Whatever it takes, p.23
Whatever It Takes, page 23
Or rather, she and Jeremy had been quite the party animals together, to be accurate.
They’d shared four long, boozy client lunches that had lingered on into the afternoon. On the third and fourth the clients had left before they had. Jeremy had insisted that instead of shuffling back to the office, to do a bad impression of being sober enough to work, they were better off staying put. At first all they’d talked about was their clients and the lunch that they’d just enjoyed. Then they’d talked about their plans for the Christmas hols, the new exhibition on at the Portrait Gallery and the latest movies showing in the cinema but soon the professional boundaries dissolved at the bottom of a wine glass and they’d started to light-heartedly speculate on which client was looking for love, who was crushing on whom at the office, who was bored at home and not getting enough. They hadn’t talked about his wife and they hadn’t talked about Charlie, at least not until Sara had glanced out of the restaurant window into the pitch-black, late afternoon. It was raining, but the seasonally dressed shop windows twinkled, suggesting to Sara that maybe the party could go on.
‘I probably should be going,’ she’d announced in a way that clearly communicated her reluctance.
‘Hubby waiting for you?’ asked Jeremy.
‘No, actually. He’s working away.’ Sara had pulled her gaze to meet his. Her look was at once challenging and inviting. A subtle expression that she was sure wouldn’t be lost on him.
‘Then what’s the rush?’
‘I should get back to the office.’ It was a token suggestion and they’d both known it.
Jeremy shook his head. ‘You’d do more harm than good to your career returning to the office now in this state, you’d probably lose your clients’ millions down the back of a filing cabinet or something. Stay, have another,’ he’d urged.
‘You’re the boss,’ said Sara, flashing a grateful smile. ‘Shall we have liqueurs?’
She’d pronounced it ‘lick yours’, it was an old joke that they’d shared when they’d dated. He’d say, ‘Shall we lick yours?’ and she’d reply, ‘Yes, let’s, and I’m all for coffee.’ Pronounced, ‘I’m all fuck off-ie’. Even now Sara thought you probably had to be there to think this exchange genuinely funny. It was a moment of impulse that made her throw the old line at him; suddenly she’d wanted to see if he’d remembered any of it. Any of the good times they’d had. She’d drunk a G&T, a glass of champers and the best part of a bottle of red at lunch; he’d matched her glass for glass. She wondered whether he, too, could recall the crazy nights of irresponsibility, their carelessness, their sexiness, the throwaway youth that they’d spent sumptuously. Did he recollect the late nights drinking and dancing in sleazy dives, entire Sundays lost in bed? When they’d dated, their relationship had been as much fun as candyfloss, and the same substance, too. That had been the attraction. They’d been hot, hedonistic, insolent, indolent, wild and wilful. Young. Did he remember any of it or was it all school league tables, organised childcare programmes and anxiety about nutritious school lunches now? Sara wouldn’t have blamed him if that was the case, she’d have understood. After all, wasn’t that her ultimate aim? But she hadn’t wanted it to be so for him, not right at that moment. She needed him to be thinking about something different.
‘Yes, let’s, and I’m all for coffee,’ he’d replied, without skipping a beat.
Sara had lowered her eyes, concentrating on pouring the very last of the wine into his glass, and delighted in the feeling of adrenalin pumping around her gut and chest. Not hurtling. Not bouncing around her body as it did when she peed on a stick and there was the hope that she might be a mum, but adrenalin was notably there. Gathering.
Breathing in deeply, she’d flicked her eyes back towards Jeremy, just to check, and was rewarded with what she’d hoped for. Jeremy had been staring right back at her. His big brown eyes, fuzzy with alcohol and lust. This confirmed what Sara had always known, a wedding ring didn’t fence in the lust, it didn’t fence out the predators; it was simply a warning for those who were the type to listen to warnings.
‘A whisky on the rocks?’ he’d asked.
It was the drink she used to indulge in way back when. Way back when she sometimes smoked cigars and drank hard stuff to show the boys she was flint and that they could fuck her without any consequences. Truthfully, she hadn’t drunk whisky for years; it fouled her mood and left her with a stinking hangover, but something stopped Sara from admitting as much to Jeremy. She didn’t want to draw attention to the symptoms that showed she was waltzing towards middle age; she didn’t want to admit defeat.
‘If you’ll join me.’
Jeremy had signalled for the waiter, who was attentive and returned with a couple of doubles in a blink of the eye. No doubt he could smell a generous tip as drunks and their cash were easily parted. As Sara sipped, she took a moment to study Jeremy. Really study. Of course she saw him in the office, almost every day, but she wanted to appraise him outside the work context. Size up the man in the expensive, luxurious restaurant. What did people see when they saw this man? What did other women see? Jeremy was not in as good a shape as Charlie was. His desk job and extensive, extended executive lunches had led to an inevitable fleshy overhang on his waistband. Other women might notice that, and the fact that his hair was greying, his face was wrinkling, but Sara remembered when he was hard bodied, young and full of fun, so the spare inch, the greying hair, the lines didn’t matter to her. Sara had become aware that Jeremy was staring at her too. He’d already checked out her boobs and arse almost the moment she’d sat down to lunch – he was a man, it was what they did. He was staring at her in a different way. Not with longing or lust alone (although that was there, that was tangible); he was looking at her in a way that somehow communicated that he was depending on the fact that she wouldn’t see his pinchable inch around his waistline and his grey sideburns. Sara realised he needed her to see him as he had been when they were an item. Not a tired dad of two but a Jack-the-lad. As she’d taken another sip of her whisky, and it scorched its way down her throat, she’d decided that she could do that. She could see him as he wanted to be seen.
Eloise brought Sara back to the here and now when she asked, ‘So is everyone ready to sit down? Lunch is served.’ Her tone was slightly harassed. Her high-pitched voice betrayed that she wasn’t particularly confident with what she was about to dish up. ‘I hope it’s all right,’ she added. Sara noticed that Eloise’s self-effacing stance guaranteed a round of compliments and assurances.
‘It will be delicious.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
Sara added her own reassurance. ‘Lunch will be a triumph. Marks and Spencer are so reliable.’ She knew it wasn’t the nicest of compliments but, really, Eloise was asking for it with all that simpering.
‘There’s no seating plan, sit where you like,’ suggested Mark, as he took a place at the end of the table. His parents sat either side of him, Poppy scrabbled to be seated between Margaret and Erin. Sara found herself between Ray and Emily and Charlie was between Erin and Eloise. The moment they all settled, Eloise jumped up and said, ‘Charlie should swap with Margaret.’
Her tone was insistent and cut through the cries to pull crackers and chatter about which of the three girls had eaten the most chocolate orange that morning.
‘We’re all right where we are,’ said Mark. He looked a bit exasperated and Sara wondered whether he ever found Eloise’s controlling ways a bit much.
‘All the guys together,’ Eloise insisted.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ said Charlie. ‘Happy next to you and the beautiful Erin. You girls do look wonderful today.’ The girls were all dressed in red; Poppy in a pretty dress with a purple velvet trim, Erin and Emily in jeans and sparkly tops. Sara imagined Eloise had thought through their sartorial elegance.
‘But I’d like to sit next to Margaret,’ said Eloise. She sounded a bit whiny and desperate; Sara wondered how much champagne she’d drank since they’d got back from church that morning. Sara assumed that Eloise wanted to be close to Margaret in case she got confused but Eloise was making a scene and no one needed that, everyone wanted to get on with carving the turkey. ‘Margaret, would you like to sit with me?’ Eloise asked.
Margaret looked up from her plate; she was already wearing a paper hat, which had slipped over her right eye. She seemed to be considering the request for a moment. The table fell silent, waiting for her reply and a resolution. Finally she said, ‘Who are you, dear?’
Ray and Mark look crestfallen, the girls giggled and Eloise looked almost as lost as Margaret.
‘I’ll get the cranberry sauce,’ she said, with a sigh of defeat.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Charlie and he was up on his feet in an instant.
‘No, it’s fine, I’m fine,’ insisted Eloise.
‘You take too much on. You’ve done all the cooking already. Let me help you carry it in from the kitchen at the very least,’ he added, laying a solicitous hand on her arm. Eloise pulled away suddenly and her jerky movement knocked over Emily’s glass of coke. For a moment everyone stared at the coke spreading across the pristine white cloth and several napkins. Sara thought there was a real danger Eloise might cry. She could only imagine what effort Eloise had put into laying the table. ‘I’ll get something to mop that up,’ said Charlie. He dashed past Eloise, giving her shoulder a quick, comforting squeeze.
Eloise shrugged and accepted his offer with ungraceful reluctance.
Sara wasn’t Charlie’s biggest fan at the moment but even she thought Eloise could be a bit more grateful; he was only trying to help. Sara rolled her eyes, in order to communicate generally, rather than to anyone in particular, that her friend really was a control freak. She really did have issues.
JANUARY
28
‘So back to work tomorrow. Back to normal for me.’ Mark’s right hand slithered under the covers and towards Eloise. He deftly unfastened the top two buttons of her pjs. He wasn’t subtle, he didn’t have to be; years of loving familiarity gave him a certain amount of licence, yet Eloise was a bit surprised; it was the first time he’d made an amorous move since the day he’d discovered he was adopted. She was delighted that he was hoping for a bit of last-day-of-the-holidays sex. Did this mean he was feeling a little happier? A bit more relaxed?
Last-day-of-the-holidays sex was not an unreasonable hope. Eloise subscribed to the theory that Christmas and birthdays were the bare minimum, even for married couples, however, she seriously doubted she could summon the energy. Her body ached with tiredness. For weeks now Eloise had thrown all her energy into creating the perfect Christmas for her family and friends. She’d made sure they had everything from advent candles and calendars to thoughtful stockings and superb surprises. She’d wanted to observe every tradition, from putting a sixpence in the pudding to swimming in the sea on Boxing Day, therefore she was exhausted and she wondered whether holiday sex was the one tradition she might have to forgo.
It had been a long and gruelling holiday and if that was an oxymoron then it was one Eloise was sure every mother understood. Christmas was never a carefree time. The most reasonable hope was that the turkey was cooked right through and that there were no out-and-out family rows. This much Eloise had achieved, which was tantamount to a miracle considering she’d had to balance the happiness of three little girls, two spiky friends, one old lady with dementia, one grieving ex-solicitor and a closed-down husband. Eloise would have preferred twelve lords a-leaping or five gold rings any day.
Today she’d got up at 6 a.m. to finally wave off Sara. Then she’d stripped the tree, packed away all the decorations, chopped up the tree and burnt it on the fire (whilst the girls toasted teacakes and drank hot chocolate). She tidied the entire house and then popped round to Ray and Margaret’s, to wash and blow dry Margaret’s hair, giving Ray a chance to go to the pub for an hour. There was no doubt that looking after Margaret was becoming a huge physical and emotional strain. One moment she seemed in rude health, willing to chat about which Dulux colour Eloise should paint on the wall in the dining room (Gentle Fawn or Mellow Mocha?), the next, she seemed so vulnerable and helpless, incapable of remembering if she’d even seen the doctor that morning. The hardest part was knowing that things were only going to get worse. For everyone.
Eloise wanted to make the most of the last afternoon before Mark returned to work so had suggested they all went for a four-mile walk along the coastal paths. The girls had also wanted to make the most of the afternoon but the issue was that Eloise and her daughters disagreed as to how that might be achieved. Emily thought making the most meant going round to her friend’s house, Erin thought it meant reaching the next level on her new DS game and Poppy thought it meant watching back-to-back episodes of Wizards of Waverly Place. It took Eloise over an hour to persuade them that a family walk was a good thing, by which time Mark had been caught up on a work telephone call and couldn’t join them. Eloise had questioned her own sanity as she and the girls stumbled through the dark afternoon alone.
Eloise glanced at her husband lying next to her; he looked equally exhausted. He might not have concerned himself with making paper chains, gift tags, centrepieces, chocolate logs and mince pies, but he had worries enough of his own: the new practice, Margaret’s health, the adoption . . . she acknowledged that it was hardly startling that making time for one another had slipped down the list of priorities.
Eloise knew that Mark was hurting, he’d been hurting since Margaret had blurted out that he was adopted, and yet he’d side-stepped every attempt she’d made to discuss the matter. Since that first night she’d twice asked if he wanted to talk about it, and he’d firmly replied in the negative. She hadn’t pushed things. She was hoping he was still processing the fact that he was adopted, but she knew there was a chance he was simply blanking it. Eloise privately believed Mark’s silence on the matter to be unnatural and unhelpful. Mark had always found talking easier after they’d been physically close, but as the only intimacy they’d managed for months was when they’d banged heads while manhandling the enormous Christmas tree through the hallway, it wasn’t a surprise that he hadn’t found a way into conversation. Eloise decided to push her fatigue to one side; they should make love right now. She’d get into the mood once they started, she always did.
Eloise grabbed Mark’s hand and brought it to her lips. She kissed it passionately and then she laid another smacker directly on his lips. He responded urgently and, even though his breath smelt of Stilton and port, Eloise found she was suddenly quite wrapped up in the moment.
‘Mummeeeeee!’ The cry came through the wall.
‘It’s Poppy.’ Eloise broke away from the kiss. ‘She hasn’t slept well since the Dr Who special on Christmas Day.’ El scrambled out of bed as Mark fell back on the pillow and accepted that his chances of lovemaking had just been significantly reduced, probably eradicated along with the Daleks and the Weeping Angels.
It took Eloise fifteen minutes to resettle Poppy. When she came back into the room she couldn’t swallow her yawn; it was so big that she couldn’t even hide it behind her hand very effectively. Mark knew her well enough to understand that they’d missed the moment and nookie was unlikely.
‘Too tired?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘To be honest, yes.’
The 6 a.m. start had taken its toll. The originally agreed three-day visit had turned into nine days. Nine days! Having house guests for nine days wasn’t easy at the best of times and these were so far from the best times. Eloise shouldn’t have allowed them to stay that long but somehow she’d found she wasn’t able to get her point across, not without stirring up the hornet’s nest. When she’d tentatively suggested that she could pack something nice for them to eat on the journey back to London, Charlie had said that there wasn’t any point in him driving all the way back to London, just to have to turn round to come back again to work on their house, and Sara had added that the sea air was lifting her spirits. They pertinently pointed out that there wasn’t anything they needed to go home for so Eloise found it impossible to ask outright for them to leave. It felt akin to asking political asylum seekers to pack their bags and return to some despot-ruled wasteland.
At least Sara hadn’t been quite as glum as she had been in November, or indeed quite as glum as Eloise had expected. There were times, good half-hour stretches, when Sara seemed genuinely buoyant, very much like her old self, although Eloise couldn’t figure out exactly why. It was clear that Charlie wasn’t the source of her renewed optimism; they’d barely spoken to one another, which Eloise found excruciating. Friends’ domestics played out at close range were never fun but they were particularly awkward if you suspected you were part of the cause.
Charlie had kissed her!
It blew her mind and not in a good way. Her best friend’s husband had kissed her. Why? Why would he do that and would he try to do it again? Charlie’s kiss was unexpected and unwanted. Ever since it had happened, Eloise had gone over and over in her mind as to what she might have done to prompt it. Was it an impulsive mistake or a pledge of deep longing?
Eloise really needed the bathroom finishing. It was no longer just a style issue. She wanted Charlie to leave. She wanted her home back and time alone with her family. Charlie’s presence was a tangible strain. She was fed up with making extra meals and washing extra sheets but, more importantly, she was exhausted by his barely disguised flirtatious ways. The problem was that Charlie wasn’t behaving like someone steeped in regret, having acted on a daft impulse. He was acting like someone who believed he was part of a secret society; an exciting secret society. Even though Charlie hadn’t explicitly referred to the incident throughout the seasonal break he’d made a point of throwing her knowing smiles and he frequently touched her more often than she thought was necessary or normal. His actions weren’t blatant; he was simply solicitous to the point of slimy and considerate in a way that suggested she was colluding in an intimacy.
