Love Nest (20 page)

21

Dear Gwen,

So I had my ‘date’ with Richie. It went as well as could be expected, I suppose. I’m not sure we have all that much in common but he is very amiable. I’m sure I bored him silly, though! I don’t think there’ll be a re-run in any case and that’s probably no bad thing, I’m so busy packing up the house and…

Grace stopped typing, suddenly overwhelmed with despair. The grandfather clock had just struck two, but she’d been unable to sleep. She’d goofed. Totally and utterly messed things up. She kept trying to tell herself that Richie Prescott was not actually so wonderful himself, that sometimes as he kept on and on about great property deals he’d done she’d been a little bored. But that didn’t matter. He was a man. He had asked her out. And he wouldn’t again. Because she’d been too fat. The only chance to escape from her ghetto, to join the world of people who married and had children, who lived like Sebby and Verity, had eluded her.

Only one thing could fix this. She hurried down the stairs and along the cold dark corridor to the kitchen. She flung open the breadbin, pulled out two slices, threw them in the Aga toaster and slammed the hotplate lid down. The dogs, asleep in their baskets, stirred in confusion. Grace shushed them as she stared at the toaster, willing it to hurry up. Why had she thrown all the biscuits and sweets away? It had all been a waste of time.

Before the bread was barely scorched, she pulled up the Aga lid and crammed the toast into her mouth. Carbohydrates rushed round her body and her mood temporarily soared. She shoved in two more slices as she chomped, and this time slathered them in rock-hard, fridge butter. Then two with peanut butter. Two with jam. Two with cheese.

The bread was finished. She opened the pantry cupboard. A few bags of rice and pasta. It would take too long to cook them. Grace took a handful of dry penne and stuffed them into her mouth, crunching the dusty, dry chips. She washed them down with a pint of milk straight from the fridge.

Then she buried her face in her arms and she cried and she cried.

He wasn’t there. Lucinda paced up and down Flat 15, jumping at every sound. She checked her hair in Gemma’s bathroom mirror, splashed water on her face to help herself cool down, then decided her make-up needed touching up – but she had none to hand apart from the little compact and tiny bottle of Ô de Lancôme she kept in her bag.

She didn’t dare help herself to any of Gemma’s cosmetics. She daren’t put on music, light a candle – any of the things she might have normally done to create an ambience – in case she left traces.

Television was obviously out of the question, so she picked a paperback about American politics off the crowded bookshelf and tried to read. But after not taking in ten pages, she got up and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. She looked so square in her suit, like a girl from Geneva rather than a rock chick. She wondered if she should have gone home and changed, but even in jeans and a T-shirt and Benjie’s leather studded belt, her skin would have been too clear, her eyes too bright, her cheeks too flushed for her ever to masquerade as Amy Winehouse. And surely that was the kind of woman Nick would be into?

Fifteen minutes later, however, she’d stopped fretting about pleasing Nick and instead was merely wondering why he hadn’t shown up. Was he stuck in traffic? Or was he with his girlfriend? She tried his mobile but there was no reply, not even his voice, just the O2 messaging lady. She didn’t say anything. She was on the verge of going home when the doorbell rang.

‘Hello?’ she said tremulously into the intercom.

‘It’s me.’

As soon as he stepped through the door she was in his arms. They slid down to the floor, with her pulling his T-shirt out of his trousers and grappling with his belt. She couldn’t get it undone, so he helped her. She ran her hands along his pelvis, so beautifully hinged, like her school protractor. His eyes were dark and narrow. It was all so quick and hot and he was kissing her all over her face, her neck, her nipples. She held on to him and dug her nails into his back.

‘You’re so fucking sexy,’ he said.

She wriggled out of her trousers, then grabbed his hand and guided his fingers inside her, desperate for him to feel her wetness. Her thighs were dissolving. She opened up her legs for him. It was the best sex she’d ever had in her life, in a different league from all those fumblings with nervous Pierres and Xaviers in spare bedrooms in ski-resort chalets that a gang of them had taken over for the weekend. She grabbed his buttocks to have him as deep inside her as possible, tilted her hips up at him, biting into his shoulder. She came with a shriek of ecstasy and he collapsed on top of her with a sort of roar. He rolled beside her and they lay quietly for a very long time.

‘Oh,’ she said eventually.

They both started to laugh.

‘Did you like that, then?’ he asked.

She shrugged. ‘No, not really.’

‘Nor me.’

They giggled some more.

Nick looked around the room. Huge, rather spooky shadows from the windows fell across the walls. ‘So why couldn’t we go back to your place?’

‘My brother’s there. Why couldn’t we go back to yours?’

He was silent.

‘It’s because you have a girlfriend.’

‘How do you know that?’ he said, though he didn’t sound particularly surprised.

She had enough nous not to tell him she’d been googling him. ‘I saw her at the gig.’

‘I see.’ For a second, he looked uncomfortable, then he said, ‘It’s all over. We’re on the rocks. That’s why I’m buying the flat. And she’s looking for her own place.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Lucinda’s very highly attuned bullshit detector didn’t quite buy this. But she wanted to believe him, so she decided that for now she would.

‘You are the most incredible woman I have ever met in my life,’ he whispered, running his fingers up her thighs.

‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ she joked.

He looked intently into her eyes. ‘No. I don’t.’

She was thrilled. No one had ever singled her out in this way before, or if they had they hadn’t been worth it. To hide her excitement, she traced the edges of his blue-and-gold dragon tattoo with a fingernail.

‘What’s all this about then?’

‘It symbolizes protection. Strength. George V had one, you know.’ He flexed his long, thin arm. ‘Look, it’s as if it’s moving.’

‘Did it hurt?’

‘Not really,’ he shrugged.

Lucinda tried to envisage Henri De Villiers, the boy she’d lost her virginity to, with a tattoo hidden under his pinstriped shirt. She couldn’t. But she was distracted anyway, by Nick’s fingers, which had begun to probe inside her again.

They had a near sleepless night, fuelled by a pizza they found in the freezer. They fell asleep just before dawn and woke around noon and made love again.

‘So what is it your dad really does?’ Nick asked, when they finally stopped for a breather.

‘He works in property. That’s why I’m here. Learning a bit before I join the family business.’

‘So he’s rich.’

‘It depends what you mean by rich. What does
your
dad do?’ she parried.

‘I wouldn’t fucking know. He walked out when I was six. Haven’t seen him since.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He was a bastard. Treated my mum like shit.’

‘My dad doesn’t treat my mum too well, either.’ She paused. ‘He’s always having affairs. Various mistresses. We’re not meant to know anything about it, but it’s usually common knowledge. I mean, he goes on holiday with them and things. Calls them his PA but they’ll be the mother of someone from my class at school. Or the big sister on one occasion. I don’t know why Mummy doesn’t say anything. I guess she feels there’s too much to lose. I mean… our house is pretty big and she has lovely clothes and she’s very much a figure on the Geneva scene. And she came from a very ordinary background, so I guess she’s scared of what she might go back to, even though she’d get a ton of alimony. But I think she’s doing it all wrong. I think she should kick him out. I mean I love him. Love him more than I love her, but still. She needs to show some dignity.’

It was probably the longest speech Lucinda had ever made about her family. She stopped, slightly astonished.

‘Well, my mum was right to kick my dad out but she’s still not exactly Mrs Happy. Living on the sixteenth floor of a tower block watching Jeremy Kyle all day. Stuffed full of Valium.’

‘My mum takes Valium too,’ Lucinda laughed at the unlikely coincidence. ‘Has done for years.’ She paused. ‘Have you really not seen your father since you were six?’

‘Nope. I’ve had a postcard once or twice. I wish… Well, whenever I’m in the papers or whatever, I sort of hope he might see me. When I do a gig I wonder if he might be out there. But I’ve heard nothing. Maybe he’s dead.’

Lucinda was touched. Gently she pushed back a strand of his hair, which had fallen over his forehead. She felt a closeness to him she’d not felt towards any human being for years. She was so used to keeping it all buttoned up.

‘Maybe we should go for a walk?’ she suggested.

‘What for?’

She was a little shocked. Didn’t Nick know that Fresh Air was a Good Thing that must be partaken of every day for at least twenty minutes?

‘People might see us,’ he said. ‘And that could be awkward.’

‘Oh. Yes. Right.’

For the first time in the past twenty-four hours her bubble was pricked. Why did he care if people saw them? She reasoned she didn’t want her family to know about him either. But his situation was different – he had a girlfriend.

‘How long have you been with her?’ she blurted out.

He looked amused. ‘Are you jealous?’

‘Of course not,’ she lied.

‘That’s weird. I’d be jealous if you had a boyfriend.’

‘You said it was all over between you. Why should I be jealous?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And how long have you been together?’

‘Why does it matter? Seven years.’

‘
Seven years
?’ Of course. She’d been his childhood sweetheart. Still, Lucinda felt bruised all down the front of her body, as if she’d been punched. ‘So it’s serious.’

‘It was serious. But we’ve drifted apart. We like different things now.’ Nick hated himself for saying it. But it was true. Wasn’t it?

‘What does she do?’ Lucinda was persisting.

‘She’s a nail technician. Does manicures.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘It’s boring. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to fuck you again.’

At around five, she insisted she really did have to leave.

‘Why?’

‘The Meehans will be back at some point. And I have things to do at home. Like laundry.’

Nick felt a sense of anti-climax. He’d begun thinking of Lucinda as some kind of goddess. Foreign. Obviously rich. Exactly the kind of woman he should be with. Why was she talking about laundry? That was a Kylie sort of remark.

‘Can you come back later?’ he asked.

‘No. I can’t. I’ve told you, I’m not sure when the Meehans return.’

More disillusionment. ‘OK,’ he pouted. ‘I’ll see you then.’ He pulled on his jacket.

‘I’ll tidy up,’ she said, glancing round. ‘Make sure everything’s exactly as we found it.’

‘You do that. See you.’ He headed towards the door.

‘Nick! Wait!’

‘What?’ he said, looking bored.

‘I’ll… be in touch about the sale.’

‘Yeah, all right then.’ The door slammed shut and yet again Lucinda was left terrified and exhilarated, as if her world had just been struck by a meteorite and was now spinning, uncharted, into a black hole.

22

Max Bennett was sitting at his desk feeling hungover and irritable. He’d had another row with Heather last night – she’d been on at him again about moving in and he’d finally told her he didn’t want it.

She’d cried, and he’d felt like a bastard, but then they’d ended up in bed together and in the morning she’d left while he was in the shower with a merry ‘Cheerio, then!’ and he’d been left covered in Imperial Leather suds, furious at his cowardice, at his inability to knock this thing on the head and give poor Heather, who really was a very nice girl, just not the one for him, a chance to settle down with a nice man.

Max hadn’t met anyone he wanted to settle down with and he wasn’t sure that would change. He enjoyed life the way it was.

At least he usually enjoyed it. Max looked at his screen. He’d just filed 600 words on Jordan’s new boyfriend. He hadn’t gone into journalism for this. He’d been hoping to be breaking scoops à la Watergate. But that kind of journalism had died out along with bus conductors and payphones; his brother Jeremy had enjoyed the tail end of it and then got out and moved into the lucrative world of PR. Max had followed in his footsteps, but these days the industry was in such dire straits he felt like a hansom cab driver after the invention of the automobile, knowing his days were distinctly numbered.

His mobile started ringing. Shit. Heather. Quickly he turned it off and shoved it in his pocket. The office was humming away as ever, but a few people had sloped off from their desks for lunch. Time for a break; Max decided he’d go for a walk, perhaps up to Kensington Gardens, to enjoy the glorious spring weather.

He walked up Kensington High Street and into the gardens. Round the pond twice, dodging necking tourists and gleeful toddlers. He was about to sit on a bench and feel the sun on his skin when he did a double-take. Occupying the bench already was Karen Drake.

For a second he watched her. Like every time he saw her, Max was struck by her beauty. Absolutely nothing like Heather, who was blonde and tall and voluptuous; Karen was almost on the scrawny side. And certainly a lot more tired-looking than when she’d been Jeremy’s girlfriend. But there was something so intriguing about her, Max had always thought so, and seeing her sitting there, staring ahead, unaware of his scrutiny, indeed unaware of anyone, he felt as if he was nineteen again: watching from a distance, in total awe.

He wondered if he should run for it. He’d wondered about calling her after their lunch, but she hadn’t seemed to particularly enjoy it and then the Heather stuff and the demands of the new job had taken over.

He was about to back away, when she looked up. Straight at him.

‘Hello!’ She sounded friendly enough.

‘Hello. How’s it going?’

‘Fine.’ She pushed her sunglasses up on to her head. ‘Just taking a break from the article I’m editing about how
the
make-up trend for hair this summer will be structure. Whatever that means. How about you?’

‘A ten-minute breather. You know what I said about how life would be easier at the
Post
?’

‘Mmm.’

‘Well, they conned me. Like someone asking you for their Tube fare home. And I fell for it.’

Karen laughed sympathetically. ‘I didn’t want to say anything, but you did seem a little bit naive about it all.’

There was a tiny pause and then he said, ‘Listen, sorry I haven’t been in touch since our lunch. I was hoping to do it again sooner, but like I say I’ve been on the rack.’

‘That’s OK,’ she shrugged.

‘Do you fancy a coffee?’

‘What, now?’

‘If you still have time before you need to get back.’

‘Not sure where to go for coffee round here,’ she said.

‘Let’s have an ice cream, then,’ Max exclaimed, nodding at a nearby van. ‘A 99?’

He thought she’d say no. But she stood up. ‘Did you know Mrs Thatcher invented 99s? Before she became a politician?’ she asked, starting to walk towards the van.

He did know, but he didn’t want to be rude, so he said, ‘No! Really? When? When she was a chemist?’

‘Mmm, hmm. She was on a team that worked out how to preserve Mister Softee. Another thing to be grateful to her for. Or not.’ She glanced at him sideways. ‘I’m forgetting, Mrs Thatcher probably seems to you like Churchill did to me. Ancient history.’

‘Not at all,’ he said indignantly. ‘My mum used to frighten me with her when I was a kid. Said she’d come and get me instead of the bogeyman.’

Karen laughed. ‘Yes, I remember your mum, she was very…’

‘Champagne socialist.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ They both laughed. They ordered two ice creams from the van.

‘I’ll get these,’ Max said, as she fumbled in her bag for her purse.

‘No, I insist. My turn.’

‘OK, the next lunch is on me though. Somewhere nice.’ He had no idea where that flirtatious remark had come from. He hadn’t planned on another lunch with Karen. Apart from anything, nobody lunched any more; the concept was a throwback to the boom years, like first-generation iPods and waiting lists for handbags. Happily, Karen seemed not to have registered it.

They sat down on a nearby bench.

‘Well, this is decadent,’ she said.

‘Not by your standards. In the old days didn’t you always polish off a bottle of wine at lunchtime?’

‘Not just me! Everyone. Sometimes two. And then we’d go back and work our butts off all afternoon unearthing scoops, bringing governments to their knees.’

‘And then you’d go to the pub and drink some more.’

‘It’s all true. Your generation are complete wusses in comparison to us: living on a diet of Red Bull and vitamin water. Not that I’m any better. I remember when I used to long to stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. Now my first thought on receiving any party invitation is: “Oh God, I wonder how early we can leave.” ’ She stopped short. ‘Sorry. I don’t want to frighten you with stories of family life. Your poor girlfriend won’t thank me.’

At the mention of Heather, he flinched slightly. ‘Jeremy’s just the same,’ he said cheerily, not wanting to go there. ‘Says his idea of perfect happiness is going to bed at nine. So what news on your move?’

Karen looked wary. ‘Nothing as yet.’

‘You haven’t resigned?’

She shook her head. ‘The house sale might fall through. I don’t want to be jobless until I know for sure.’

‘Sounds like you don’t want to be jobless at all.’

Karen bit into her Flake. He noticed the diamond ring flashing on her left hand. What had she said her husband was? Venture capitalist? Loaded.

‘It worries me a bit that I can get so much satisfaction out of putting together a hundred pages a week on diets and star beauty secrets and the five best flip-flops on the market. But I do. Even with all Christine’s histrionics. I love all the daily little challenges, and the people around me and being in control and…’

But Max was finishing her sentence.

‘… And maybe you haven’t felt in control so much recently.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Your husband was ill. My mum died of ovarian cancer. Seven years ago. I know what it’s like. You try everything. Spend hours on the internet researching cures, working out who’s the best doctor. But in the end, it’s out of your hands. We were unlucky. Your husband was lucky. Neither of us could have had a say in the outcome.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘No reason why you should.’ Max shrugged, as the familiar wave of grief smacked him on the head. ‘It just means I know a bit of what you must have gone through. Though for you it must have been one hundred times worse. With young children. I can’t…’ He shook his head.

‘It was awful,’ she said quietly.

They smiled sideways at each other. She had a lovely smile, perfect, small white even teeth. He imagined them biting down on…

Max! She was married and almost old enough to be his mother.

‘So,’ she said briskly, as if she’d sensed his thoughts and wanted to snuff them out. ‘Have you seen any good films lately?’

Gemma was sitting in the ‘chill-out’ area in the mezzanine, looking out over the sun-streaked back streets of Clerkenwell, phone tucked under her chin as she talked to Bridget. But she couldn’t concentrate on the conversation; all she could think about was the latest blow. They’d had a great weekend in Belfast for Alex’s dad’s sixty-fifth, but on the Monday when they returned she’d received crushing news. Bridget had a cyst on one of her ovaries. Which meant the egg extraction had to be postponed for the time being.

‘We need the eggs to be in the best possible condition,’ explained the clinic nurse, Sian. ‘A cyst is usually only a temporary problem. We’ve given Bridget some tablets and they should zap it.’

‘Everything will work out,’ Bridget was assuring her now, down the phone. ‘I can just
feel
it.’

‘How can you feel it?’ Gemma couldn’t help the bitterness that crept in.

‘I just… Don’t be negative, Gems. That’s not going to get us anywhere.’

‘I’m not being negative. I’ve had a look online and there are tons of things we – I mean you – can do. Maitake mushrooms can help.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll track some down. And pokeroot oil. And you should avoid body lotion because apparently that exacerbates cysts!’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Bridget sounded as if she were fifteen and Mum was nagging her to do her homework.

‘So how’s it going with Massy?’ Gemma said, realizing she’d better back off.

‘Really well. He says I’m his dream lover and must have been put on this earth to make his happiness complete.’

‘He sounds almost too good to be true.’

‘He is. So did you fill in all the forms last time you went in?’

‘Yes. Both of us.’ A green form each, Gemma consenting to having an embryo placed inside her, Alex consenting to have his sperm used to make said embryo. Please let the day happen.

‘Me too. And I had to write the baby a goodwill message. And write a portrait of myself. Which is kind of silly because of course the baby’s going to know me. But it’s nice to think if I was run over by a bus or something, my baby would have something personal to remember me by.’

‘ “
My
baby?” ’ Gemma felt herself stiffening.

‘My baby. Your baby. Whoever’s. We’ve been through all that. Let’s just hope you don’t let me down, eh? That you’re able to carry it.’

Gemma felt giddy with unease. ‘What about you letting
me
down?’ she said, trying to sound breezy.

‘Absolutely. Dervla went on a lot about that, how I mustn’t feel guilty if my eggs weren’t good enough, blah blah. As if I would. I mean it’s not up to me, is it? How’s Alex, anyway?’

‘Busy. His trial’s started so he’s getting about three hours’ sleep a night.’ Gemma stared out of the window, breathing deeply, determined not to let Bridget know how unnerved she was. Far below she noticed a young woman standing on the pavement staring up at the flats. She had bleached blonde hair, an obviously fake tan and wore a short blue puffa jacket over white jeans. All very bling, not grungy Clerkenwell at all. There was a troubled look on her pretty, round face as she scanned the building.

‘Alex works too hard, you know. And what about the flat sale?’

‘Oh, we’ve had a victory on that. Sort of. He’s only going to take twenty-five grand off now.’

‘Alex hangs tough as usual.’

Gemma had had enough. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, there’s someone on the other line. I’ll call you later, OK? ‘Bye.’

She hung up feeling quite ill. What on earth was she doing? Was she doomed to a lifetime of Bridget referring to Chudney as hers? Interfering. Judging the decisions she and Alex made as parents. It was going to be a nightmare. Why hadn’t she gone for the anonymous donor?

It was on days like these she wished she still worked, had something to take her mind off her worries. She’d go for a swim, she decided. She grabbed her swimming bag, put on her raincoat and headed for the lift. Its doors opened and the blonde she’d seen on the street stepped out. She looked around, clearly unsure what to do or where to go. Normally Gemma followed the first rule of London life: never speak to anyone unless you have been introduced to them at a dinner party, and never make eye contact with anyone except blood relations. But now she heard herself saying, ‘Can I help you?’

‘Yes. I’m looking for Flat 15.’

‘Flat 15? That’s where I live.’

‘Oh, right!’ The woman smiled nervously. She had a northern accent. Gemma was unnerved. Was she selling something? Or a Christian?

‘Can I help you?’

‘I think my boyfriend and I are buying your flat. So I was wondering if I could take a look at it.’

‘Your boyfriend? Nick Crex?’

‘Yeah, that’s him.’

‘Oh.’ Gemma was surprised. Obviously, she was pretty – very pretty – but Gemma had imagined someone a bit hipper. More edgy. Alexa Chung rather than Jordan’s little, shyer sister.

‘He really is, do you want me to prove it?’ She wasn’t annoyed, more pleading. As if she were used to the raised eyebrows. She opened her bag. ‘Look, here’s our gas bill. We’ve got all the utilities in both our names.’

Gemma glanced at it: an address in NW3 and Nicholas Crex and Kylie Baxter. ‘So how come you haven’t seen the flat before?’

‘I only just found out he’s buying it. And I was curious.’

‘But your partner came and had a look on Friday,’ Gemma said. ‘Again.’

‘Again? How many times has he been here?’

She looked stricken. Gemma felt suddenly uneasy. ‘Um, a couple of times, I think. I’m not sure.’

‘Right.’ She paused. ‘He said he’s buying it as an investment. To rent out.’

‘Does he? Well, he’s certainly been putting us through the mill over it, so please tell him to make up his mind.’

‘I see. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ Gemma said, touched by how pale she looked. ‘Look, since you’re here, come in.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ As she headed back down the corridor, Kylie following, it occurred to her that perhaps this wasn’t an altogether brilliant idea. That the vendor was meant to have absolutely no contact whatsoever with the seller, that Kylie might not like the flat and talk Nick Crex out of it. But sod it. You had to believe in karma. By being kind to Kylie, the rest of the sale would go swimmingly and the cyst would be cured too.