Whatever it takes, p.25
Whatever It Takes, page 25
‘I think I’m in love with you, Ellie. That’s why I kissed you.’
The word love slapped her in the face. It was the last word she expected to hear in the kitchen, among the tea towels and stacks of washing-up – well, at least, the last word from his lips. It affected her more than she could have imagined. It was a big word. Love. The biggest.
Years ago, when passion was all, there had been various men who’d said they loved her, so Eloise knew that the scary thing about the introduction of the subject of love was that there was no set pattern to the course of the events that followed. However, the word definitely had the power of alchemy – change was guaranteed, but a change for better or worse could not be predicted. Eloise thought that was surprising. Love should simply be universally good, but it wasn’t. Not if it was unwanted or misplaced. Some men and boys had meant it when they’d said they loved her and she’d believed them – but still, a happy ever after was not guaranteed. Some didn’t mean it and yet she’d wanted to believe them; those stories had a definite leaning towards heartbreak. Some meant it but she hadn’t been convinced, which led to the most bitter of exchanges. One or two, the real time wasters, hadn’t meant it and she hadn’t believed them. Eloise wasn’t sure which category Charlie fell into. It hardly mattered; now he’d put the word on the table there would, undoubtedly, be trouble ahead. Eloise desperately wondered how she could head this off.
Men didn’t like women to tell them that they were wrong. Plus, they didn’t listen to a woman who told them that they couldn’t love her. But the thing they liked least of all was when a woman told them that she didn’t love them back.
Hell.
‘Don’t call me Ellie. I’ve never liked it.’
‘Is that all you have to say?’
It was all she could think of.
Suddenly, Charlie jumped up from his chair and knelt down next to Eloise. In an instant he was all over her. His lips were on her face and neck, his hands were grabbing her waist, her arse and then the back of her head, he was trying to pull her lips towards his. His firm, determined hands caressed her boobs through her thin pyjamas. It was a fraction in time but it seemed to go on for ever. She pushed him away but he pulled her closer towards him and he was stronger. It felt like she was tangled in one of those cruel and probably illegal animal traps that she’d seen on the hills; the more she struggled the tighter she was held.
‘What the fuck is going on?’
Charlie and Eloise sprang apart from one another and they both turned to face Mark. He was standing, in his suit, with his laptop in his hand, ready for his crack-of-dawn commute to London.
‘This isn’t what it looked like.’ As she heard the cliché she’d muttered, Eloise realised just how impotent and insulting it was. Charlie said nothing. There was an instant where both Mark and Eloise found themselves staring at Charlie’s boxer shorts; they watched his hard-on deflate. There were loads of other things in the room, two sleepy cats, a plethora of kitchen gadgets, a fruit bowl overflowing with sweet satsumas, but, because Charlie was only wearing his boxers, his failing hard-on seemed to command the most attention. Mark strode through the kitchen towards Charlie, punched him, once, hard. Then he left.
He walked right out the door.
29
‘Hello, it’s only me, Eloise and the girls. Emily, Erin and Poppy,’ Eloise called as she tentatively pushed open the back door and poked her head inside Margaret’s kitchen.
The heavy, wooden door creaked like an old arthritic man getting out of a chair and the early morning winter daylight slithered across the tiled floors, illuminating the abandoned breakfast table. Eloise routinely said her name and the children’s names to help Margaret. It was thoughtful but pointless. Margaret might hold on to the names, she might not. The girls charged into the house, briefly hugged their granny and then started making demands. Emily wanted to know where her grandfather was; apparently he’d promised he’d drive her somewhere. She had Christmas money that was burning a hole in her pocket and she wanted to go and spend it before the new school term started tomorrow. Erin walked directly into the sitting room and put on the telly.
‘Why don’t you have any decent channels, Granny?’ she moaned.
‘Dear me, everyone says I’m the forgetful one but I swear you ask that every time you come here,’ replied Margaret. She turned her attention to Poppy. ‘You’re a good girl, aren’t you? But then, you all were, when you were so young. So willing to be loved. It’s so easy to love young things.’
The eldest two grandchildren looked a bit huffy but didn’t challenge Margaret. They were getting used to her saying odd things. Her lack of tact was sometimes hilarious and when it was hurtful they just tried to ignore her. Triumphant, Poppy went into the dining room to dig out her granny’s miniature china tea set.
‘My father bought that for me,’ Margaret told Eloise, not for the first time. ‘I never let anyone play with it, other than my best friend Mabel and this other little girl who is visiting now.’ Eloise nodded; she was distracted, so didn’t bother to point out that the ‘other little girl’ was Margaret’s granddaughter.
‘Where’s Ray?’ she asked instead.
‘Oh, he’s gone to the erm . . .’
Eloise reached for the big blue book that was lying on the breakfast table. She flicked through it and then read the latest entry. ‘He’s just popped to the shops. He won’t be long. He’s going to be home in time to take you to the doctor’s,’ she informed Margaret.
‘That’s it. Shall I make us a cup of tea, dear?’
‘Yes, yes, tea would be lovely.’
As Margaret made the tea she felt anxious for Eloise. Margaret knew that people thought she was the unwell one but actually Margaret thought it was Eloise they should be worrying about. She looked like she was at death’s door this morning and she hadn’t been quite herself all Christmas. No matter how much tinsel she’d strewn around the house, she couldn’t hide that. Margaret would have liked to offer her daughter-in-law something stronger than tea to drink but decided against it because Eloise would think she was confused, offering spirits early in the morning. Margaret didn’t feel confused, she felt concerned. Eloise had trouble spelt out across her face.
Margaret faltered as she made the tea, she couldn’t remember what went in tea, other than the tea bag and the hot water. Eloise saw her hesitation but said nothing; she simply went to the fridge and got out some milk. Margaret appreciated Eloise not making a fuss. She and Ray were forever wasting time looking for things she’d misplaced; her purse, keys, her glasses. Sometimes she forgot what they were looking for while they were looking for it. Margaret would shout out, ‘Here we are, darling, my locket!’ and he’d growl back, ‘We’re looking for your watch, Margaret.’ Not that he was a bad man. Or a bad-tempered man. He was neither. He’d always been good to Margaret. A good husband. He was simply an angry man. Disappointed. Margaret knew Mark was angry too. With her. And disappointed with her. Ray said she shouldn’t have told Mark about the girl that gave him to them. But if not now, when? Margaret wondered.
Never?
Maybe.
The women sat down at the kitchen table and sipped their tea. ‘I need the number of your plumber, Margaret. Who was it you mentioned? Someone Fields? Bernie Fields?’
Margaret nodded but knew she couldn’t help Eloise. Telephone numbers were in a book. If Eloise found the book, she was welcome to the number, but she’d have to do it herself. Matching names and numbers was beyond Margaret now. That had sunk deep into the blackness.
‘What happened to your plumber? Has he died?’ Margaret asked.
‘No. Why would you think that?’
‘There was a window cleaner who fell off his ladder and killed himself. Terrible business, it was. He was doing next door’s windows, not mine, but it was awful. I heard him yell and then the thud. The thud was sickening. I remember his shoulder and neck didn’t seem to be in the right place. Well, they weren’t, his neck was broken. And the blood stained the path for weeks. Horrid.’
Eloise looked shocked. ‘My God. When was this?’
‘The twenty-second of July 1976.’
‘Oh.’ Eloise wondered, not for the first time, how Margaret’s memories worked right now. Some things that had happened years ago were clear and accessible, but there were days when she couldn’t remember if she’d had breakfast an hour after doing so. ‘Well, my plumber isn’t dead,’ she explained carefully. Then, more ruefully, she added, ‘More is the pity, but it’s not working out. I’ve asked him to go.’
‘I said all along that it never works, mixing business and friendships.’
‘Yes, well, you were right.’
‘Doomed.’
‘Thank you, Margaret, for your insight.’
‘Gone, has he?’
‘He stores his van in someone’s garage. That someone is still visiting his wife’s rellies in Yarmouth. They aren’t expected back until about eight p.m. tonight, so he won’t be able to get his van until then, but he’s leaving the moment he has it.’ Eloise paused and pinched the top of her nose. Margaret knew that trick; it was to stem tears. Eloise sighed and continued, ‘Not a moment too soon, either. Not as far as I’m concerned. Do you mind if the girls and I hang out here today, Margaret?’
‘That Sara is trouble,’ said Margaret, as she dipped a biscuit into Eloise’s tea and then ate it. Eloise didn’t grumble about the intimacy.
‘Sara? No, Sara’s not the problem.’
‘Yes, yes, she is,’ Margaret insisted firmly.
Eloise leaned closer to Margaret and whispered so that the girls, who were in the sitting room, couldn’t overhear their conversation. ‘It’s Charlie, actually. He’s, well, it’s all a bit embarrassing, he’s developed an unsuitable crush on me. It’s all got a bit out of hand.’
‘I knew all along that Sara was dangerous.’
‘Charlie,’ corrected Eloise. ‘It’s Charlie that’s—’ Eloise suddenly broke off and then stared at Margaret for the longest time. Margaret could see she was searching for something in her face or eyes. Wisdom, or the keys perhaps. Eventually, Eloise sighed and said, ‘We’d better get you dressed, eh? If you are off to the doctor’s, you’ll need to get sorted.’
‘I am dressed, silly girl. I always dress up for the doctor’s,’ replied Margaret.
She was wearing her new pink towelling bath robe that Ray had bought her for Christmas, sequined flip-flops that were purchased for her last holiday to Spain and the hat Margaret had picked up for Irene Cooper’s youngest boy’s wedding.
‘It’s not quite suitable, Margaret,’ said Eloise gently.
‘Really? Is it the hat? I know the wedding was in 2002, but I thought it’d do as it’s navy, and navy is such a marvellous colour. It never dates. I don’t think anyone would call it unfashionable.’
Eloise patted her mother-in-law’s hand. ‘It’s lovely, but it might get spoilt in the drizzle,’ she said kindly. ‘Come on, let’s see if we can find anything else.’
30
Sara’s plan was fully formed. She’d been mulling it over and she was confident that it would work, at least the first part of it, the sex part. That was always the easy bit. The second part, the pregnancy part, well, that was in the lap of the gods.
She’d been texting Jeremy over the holidays. Not incessantly but consistently. The texts had not been at all professional. She was banking on the fact that however much of a family man he liked to appear to be in the office, it was unlikely he could display the same exuberance to his wife and kids for the entire holiday break. Her texts had been fun, flirty and forward. Via the phone she’d been more dangerous and dirty than she might have dared face to face. Jeremy had always texted back within a few minutes of receiving one, the tone of his messages mirroring hers. Sara wondered how people managed illicit affairs before the invention of the mobile. It must have been so frustrating and taken ages. In her texts she’d subtly and not-so-subtly conveyed the fact that she was currently satisfied enough with her husband to never entertain leaving him, but dissatisfied enough with the bedroom action to consider supplementing it elsewhere. She’d never breathed a word about babies.
Now, she had to move things along. She’d called Jeremy’s PA and said she was sorry but she wouldn’t be returning to work today, she was sick. The PA sympathised and commented that loads of people had a bug and that it was going around. This was the standard thing to say. Sara knew the assistant would be rolling her eyes and the moment she was off the phone she’d tell everyone who’d listen that there was nothing wrong with Sara, other than a huge dose of can’t-be-arsed, that she was probably just hung over. Sara was depending on her indiscretion.
Within minutes Sara’s phone beeped to say she had a text. It was from Jeremy:
Ill in bed? x
In bed x
They’d taken to signing off their messages with an ‘x’. Sara had started it, he’d followed instantly. In many industries that would mean nothing. In advertising, journalism or publishing, directives from the managing directors were signed off with three kisses and a smiley face, but in accountancy people were not so casual. The ‘x’ was charged.
Hope you are wrapped up warm x
No, actually, don’t like wearing much when I have high temperature! x
You’re saying you’re hot? x
Are you saying I’m not? x
I wouldn’t dare! xx
She waited. He needed the fun of the chase. After two minutes he sent another text.
Drink lots of soup x
I need someone to spoon it to me x
Isn’t your husband around to help? x
No. Am alone. He’s away for week. Anyway not sure about soup. I find champagne is way more medicinal xx
Sara pressed send and then waited again. It was agonising. She knew she was playing with fire, Jeremy was her boss and she’d as good as told him she wasn’t ill after all, she’d told him she was near naked and she’d practically issued a gold-embossed invite for him to join her in bed, with a bottle of champagne. It wasn’t subtle. Sara was betting a lot on the fact that he’d had a dreary Christmas break and there was nothing urgent in his in-box. After a Jurassic age, her phone beeped again. She snatched it up.
Sounds fun x
Could be x
Again Sara felt the wait between responses was probably contravening some human right or other, it was so painful. She knew he’d be weighing things up, deciding how far he dared transgress. Sara’s heart was beating at a rate that possibly would qualify her for a doctor’s note.
What are you saying? x
I think you know x
Spell it out for me x
Where’s your imagination? x
Trampled beneath a mountain of boring responsibilities x
Sara wanted to punch the air. She was right, he was bored and randy, a perfect combination for her needs. She took a deep breath and then sent one last text.
Come to me x
Half an hour later, the door bell rang.
31
Eloise couldn’t forget Mark’s face as he’d punched Charlie and probably never would. His expression wasn’t one of anger or hate – as might be expected – that she could have coped with; his face was tattooed with hurt. He’d looked injured, wounded. In that instant, the residue of excitement that Eloise had felt at being desired by another man vanished – exploded, exposing the feeling as ephemeral and meaningless. Mark stormed out of the house and didn’t so much as glance back as she desperately called out that she could explain the situation; that she knew it looked bad but she could explain. He’d simply got in his car and driven away, presumably to the station. Their marriage might be in tatters but he had the commuter train to catch, a meeting to attend, a chargeable client to deal with. Eloise knew how seriously Mark took his work; normally she loved this about him, but today she wished he was a little more irresponsible. Returning to the kitchen, Eloise found that Charlie had at least the decency to look ashamed.
‘Get dressed and get packed, Charlie. I don’t care about your money troubles. I don’t care about your fertility troubles. I don’t care that you’ve just said you love me. I love my husband. All I care about is him. Now get out of my house.’ It was so easy to say in the end. Eloise wondered why she hadn’t said it earlier.
Charlie offered absolutely no resistance; he just muttered something about not being able to get his van until later that evening, it was locked in Arabella’s brother’s garage. Eloise realised, if there had been any doubt, his reaction to her request to get the hell out of her life put him firmly in the category of men who said they loved her but didn’t mean it. The time wasters.
Eloise had run upstairs and locked herself in the bedroom. She called Mark but, as she’d half expected, it rang through to his voicemail. She hung up without leaving a message, regretted it and called again.
‘Seriously, Mark, you have to believe me, Charlie just pounced on me. Come home. Please. I need you here. We need to sort this out. It meant nothing. It was just a kiss.’ She hung up and immediately doubted the wisdom of leaving such a message.
‘It meant nothing’ meant something happened, even if it was a something that wasn’t important to her. ‘It meant nothing’ was what sorry-arsed, low-life adulterers said after they’d slept with someone they shouldn’t have. ‘It was just a kiss’ implied she agreed to the kiss, she was part of it, which in a dry, factual way she supposed she was, but in the true sense of being part of a kiss she was nowhere near the scene of the crime. Oh God, this was silly. She just wanted him to pick up his phone. Why wouldn’t he just pick up his bloody phone and let her explain? He was being so pig-headed! Comfortably aware of her innocence, Eloise momentarily failed to see just how bad it looked but then she remembered his face. Hurt was scalded there.
