Young Wives' Tales Part 40

'Well, I've no problem with the boys going there. They'll have a great day.'

'You could stop by in the afternoon if you like, to see them.'

'I don't think that's a good idea. Daisy won't like Lucy in her house.'

'I'd make sure Daisy is polite.'He looks unconvinced.

'I'd make sure Lucy got a warm welcome, as opposed to the one she deserves,'I add with a giggle.

Peter smiles and appreciates my joke. 'We'll think about it. Thanks.'

'I think it's time we all moved on,'I say. This time there's not a hint of a giggle in my voice. I'm deadly serious.

'That's great to hear, Rose.'

'The past is a foreign country; the future seems more like home.'

'Have you been on the mulled wine?'

Peter is very English and always struggled with my amateur philosophizing. That's why I didn't do too much thinking for a long time. But he smiles at me and I see enough respect and warmth for me not to feel silly.

'Well, you'd better be getting back to Lucy, she'll be wondering where you are.'

At that second Lucy appears in the corridor.

'h.e.l.lo, darling, we're just making plans for Christmas day,'says Peter, casually putting his arm around her shoulder. He kisses her cheek. I check. Do I feel anything? No resentment. No pain. No, nothing at all. 'Rose invited us to join them at Daisy's for an hour in the afternoon.'

Lucy eyes me nervously. 'That's nice,'she mutters.

'We're just talking about some things being in the past and all the better for that,'I say to her.

We share a moment. We exchange the glance of conspirators and I think she understands that she has my silence, which is why it's somewhat peculiar that she turns to Peter and says, 'Sweetheart, have you got time to come home for lunch, rather than go back to the office, there's something important I need to tell you. We need to talk.'

'I'll leave you to it,'I mutter and I walk back to the hall, antic.i.p.ating a mince pie and a well-earned gla.s.s of mulled wine.

I have no idea whether Lucy and Peter will go home and have a heart to heart or whether she will bottle and go home for frantic, diverting s.e.x instead. The important thing is, I don't mind. It's none of my business. I imagine they'll be OK. And not just because I think they are the type to always be OK, but because I think they are meant for one another and I think they know that too. And love is quite extraordinary in its capacity to forgive. As Sebastian and Henry would say, whatever.

I have more important things to do. First I have to call Daisy and tell her that we're all coming to hers for Christmas lunch and then I have to hunt out my future.

Epilogue.

Tuesday 12 December

Craig

Rose is holding out my handkerchief. She looks apprehensive but excited. She's shiny. I don't mean her cheeks and forehead, although they are shiny (for once it is hot in the school hall and the place is heaving with frantic parents), I mean her eyes are shiny. I think Rose has many attributes, both physical and mental. I love her kindness, her laugh and her red hair but her eyes are possibly my favourite. Her eyes are so beautiful. They are clever, glittering and mischievous. It's easy to miss the mischievousness because Rose wants everyone to believe she's so eminently sensible. But I'm not fooled. I know she once enjoyed karaoke.

I take the handkerchief off her and push it into my jacket pocket.

She's apologetic. 'Sorry, it's a bit of a mess. Lipstick and snot, pretty hideous combination, but if you wash it on a hot wash, then '

'I might never wash it, Rose. I might keep it under my pillow.'She looks startled. 'I'm just joking,'I add hastily.

She smiles back, relieved. Rose and I have not spoken since Tom's wedding. The last thing I said to her was that in six months'time we'd probably be picking out wallpaper together. My G.o.d, how I've agonized over that comment. I hadn't meant to scare her off and sound stalker-ish. I just thought she needed to be rea.s.sured that I wasn't a flighty, fly-by-night type. I wanted her to know that I thought we had a future or at least the possibility of one. For the last month I've spent my time reconsidering the entire date at length and in particular that remark. I reasoned that Rose must have thought I was mad and over-keen or, at the very least, a shallow, silly and glib man. But I wasn't lying or even exaggerating. At the wedding I felt so close to Rose. I thought that there was genuine respect between us and the chat was amusing and interesting. I thought we were doing well. But then she vanished.

For the last month I have wondered how best to sort out this mess. It's terrible that she is so horribly embarra.s.sed that she no longer dares show her face at school. It's clear that she's avoiding me, which is one better than reporting me to the Board of Governors for inappropriate behaviour I suppose, but I can barely take consolation from that. At least if she did report me I'd get the chance to put my side to her. I'd get the chance to tell her just how great I think she is and how much I've missed her in this last month. I hadn't realized how far she'd crept under my skin.

I noticed Rose long before John started his campaign to find me a woman. Since the boys started school I've been struck by her cheerful nature and her can-do att.i.tude. I liked the way she mothered. She's quite old-fashioned in her approach but not out of touch. Her boys clearly adore her. She's popular with the other mums and the teachers too, because while she's involved in every committee the school has set up, she manages to be discreet and helpful and not pushy or overbearing.

It was at last summer's sports day that I began to realize that my interest in Rose was not purely platonic. I found myself craning my neck, searching her out at every opportunity. I felt a genuine pinch of disappointment in my gut when she didn't win the mothers'race and a genuine stir somewhere a little bit lower when she lay on the gra.s.s panting and laughing trying to recover from the exertion of the race.

I found myself lingering at the school gate in the hope of exchanging a word or two with her. I was always thrilled to see her at the Parents'a.s.sociation meetings, which I looked forward to much more than the nights trawling around pubs and bars with John.

I am mortified that I've stepped over the mark at the wedding and ruined our friendship. I've spent the last month wishing I'd just let things be as they were. Being her friend forever would have been better than losing her altogether. But then she sat next to me at the nativity play and I began to wonder. To hope.

Mrs Baker came to see me the moment the play was over. I accepted her beams and congratulations on the production along with those from all the other mothers.

'Are you taking Rose to the Christmas dance on Friday?'she asked me.

'Erm, well, no. I wasn't planning on asking her,'I mumbled, totally mortified that Mrs Baker would address this subject so publicly.

'Why not?'she demanded.

'I don't think Rose would like it,'I admitted.

'Rose sometimes doesn't know what's good for her,'said Mrs Baker with a hint of impatience. 'Our mutual friend, John, told me that she ditched you at the wedding. Is that right?'

I felt the heat of my blush but managed to nod.

'He said you were gutted. Is that right?'she demanded.

Cheers, John, what a mate. Again I nodded.

'Well, I can't begin to explain why,'said Mrs Baker. 'But I do know that you're the only man she's shown any interest in for six years. Faint heart never wins fair maid, and all that. I'd suggest you ask her out again.'

'You do?'

'Yes, and not just because John and I are determined matchmakers.'She grinned at me.

'Well, thank you, Mrs Baker, for bothering to talk to me about this. I'll think about what you said.'

'You do that.'And then she added, 'Call me Connie.'

Connie Baker might have it wrong. After all, how can I trust the judgement of a woman who was once crazy about John Harding? But she seemed genuine and there's always the possibility that she might have it right.

Might is a word and concept that is largely undervalued but I think might is a powerful word.

Rose is staring at the ceiling. She's probably trying to avoid my eye.

'Nice decorations,'she comments.

'Do you think so? I think they missed your touch.'

She looks at me and smiles shyly. 'I owe you an apology and an explanation.'

'Not at all, I a.s.sume you don't like wedding cake,'I grin. What else can I do but make a joke about the most humiliating moment of my life.

She smiles back. Rose is doing a lot of smiling today. She doesn't look like a woman who is scared of the headmaster turning into a stalker. She doesn't look like a woman who might want to report me, or reject me, or run from me.

'Were you worried that the boys wouldn't approve of our dating?'I hazard this guess. It is one of many theories I've had a chance to form. I have approximately thirty-seven others to try, if this doesn't prove to be correct.

'Yes, but that wasn't why I left. I had some stuff that I needed to work through. I had some things that I had to let go before I could grab on to anything new. Do you understand?'

I nod. I think I do. I want to. 'Have you done that, now?'I ask.

I push my gla.s.ses up on to the bridge of my nose. It's important to establish where we stand, just so I can prepare myself for the possibility of another vanishing act.

'Yes.'She smiles again. Each one is a delight.

'Perhaps you could tell me all about it, over a coffee?'I carefully lay my offer before her. I hold my breath.

'No, I don't think so.'The disappointment floors me. I'd thought she was going to accept. Or at least I'd hoped it. I gasp, and scramble around my brain for a dignified and hasty exit from this conversation. 'I think I should explain it over c.o.c.ktails, in a bar. A really trendy bar. Ideally over-priced and very busy. I want to feel life again. My treat. Are you free tonight?'says Rose with a wide and cheerful beam.

'Tonight, erm, I can be. Will you be able to get someone to sit for the boys at such short notice?'I ask.

'I imagine so. Let's get on with it, Craig, I've wasted enough time.'

And so we shall.

Get on with it.

Acknowledgements Thank you Louise Moore, without whom none of this would have been possible. I totally adore you; you are an inspiring luminary.

Thank you Mari Evans, you are wonderful, encouraging and dedicated. It's so much fun working with you. Thank you to the entire team at Penguin for continuing to work so incredibly hard on my behalf. You are all very important to me and I value every last one of you.

Thank you Jonny Geller, my dear friend, what an astute and wonderful man you are.

Thank you to all at Curtis Brown; especially Carol Jackson and Doug Kean, who are excellent agents and friends.

Thank you to all my readers. Without you this entire exercise would seem rather silly. I do appreciate you.

Thanks to my family for gracefully bearing the embarra.s.sment of being related to someone who insists on writing about s.e.x for a living.

Then there's Jim. Thank you for making the s.p.a.ce we share on this planet a wonder.

To find out how Lucy, Rose and Connie came to reach this point in their lives, you must read Playing Away, Adele Parks'bestselling debut and the novel in which these young wives made their first, unforgettable appearance. It's the closest you'll get to an affair without actually having one...turn over to read more.

Prologue.

Before the invention of networking, people simply met, social-climbed or licked a.r.s.e. Now it's more hygienic. Now we have networking conferences in Blackpool. I don't know which is more depressing.

I walk into the hotel lobby, late, to demonstrate my mindset. I shake the April showers from my umbrella and I'm immediately splattered with boisterous laughter from the hotel bar. The evening's entertainment is already under way. My esteemed colleagues are tipping sand buckets down the stairs and racing shots, badly, so that pink, sticky liquid comes out of their noses. My heart sinks; I don't want to be here. I want to be at home with my husband, curled up in bed, reading or making love. Husband! I love that word. It's my favourite word and I've used it excessively over the last nine months since I netted him.

I know the whole conference will be a fearful bore: too much testosterone and not enough intelligence. I work for a large management consultancy (Looper Jackson) and in six months'time we are merging with a mammoth management consultancy (Peterson Wind) to form a huge, d.i.c.k-swinging one (Peterson Wind-looper I'm unsure what is to become of Jackson). The purpose of this conference is for the management to identify natural leaders, team players and losers in a bid to reconstruct departments. I imagine preferred scenarios. I want to be on a beach in Barbados, I want to be in All Bar One with the girls, the King's Road; I want to be just about anywhere other than here. I pause. Except the office. That was a very miserable thought. Best to check in, clean up and face it.

I drop my bag, sigh, cast a glance around the chintzy bedroom, then call my husband. Disappointingly but somewhat predictably, he isn't in. The bathroom is large and white, with hideous gold-swan taps; I turn the taps, breaking their necks, a butcher's window at Christmas time. I run a bath, emptying the Crabtree & Evelyn salts into the plunging water. After bathing I dress. It's a black-tie evening and every woman will opt for a conventional flouncy dress. To provide contrast I dress with a nurtured, rebellious streak, choosing a sheer black trouser suit. The top parts to show a tantalizing flash of my stomach currently flat, brown and s.e.xy. My hair is just long enough to wear up, so I pile it on top; it looks too serious, so roughly, hurriedly, I pull down random strands and twist them into dreadlocks. I check the result in the mirror and I'm pleased. I'm even more pleased when later I thread my way through the white tablecloths, black suits and predictable, unflattering ball dresses.

It's the usual corporate dinner thing: vast, unseemly and profligate. Everyone is really going for it, a scene from Sodom and Gomorrah. Beery, bleary men stand in pulsing packs leering at the women. Red, drunken faces lurch forward, slurring their words and thoughts. The women wear their make-up smudged around their eyes and their noses; their foreheads are shining, hardly vogue. Tomorrow will be the day for embarra.s.sed nods and painful headaches, but f.u.c.k it, tonight is the time to go for it. Sod them and tomorrow. By contrast my plan is: dinner, excuse, retreat, retire and ring husband. I find my table and name-plate, sit down and pull my face into a practised, polished, social smile.

His eyes are unfair.

Too big, too blue, too overwhelming to allow any female a reasonable attempt at indifference. He has fine, transparent skin with a sprinkling of freckles. He is lean, taut, well defined, athletic. Not an ounce of unnecessary about him. He smells clean but not perfumed. He looks at me and his eyes level me, slice me. He's exploded a kaleidoscope of emotion. Fizzy splinters of rich colours blast internally, lodging in my head and b.r.e.a.s.t.s. My knickers and heart pull together. I'm shivering. The predictable ma.s.ses surrounding us merge into one pointless, h.o.m.ogeneous blur; we're left in an appalling clarity. I'm shocked and disturbed by my jumping M&S briefs. I immediately dismiss any semblance of disguising, polite, small talk.

'I'm married.'

'I'm a tart,'he smiles.

Both the defence and challenge.

'That's the introductions over with. Want a drink?'He is already pouring me one.

We are outrageously overt. We flirt to an aweinspiring level. Within minutes I slip back into my flirtatious ways that were second nature before I married, but have been unnecessary and unseemly for some time. I am direct, evasive, sophisticated, straightforward, coy, seductive. Much more seductive than I've ever been before. He is also full of contradictions. He talks about his job, which is dull, but he appears brilliant. He's jumped through burning hoops and balanced b.a.l.l.s on his nose to secure his position at Peterson Wind. Now he can smell his own success, it reeks. He tells me he deserves the conference gig, the whole jolly. It's obvious he has no intention of doing any work, beyond scoring women and drugs. He stands up and is disappointingly short but seems majestic. It is devastatingly ambiguous. It is irreparably clear-cut.

We talk about s.e.x and not much else, establishing the things we have in common. He confesses that he has an unsquashable habit of immediately identifying the most desirable woman in the vicinity. Wherever he is a bar, at work, the pub, the tube, in a shop. I remember that skill and tell him so. He nods and simply affirms, 'It's compulsive. I don't think this talent is a unique one. Many a time a mate and I have settled on the same sleek bob of hair or slim set of hips. The odd thing is finding a woman who tells me she does the same.'He shakes his head in disbelief. 'Sometimes if I am on the pull I don't bother with chasing the most attractive. I mean it's a waste of f.u.c.king time if you just want to get your end away. So I identify the most readily available. Quite distinct and apart.'

'What am I?'I ask shamelessly. I know he is unlikely to admit he is keen for a quick s.h.a.g and I'm giving off available signals. But I so want him to flatter me.

'You, Gorgeous, with your crazy, curly, blonde hair, beautiful face, cracking figure, full round t.i.ts and tiny waist '