Can't Live Without (24 page)

Except Paul. He was the only person who didn’t laugh, or roll around on the floor, or point and giggle and then throw things at me. He punched his friend hard on the arm – Adam, his name was, the evil bastard – and hissed something in a low voice. Then he walked over and offered me a crusty tissue from the depths of his oh-so-cool leather jacket.

This wasn’t how I had hoped the moment would pan out, and I would have given anything for the object of my affection to have missed my humiliation. Still, all it did was cement my love and reconfirm my belief that Paul was Perfect with a capital P.

And look how right I was. Shame it took me another twenty-four years to fully realise that my dream had never gone away, but I guess it’s never too late. Paul looks pleased, and a little embarrassed, when I reach up and give him a light kiss on the cheek. He has no idea that that kiss was earned by a kind gesture so many years ago. Maybe one day I’ll tell him.

‘Get a room,’ someone says, and we turn around to see Bonnie and Marcus smirking at us, bottles of lager in their hands.

I give Bonnie a look and turn to say hello to Marcus. ‘No Cory today?’ I ask, desperate to get the focus off Paul and me.

‘No,’ he says cheerfully. ‘He’s with his mum.’

‘You two seem cosy,’ Bonnie says with a grin. Honestly, the girl doesn’t know when to leave it alone.

Grabbing Paul by the arm, I say, ‘Let’s go and get some food before it all runs out,’ and I steer him towards the ominous-looking cloud of smoke in the far corner of the garden.

I glare over my shoulder at Bonnie, who gives me a comedy thumbs up.

As the afternoon wears on I notice that Lipsy is staying protectively close to Robert as if to shield him from her family’s wrath. Not that any of us feel much wrath anymore. We’ve all more or less accepted the situation now, and I for one have actually started to look forward to the arrival of a baby. I can’t help it, I just love babies. Anyway, I figure we need some fresh blood in our family. This time next year the whole gang will be here: Mum and Dad; Lipsy, Robert and baby; me and Paul (hopefully); Billy and…

My brother is talking to a girl I’ve never seen before. A girlfriend? I hope so, it might be the making of him if he finally settles down. Listen to me, all grown-up and serious-sounding.

Well, I guess I should be at my age.

‘Alright, sis,’ he says, catching me watching him.

‘Yeah,’ I tell him.

I really am all right.

My mother, in a pink and yellow dress that probably cost far too much to look so hideous, gives me a quick smile that I return, feeling strangely at peace with her for once. She has invited a few of the neighbours for good measure, and I’m happy for her, glad to think she’s making friends again – maybe it will take her mind off shopping!

The first sign I have of trouble is when I feel Paul stiffen by my side – and I don’t mean that in a good way. I follow his eyes and see, to my horror, John Dean talking to Lipsy and Robert, drink in hand, looking like he hasn’t a care in the world and has every right to be here.

I grab my mother’s arm. ‘Who the hell invited him?’ I hiss.

‘Who?’ She looks across the patio and her face freezes when she sees my ex. ‘Oh, Stella. I’m so sorry. He’s been doing the garden for me. I must have mentioned it to him. I didn’t think…’

My ex is wearing a red shirt and faded jeans. The fact that he so clearly knows that he looks gorgeous makes him less so, somehow. Actually he looks a bit flashy. A bit showy. Obvious. His dark hair and rugged features are too much of a cliché. I like my men more interesting, with clear expressive blue eyes and wavy blonde hair that you just can’t resist running your fingers through.

I like my men like Paul.

Turning back to Paul, I can see straight away that I have made a mistake – I looked in my ex’s direction for just a little too long. ‘Paul –’ I say, but he interrupts me.

‘It’s OK, Stella.’ His tone tells me it is anything but. ‘I’m going to talk to Billy, see how he’s getting on.’ And with that he’s gone from my side. Shame, I’d just started to get used to having him there.

Discretion would tell me to avoid John Dean like the plague, but discretion doesn’t have a degree in ballsing things up like I do. I stride over to where he’s standing, my eyes flashing a warning that nobody else sees.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I demand as soon as he’s in earshot. I hope Paul hears me but my mother’s garden is rather big and the stereo’s on quite loud.

‘Hi, Stella. Nice to see you too,’ John Dean drawls at me.

‘We, erm, we need some more drinks,’ Robert stammers, looking at his own nearly full glass as Lipsy looks at her own completely full one.

‘Yes,’ she agrees. ‘We do. Come on, Rob.’

They leave us standing alone in the corner of the patio, and I’m not so stupid I don’t realise that this does not look good. I stare at Bonnie hard, willing her to come over and rescue me, but she turns back to Marcus and my mother. I can’t see Paul but I know he’s there somewhere, watching to see what I do next. But what the hell can I do? If I walk away it could look as though I have something to hide, and knowing John Dean he’d probably just follow me anyway. We could end up in an even more compromising position, somewhere inside the house, say. At least here we’re in full view, and surely no one could read anything into that?

Except Paul, of course. Just when things were starting to look promising. The last thing I want to do is give him another reason to be pissed off. It is so hard at the moment to know how his mind is working – he seems capable of reading something into anything.

But if I do stay and talk to my ex then doesn’t that look as though I’m happy he’s here? As though I’m choosing to spend my time with him and not with Paul? Oh, for goodness sake. I could kill bloody John Dean. All those years I wanted him to come back to me and then, just as I’m moving on with my life, here he is complicating things.

He knows it, too. I can see it in his eyes. He moves nearer now, too near, and says in a low voice, ‘That your boss you were with?’

‘He’s a good friend, actually, and I am with him still.’ I’m talking too loudly, I know it, but I want to be as transparent as possible.

‘He looks a lot like the guy you work for.’

‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘He’s my boss as well, OK. Happy now?’

He smirks and leans even closer. ‘Getting it on with the boss, eh? Not just a pretty face. But I’m guessing it’s not serious.’

‘Why?’ Shit. Just what he wanted, to draw me in.

‘Look at the way he’s eyeing up that pretty blonde. The one with the girl your brother’s talking to. I’d say she was more his type, wouldn’t you?’ He shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall of the house. ‘Men tend to go for women with similar colouring to them, don’t you think? Like me and you,’ he adds with a wink.

Do not let him get to you, Stella. You know what he’s trying to do. My brain is telling me this but my heart is panicking, and I can’t help glancing over to where Paul and Billy stand with two very attractive girls hanging onto their every word. Get over there, my brain says. Go and be with your man. What, and give him the satisfaction of knowing I’m jealous? Yes, it squeals desperately, if that’s what it takes, yes!

But I stay glued to the spot, letting John Dean’s hypnotic voice drone on in my ear. He’s talking about Lipsy now, about how he feels about becoming a granddad, and then he moves on to some plan or other he has for a new business. I’m not interested. I’m watching Paul. He looks over in my direction a couple of times and I throw him happy, light-hearted smiles that are completely false, smiles he doesn’t return.

Come and rescue me then, I think to myself. If you’re so bothered that my ex is monopolising me why don’t you be a man and do something about it? If you really cared you’d be over here right now, bringing me some food or a drink, staking your claim. Or maybe you’re not that bothered after all.

The afternoon grinds on relentlessly. Lipsy and Robert drift back over now that I’m no longer screeching at her father, bringing with them a tray of over-cooked chicken wings and some sorry-looking ribs. God knows who’s manning the barbeque – a sexist word if ever there was one: manning. And it turns out to be wrong as well, as it’s my mother who’s cremating all the food.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’ my beautiful daughter asks me.

I peer at her through the fog of smoke. My baby, my little baby. She’s got her hand resting lightly on her stomach, a gesture I think she’s unaware of. Protecting her own little baby. My eyes start to fill up with hot tears. Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the stress of the last couple of months, but I’m suddenly feeling very emotional.

And where’s Paul when I need him, eh? Where’s my man, my rock, my… oh, forget it. What’s the point? There he is, chatting up Milton Keynes’ answer to Kate Moss. And here I am, slightly pissed and leaning on my feckless ex for support. This is not how it was supposed to be.

‘Mum?’ Lipsy says, concerned now I’m openly sobbing. ‘What’s wrong?’

But I can’t seem to get the words out. I can’t tell her how much I love her and how proud I am. Or how tired I am of struggling on my own, scrabbling about for every penny to pay for the things I think we need to make us happy. Instead I cry. It works for me.

An arm surrounds me and starts to lead me into the house. I turn to find out who it belongs to. Paul, hopefully, or at least my mother. Or, at the
very
least, Billy.

But no. The arm belongs to John Dean, as does the shoulder I’m now rubbing my face against and the hand that’s veering down my back towards my bottom. And as I’m led away, the embarrassing spectre at the feast, I’m not too drunk to know that I’m being watched very closely indeed.

Chapter 21

Putting my head in a vice and squeezing it until my eyes pop out would probably hurt less than the hangover I have this morning. It is also very possibly something that Paul would really like to do to me himself, judging by his expression when I turn up an hour late for work. It’s unfair, I think as I brazen out his thundering glare, I’m hardly ever late. And I work really hard when I am here, not like some I could mention (Joe, for example – oops, I mentioned him). I may have taken a very long lunch on Friday afternoon, and now have a stack of filing the size of Africa, but that was hardly my fault was it?

‘Is it fancy dress today?’ says Loretta, as I try to slip behind my desk unnoticed. She sneers at me and then calls out in a sing-song voice, ‘Paul! Stella’s decided to grace us with her presence.’

I give her a look that says,
Why are you doing this to me?
and then put on my most winning smile as my boss emerges from behind his office-divider. He does not look a happy man.

‘Why are you late?’

‘I’m not. I’ve been here all morning. I’ve been working so hard you just haven’t noticed me, is all.’

Now, there was a time when this kind of response would have had Paul in stitches, and all I would have received in the way of a reprimand was a playful punch on the arm and the order to buy him lunch.

Sadly, for reasons I still do not fully understand, those days have gone.

‘If you’re late again I’m going to dock your wages,’ he states flatly. ‘There’s a lot of work to do and you’ll have to stay late to make up the time.’

So much for the sexy smiles and the gazing deep into my eyes. So much for the promise to help me out as much as he can. So much for unspoken promises of unbridled passion.

Paul retreats back into his enclave and I am left speechless in the middle of the office, with Loretta smirking to herself and Susan and Joe pretending to be busy, hiding their embarrassment behind serious faces. I can’t believe it. Yes, I was a bit late but there is no need to ball me out in front of everyone. What kind of a friend does that?

One that isn’t in too much of a rush to drag me into bed, clearly!

Humiliated, I slump across my desk, catching sight of myself in the mirrored displays as I do. Oh, great. So that’s where the fancy dress comment came from. I look like a brunette Bet Lynch, my hair a bird’s nest and my hastily applied eye make-up already smeared down my cheeks. Not the effect I was aiming for when I got up this morning.

I work solidly and steadily for three hours then, listening to my stomach and reasoning even Paul in a bad mood wouldn’t expect me to miss lunch, I walk up to the shopping centre for some food. I grab an extra sandwich for Paul – a peace offering – and hot-foot it back to the office.

‘Eat me,’ I squeak, creeping up behind him and slipping the sandwich on to his desk.

I’m gratified – not to mention relieved – when he smiles just a little.

‘Hello,’ he says tiredly, picking up the sandwich and peeling off the wrapper. ‘Thanks for this.’

‘No problem,’ I whisper, and then I slip back to my desk, quitting while I’m ahead, satisfied that the delicate equilibrium has been restored. For now, at least.

***

Sometime around five o’clock, when the office is quiet and Paul is out on a viewing, I pick up the phone and dial John Dean’s number. It’s a tough job but someone has to do it.

Yes, I’ll admit I was tempted. Briefly. It would be pretty stupid of me to deny it. My daughter’s father is a good-looking man and you can’t wipe out a history like ours overnight. But – and it’s taken me a long time to realise this – sometimes things don’t work out for a reason. And sometimes that reason is simply that they weren’t supposed to.

When he answers the phone I ask him to meet me at Café Crème in an hour. He has made his feelings pretty clear this time. Yesterday he came right out and suggested we give it another go. I was pissed, so he was taking advantage a little. The only answer I could give him was that I would think about it, which I have. For about sixteen years. Maybe I should have talked to Lipsy first, find out what she thinks – would she like to have her mother and father back together again? Should I be basing my decision on what my daughter thinks? Probably not. And I have a feeling, a pretty strong feeling, that Lipsy would tell me to do whatever made me happy. That’s what I’d tell her.