creature, seduced by the false glamour of a fake lifestyle and ropey job. How had she let that happen?
‘You are such a loser!’ Jasmine Symonds came storming past with Twinkletoes Tone.
Tony looked, as ever, like a rat caught in a run.
‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ he whined. ‘You know I love you.’
‘Aw, do you?’ said Jasmine. ‘Well, I don't love you. It is so over.’ She threw the contents of her bottle of Bacardi Breezer over his head, to the cheers of several bystanders. A couple of cameras flashed and Jasmine paused to pose – no doubt the whole scene would be being written about in next week's issue of Heat. Emily sighed. How had she ended up in this facile world? How?
‘What you staring at?’ Jasmine looked at her belligerently, and Emily quickly looked away. God, that woman was foul. Why on earth were so many people interested in her antics? Seeing she wasn't likely to get the fight she was clearly looking for, and to Emily's considerable relief, Jasmine turned round and disappeared into the crowd.
‘Ready to dance, babe?’ Callum came swaying up to her, no doubt stoked up after a visit to the gents. He was hyped and ready to keep partying all night. And she wasn't. With a moment of utter clarity, Emily knew that if she stayed with Callum for a hundred years, nothing was ever going to change. But she could take control of her life. She'd start here and now.
‘No, actually,’ said Emily, ‘I'm a bit knackered. I've got an early start tomorrow. I'm going to make a move.’
‘Oh.’ Callum put on his little-boy-lost face. Once she'd have thought that endearing. Tonight it just irritated her. ‘Please stay, pretty please.’
‘Sorry, Callum,’ said Emily, thrilled with the sudden realisation that, after all, this was going to be easy. She should have done it months ago. ‘I've got to go.’
‘Ring me,’ he said, trying to give her a kiss on the mouth.
She brushed him aside. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Callum, but it's over. I won't be ringing you again.’
He looked gratifyingly open-mouthed at this news, but he didn't try to stop her from leaving. Instead, he shrugged and turned back towards the heaving crowd. No doubt by the end of the evening there would be a replacement. Emily made her way to the door, with an ever lighter heart. This really was the way the world ended, then, with not a bang, but the merest of whimpers. But even whimpers could feel great …
‘So you've finally dumped Callum?’
Katie had persuaded Emily to join her in the park on Saturday afternoon. It was a dull grey day, and with Charlie in Amsterdam, doing whatever he did to make sure that mergers happened and financial strategies were sorted, Katie didn't fancy being on her own and was feeling rather gloomy. Not that she would ever admit that to Emily. Katie had always found it hard to confide in people, even her closest friend.
If she were more suspicious, Katie might think Charlie was having an affair. But this was Charlie, Mr Ultra Conservative. He was so uptight and rigid in his views; he would never do anything to sully the reputation of the Caldwell Clan – or at least nothing to offend his domineering mother. Sometimes, Katie thought wistfully, he seemed more in awe and worried about his mother's feelings than he did about hers. But then Marilyn Caldwell was a formidable woman, and the whole family seemed to kowtow to her.
‘Yup,’ said Emily. ‘I suddenly thought: what am I doing with my life? What am I doing with him? And I don't know. I just had the strongest feeling that my dad wouldn't have liked him. And suddenly I couldn't go on with it. Does that sound a bit weird? When Dad was alive I never thought twice about whether or not he liked my boyfriends.’
‘No,’ said Katie. ‘Not weird at all. Grief does funny things to us sometimes. Either we see more clearly, or we don't see things at all. I think what's happened to you in the last few months has just woken you up to the fact that Callum was a complete tosser.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Emily. ‘So glad to know you hold my boyfriends in such high esteem.’
‘Only that one,’ said Katie. ‘And if you go out with him again, I promise to be a good girly friend and say of course it was completely wrong of me to call him a tosser.’
Aidan ran up at that moment, claiming that George had kicked him, so Katie decided maybe now was a good time to go home.
‘Will you stay for a drink?’ she asked, hoping she didn't sound too desperate for company.
‘I'd love to,’ said Emily. ‘After all, I haven't got anything else on. We could have a really girly evening and watch Fame to get us in the mood for next week if you like.’
‘So we're going again, next week?’ While Katie had found Rob irritating, it had been so nice to go dancing again, but she had been unsure as to whether Emily wanted to repeat the experiment. But if she did then sod Charlie. If he could go swanning about in Europe, she didn't see why she had to live like a Wall Street widow.
‘Of course,’ said Emily. ‘I'm a free agent now, remember. And I think Mark deserves another look, don't you?’
Chapter Seven (#ulink_7c35a57a-41d1-51b2-838e-d25740fd2282)
Emily stood nervously in the corner of the studio. As had happened the previous week, people seemed to be just grabbing partners and dancing. The music was Latin American, and the dancers seemed to be doing what she presumed was the rumba. She envied the relaxed way they all seemed to move their hips with such fluid, slinky ease, but, watching one couple getting incredibly intimate, she wondered if she would ever even have the nerve to dance like that in public, even if she did master the steps.
However, no one had yet asked her to dance. Which was probably just as well, as although she was watching the fancy footwork of some of the more experienced dancers with fascination, she couldn't image ever being able to do it herself. Oh God … why on earth was she here?
She should have wimped out the minute that Katie rang up to cancel – Molly had been struck down by a tummy bug, apparently. Emily had been treated to a blow-by-blow account of every bowel evacuation that poor little Molly had had over the last twenty-four hours. She loved Katie dearly, but really. Sometimes you could have too much information.
Much as she envied Katie her family life, here was one reason she was immensely glad not to be shacked up with kids. Especially not with Cheerful Charlie. Emily had never warmed to him. He was pleasant enough, charming even, but there was something she couldn't quite put her finger on – it was as though he was only ever partly involved in his family. But as Katie always seemed so content, and claimed that her life was perfect in every way, Emily had always assumed that theirs was a happy marriage. So what if Charlie wasn't her cup of tea? If he ticked Katie's boxes, that was enough for her.
Emily frowned. Katie, who was the most repressed person she had ever met, would never ever admit that things weren't right, but Emily couldn't help feeling something was wrong. Katie had barely mentioned Charlie the last time they'd met, and the few times Emily saw them together Charlie seemed incredibly distant. In the meantime, Katie was developing a weird kind of cleaning fetish. Emily blamed Anthea Turner, whom Katie had actually started quoting as if she was Shakespeare.
‘Penny for ‘em?’ Emily looked up and was surprised and pleased to see Mark standing next to her. ‘Just wondering what I'm doing here, again,’ she said. A warm glow suffused her. How stupid. She barely knew Mark. ‘Me too,’ said Mark. ‘Rob was busy tonight. I wasn't going to come, but …’
There was a lot left in that but. Was it a but that said, I just thought it would be fun? Or a but that said, I wanted to see you again? Or maybe it was just a but that meant nothing at all. Poor little but, thought Emily, so very lonely …
‘I'm sorry?’ Mark looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’
Oh bloody hell, Emily must have let that last bit slip out loud.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she gabbled. ‘Sometimes I have weird random thoughts. And sometimes in a weird random way they flow from my mouth, without me realising it. I think it's because I live on my own.’
‘Oh,’ said Mark. He looked around. ‘Your friend not with you today?’
‘Nope,’ said Emily. She had been about to mention Molly being ill, but as Katie had been adamant she didn't want to give anything away about her private life, she said instead, ‘She was busy this week.’
‘But you came anyway?’ That flash of a smile, utterly dazzling, had a rather unsettling effect on Emily.
‘Oh, you know. I thought since I was so good last week, I'd come and show them all how it's done.’
‘Me too,’ agreed Mark.
‘Actually,’ confessed Emily, ‘I didn't have anything else much on, so I thought, oh bloody hell, why not? What's the worst that can happen?’
‘Dancing with me?’ Mark was only semi-serious.
‘You're on then,’ said Emily. ‘And I really will try not to step on your toes this time …’
‘How does it go again?’ Mark said as he tried and failed to perfect the open hold that Isabella had shown them earlier. Sweat was dripping off him, and his hands were clammy as hell. Hardly a way to get Emily to take the right kind of notice of him.
‘Well, I think you're supposed to step forwards, while swinging your hips, while I step backwards,’ said Emily, ‘and then we're supposed to sway slightly and transfer our weight onto the other foot or something. Oh, and I think you need to hold your hand up higher.’
‘I thought I'd got that wrong,’ said Mark. ‘Shall we stop and watch what everyone else is doing?’
‘Perhaps we'd better,’ said Emily, and they stood trying not to giggle as they watched the rest of the class sashaying round the floor to the Cuban music that was playing in the background.
‘I have to say, it does get your toes tapping,’ said Emily, unable to stop herself from swaying in time to the music, ‘even if I can't go in step. Shall we have another go?’
‘If we must,’ said Mark. ‘Okay, so it goes, one, two, step forward, three, transfer weight, four; one, step side, two, step back, three, transfer weight, four, step forward. Hey, I think we did it!’
Growing in confidence now, and by dint of watching their neighbours who seemed to be really in the swing, eventually Emily and Mark found themselves making a reasonable fist of the steps Isabella had shown them. Emboldened by their efforts, Mark decided to really push the boat out and attempted to fling Emily to one side as he had seen other people doing. Unfortunately, in doing so, her foot got entangled around his heel, and before he knew it the pair of them had tumbled unceremoniously to the floor.
‘I don't think that's how it's meant to go,’ said Mark ruefully.
‘Me neither,’ said Emily. ‘I think someone is telling us something.’
‘Like why don't we go next door for a pint?’ said Mark with a cheeky grin.
‘I thought you'd never ask,’ said Emily.
It seemed an entirely natural thing to do until they actually got into the pub. It was only when they were facing each other over a pint that there was a sudden awkward silence.
‘So what do you do when you're not picking up strange women at dance classes?’ Emily broke the ice first.
Mark pulled a face. He hated telling people what he did for a living. Nine times out of ten they felt obliged to tell him all about their abscess, or their granny's dentures. ‘I am that incredibly rare beast, an NHS dentist,’ he said. ‘And you?’
‘Well –’ said Emily. She felt the need to prevaricate. She wasn't quite sure why, but suddenly she felt rather ashamed of what she did for a living.
‘I hope you're not going to say you're a lawyer,’ Mark added. ‘I can't stand them.’
‘Oh, why not?’
‘My wife ran off with one,’ said Mark.
‘You're married?’ Emily looked disappointed.
‘Divorced,’ said Mark. ‘She went off with the lawyer, and I didn't see much point in contesting it.’
‘And you've not found anyone else?’ Emily was determined to steer the conversation away from the subject of lawyers at all costs.
‘Not yet,’ said Mark. Again that dazzling smile. He paused briefly and then said, ‘what about you? No significant other in your life?’
‘Not any more,’ said Emily, looking down.
‘And no kids, I presume?’ Mark was feeling his way. Perhaps if he could steer the conversation around to children, he could let slip he had a couple himself.
‘Oh God, no,’ said Emily. ‘Why on earth would I want children? I've watched too many of my girlfriends turn from bright, intelligent women into poor demented creatures whose only topic of conversation is the content of their child's nappies. And then they expect you to be as entranced by their puking, shitting, squealing little bundles as they are. Children utterly ruin your life. Who in their right mind would ever want them?’
‘Who indeed?’ said Mark faintly. That put paid to that then. There was no way he could mention Gemma and Beth now. He scrambled around frantically for something else to say.
‘So, you like Green Wing?’ he said pathetically.
‘I sooo love that programme,’ said Emily, ‘the scene where Statham kills the dwarf …’
‘… is brilliant,’ agreed Mark.
‘I missed quite a bit of it, unfortunately,’ Emily said, thinking back to all those nights when she'd been out aimlessly partying, or stuck at her desk trying to see an important deal through, and wondered why she hadn't been home more.
‘Me too,’ said Mark, thinking back to the days when he'd been so busy keeping Sam sweet that he'd had to watch all the crap she liked, which included drivel like I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here and Big Brother. Love Shack, which had shot Jasmine to fame, had been on at the same time as the first series of Green Wing, so he'd pretty much missed the lot.
‘I've just bought series one on DVD. I could lend it to you if you like.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Emily. ‘I might never give them back. In fact, faced with the opportunity of being able to watch Julian Rhind-Tutt forever, I'll definitely never give them back.’
‘Nope. I can't let you do that,’ said Mark. ‘In that case, we'll have to go for a full-on Green Wing fest at my place.’
‘Oh.’ Emily was slightly taken aback.
‘There's nothing behind that,’ said Mark hurriedly. ‘I mean, it's just watching a DVD and having a beer if you want. Nothing more.’
‘Of course,’ said Emily, ‘I never thought for a moment it was.’ She ignored the voice in her head shouting Liar! at a thousand decibels.
‘Good,’ said Mark. ‘Then that's settled. What are you up to at the weekend?’
Emily thought ahead. Without Callum to distract her, or some big do of Ffion's to attend, the time stretched out before her without end. A weekend watching Green Wing with Mark – especially with Mark – might be just the thing.
‘Nothing much,’ she said.
‘Good,’ said Mark. It was Sam's weekend with the kids. ‘How about we kick off around two, then if you have something more exciting to do later, you'll still have time.’
‘Sounds great,’ Emily said. She lifted her glass. ‘To dancing like no one's looking.’
‘I thought you'd lost the plot when you started colour-coding my socks, but you're hoovering now?’
Charlie stood incredulously in the doorway with his suitcase. He was flying to Amsterdam that morning and seemed very bad-tempered about it. Katie had been up since five with the baby, and had decided, once Molly had finally gone back to sleep, that she might as well get the lounge cleaned while she was up. There would be precious little time later once the full onslaught of the day hit. But she hadn't factored in Charlie's bad temper, or thought very much about the fact that their bedroom was above the lounge.
‘Sorry,’ said Katie, feeling simultaneous twinges of guilt and resentment – her rejoinders of if you were here more, if you helped out more, were immediately cancelled out by, who would pay for the house? One of her mum's tricks had been to nag and nag and nag at her dad. Katie had always sworn she would never do that.
‘Do you want a coffee before you go?’ Katie asked, going for placation.
Charlie glanced at his watch.
‘It's okay, the taxi will be here in a minute. I'll grab one at the airport.’
‘Have you said goodbye to the boys?’
‘They're still asleep.’ Charlie was fiddling with a fridge magnet that bore the legend: Hysteria is a state of mind. It has nothing to do with my womb. He seemed very restless for some reason, and fidgety. Katie was feeling more than a little irritated. His evident annoyance at her cleaning had stopped her doing it, but now he wouldn't even sit down and talk to her. It was almost as though he couldn't look her in the eye.
‘You got ants in your pants?’ Katie enquired.
‘Why would you say that?’ Charlie looked like a startled rabbit caught in headlights.
‘Because you've been pacing up and down the kitchen for the last five minutes. Are you sure you don't want a coffee?’
‘Have I?’ Charlie said. ‘Sorry. I'm a bit distracted. What with this deal and everything.’
‘Of course,’ said Katie. It was understandable that he should be feeling wound up. She went over and gave him a hug. ‘It will be all right,’ she said.
‘I don't deserve you,’ he replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek.
Charlie continued to wander restlessly round the kitchen, picking up bits of paper and idly sifting through them, clicking a pen off and on incessantly. It was almost as if he was trying to work himself up to say something to her.
‘This is hopeless,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘Katie, there's something I need to tell you –’
A beep from the front of the house indicated the taxi had arrived.
Katie looked at Charlie expectantly. There was a look of raw pain in his eyes, and he was trembling.
‘Charlie, whatever's wrong?’ she asked, genuinely worried now.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing. I'm just wound up about this deal. Taxi's here, I'd better go.’
‘Oh,’ said Katie. ‘Well, if you're sure you're okay?’
‘I'm fine,’ he said, ‘I'll see you on Sunday.’
‘Be good,’ she said, going to kiss him on the lips.
‘When aren't I?’ It was said lightly, but she detected a faint look of strain in his eyes, and he turned away from her so her lips brushed his cheek instead. There was definitely something wrong. She felt sure of it. She watched him go off in the cab with a heavy heart. He looked lost and lonely sitting there. And she had the oddest feeling that nothing she could do was going to help him.
‘So when's she coming then?’ Rob was lounging on the sofa laughing like crazy as Mark frantically tried to remove all evidence of his children from the lounge.
‘In about ten minutes,’ said Mark. ‘So could you please pass me the Sims game, which I know is hiding under your cushion, because that's Beth's favourite place to lose it.’
Rob whistled as he sat up and felt behind him, dragging out a plastic computer game and handing it to Mark.
‘You're really not going to tell her about the kids?’
‘You were the one who said I shouldn't,’ said Mark.
‘I know, but … it's going to be a bit hard to hide them from her if this cosy DVD thing becomes regular.’
‘You didn't hear her going on about children. If she thinks I've got some, she'll never look at me twice.’
‘So you do like her?’ Rob could barely contain his delight. ‘I knew it. I knew I could get you over Sam.’
‘I'm not, as you put it, necessarily over Sam,’ said Mark, ‘but let's just say that meeting Emily has made me see I can keep my options open.’
‘So long as you don't tell her you have children,’ added Rob.
‘There is that, of course,’ said Mark, suddenly spotting a pair of Gemma's shoes in the corner. Honestly. It wasn't even as if the kids were with him all the time. How on earth did they manage to leave all their junk behind? He grabbed the shoes and shoved them in the kids' bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. He toyed with locking it and then thought, no, that's paranoid. He flitted quickly into the bathroom to check that it was devoid of teen paraphernalia, but luckily, as Gemma could never go anywhere without a complete grooming kit, she tended to carry everything she needed with her.
Mark felt vaguely guilty about the subterfuge. He loved his kids, and didn't want anyone to think he was ashamed of them. But Emily was the first woman he'd been attracted to since Sam. And she had been so adamant about disliking kids, he didn't want to scupper his chances before they'd even got going. There'd be time enough to tell her the truth later. Chances were she wasn't the slightest bit interested anyway …
Emily stood on Mark's doorstep feeling incredibly stupid. It had seemed natural to say earlier in the week that she would come and watch a TV programme with him, but now it seemed a little odd. She liked him, certainly, and he had occupied rather a lot of her thoughts in the last few days, but apart from the fact they were both crap dancers and they liked Green Wing, what exactly did she know about him? He might be a serial killer or something. Right.
Rob answered the door. Which reassured her. At least she wouldn't be alone with Mark. But as she followed him into the lounge, she had a sudden panicky thought. Oh God, suppose they were into threesomes or something. Had she just walked into the lion's den?
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Julia Williams
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 28.04.2024
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О книге: Guilty feet have got plenty of rhythm …Kick off your shoes and snuggle up with this warm and witty new novel from the author of the bestselling Pastures NewLawyer Emily promised her late father that she′d devote her life to good causes. So how comes she spends her days defending Z-listers, desperate to prolong their 15 minutes of fame?Katie is obsessed with being the perfect wife and mother – unlike her own one. In which case, why is husband Charlie permanently AWOL these days?Dentist Mark is licking his wounds after his wife walked out on him and desperately missing his kids. Can he cope with becoming a singleton again – on top of a devastating legal case against him?Meanwhile, happy-go-lucky Jack the Lad Rob is hiding a secret tragedy…Isabella′s dance classe give the four the perfect opportunity to forget their troubles and re-invent themselves. They can be whoever they want to be – they′ll just let their feet do the talking.Over the weeks, as they foxtrot, tango, waltz and cha-cha-cha their way into each other′s lives, they discover the truth about each other – and themselves. But will they like what they learn?