With or Without You (2 page)

Sure enough, the train was already pulling in as she arrived, out of breath. Several other commuters looked at her curiously and she smiled to herself, delighted that even at thirty-six, she
still had the ability to turn heads. She proudly shook her long, chestnut hair, which was dry by now and which she knew was her crowning glory. She never did anything with it except for washing it
each morning, yet it was glossy and thick enough to appear in a shampoo commercial.

She found a seat beside a large, pink-faced woman, who had already marked her territory by placing her arm fully on the rest that separated the two seats. Martha raised an eyebrow, knowing that
for the hour-long journey there would be a battle of wills over who eventually got the armrest. It annoyed her when other people did it but she had to admit she was one of the worst culprits if she
got there first.

She plugged in her headphones, earning herself a scowl from the woman which she swiftly deflected with a beaming smile, and pulled out her cuttings on Charlie Simmons, the actor she was meeting
that day. It was to be the first of a number of meetings, as she had been assigned to ghost-write his memoirs. It was the first time she had been asked to write a book and she felt
uncharacteristically nervous; it was one thing to do an in-depth profile, but it was a much bigger leap to write a life story. The book had been commissioned after Charlie’s Oscar nomination
for his most recent film, in which he had played a very famous interviewer, and he was tipped to be the ‘next big thing’ in Hollywood, the latest British export to hit the big-time.

But Martha had heard that he could be tricky when it came to journalists. Usually, she never worried when she was warned that someone could be difficult; she quite often thought that she would
be difficult herself if someone wrote horrible things about her. And judging by his cuttings, there was plenty for Charlie Simmons to be upset about, but if she was going to be spending a lot of
time with him, Martha needed him to warm to her and, more than that, she desperately wanted to do a good job. This assignment could lead to a whole new career for her if she did it well.

Martha’s father had been a newspaper editor, as well known for his violent temper as he was for his brilliance. He had inspired Martha to become a journalist in the first place, but she
had never forgotten him telling her that every morning he got up and looked in the mirror, thinking that today would be the day he finally got found out. It was something she constantly experienced
herself. She couldn’t believe she’d made it so far without any of the problems that seemed to dog many of her female contemporaries, who were unhappily single or whose careers had been
held back by their over-reliance on alcohol. She had managed to combine a very stable, happy home life with a successful career.

Martha looked out of the train window at the lush patchwork of green and yellow countryside flashing by in the early morning June sunshine and thought about her father’s words now,
wondering if this assignment would be the one where she finally fell flat on her face. The one where she finally got found out.

After waving Martha off to work, Jamie joined Mimi and Tom at the kitchen table, where they were still finishing breakfast.

‘Yuk, Dad, put some clothes on!’ Mimi frowned as she took a bite of her toast. ‘It’s
gross
being naked at the breakfast table!’

‘I’m not naked,’ Jamie protested, ‘I’ve got boxer shorts on. And this isn’t a breakfast table, it’s just a table. An ordinary, bog-standard
table.’

Mimi smiled. At eleven years old, Jamie knew she loved these silly exchanges. The three of them regularly had heated debates about the most stupid of things.

‘I would say . . .’ Tom began in a considered voice that belied his eight years, ‘that it could be classed as a breakfast table, if you’re eating breakfast from
it.’

Mimi glanced at her brother suspiciously. He didn’t usually agree with her in these debates. ‘Yes,’ she said carefully. ‘That’s right. And if you’re eating
dinner, it becomes a dinner table.’

‘Aah, but what if you’re eating an apple? Or some grapes?’ Jamie cut in. ‘Does it therefore then become an apple table? Or a grape table?’

‘No, because that’s not a proper meal. You only name the table after proper meals.’ Mimi nodded slightly as she finished speaking, causing her long blonde hair to pool around
her shoulders.

‘And does it depend on what the meal is?’ Jamie looked up at the ceiling, as if he was giving considerable thought to the issue. ‘For instance, does it become a curry table if
one is eating curry? Or a—’

‘Yuk,’ interrupted Tom, wrinkling his pert little nose. ‘I hate curry. It’s
never
going to be a curry table.’

‘No,’ Mimi said decisively, getting up from the table as if to emphasise that the debate was at an end. ‘It makes no difference what the content of the meal is, it’s the
time
of day that it’s eaten that determines what the table is called.’ She loaded her plate and bowl into the dishwasher. ‘To name it after the individual food
that’s eaten at the table would be time-consuming and, frankly, a bit stupid,’ she finished.

‘I’d still like to make the case for it sometimes being called a snack table,’ Jamie said. ‘We eat an awful lot of what could only be described as snacks around this
table. What do we call it at these awkward, in-between times?’

‘I think we can agree that depending on the time of day, there will be a suitable name for the table,’ Mimi said, washing her hands at the kitchen sink. ‘Let’s say that
up until eleven a.m., it’s a breakfast table. From eleven a.m. until, say, five p.m. it’s a lunch table and—’

‘That’s a dangerously long lunch though?’ Jamie protested.

‘I think we can live with it,’ Mimi replied curtly. ‘And from five p.m. onwards, it’s a dinner table.’

‘Okaaaay,’ Jamie agreed reluctantly, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

‘Dad, we need to go to school,’ Mimi said in a stern voice that always reminded him so much of Martha. ‘We don’t have time to continue this extremely important debate
now. If necessary, we can return to it after school.’

‘Around the table that is yet to be named?” Jamie countered.

‘Grow up, Dad,’ Mimi replied, coming over to kiss him before heading upstairs to brush her teeth.

‘OK, buddy,’ Jamie said, turning to Tom and ruffling his blond mop. ‘Time to brush those teeth.’ Tom pulled a face but trudged reluctantly towards the stairs.

Jamie watched his son’s retreating back affectionately. Tom was a good kid but he would happily never shower or brush his teeth if he was left to his own devices. Jamie couldn’t be
cross with him as he knew he’d been much the same at that age.

After he had cleared away the breakfast things, Jamie set about making the children’s packed lunches. He had got into the habit of putting little riddles and notes into each of their
lunchboxes and it was becoming an increasingly elaborate process. To begin with, he used to scribble something silly on a bit of scrap paper. Now he found himself planning in advance what he was
going to do and would print it out the day before. Sometimes, if the children couldn’t figure out the answer, the three of them would work on it after school until they came up with the
solution. Martha laughed at him for making such a big deal out of it, but Jamie loved challenging them and it gave him a small purpose each day.

His role as a stay-at-home dad was the obvious solution for the Lamont-Smith family. Martha earned considerably more than Jamie would if he worked full-time, and she got to spend more time at
home between assignments than he would have done, so it made perfect sense. They had agreed early on that they didn’t want to employ a nanny while they both worked because they wanted the
children to have at least one parent at home. And as they lived an hour outside of London, meaning a long commute, and both worked odd hours, it would have been impossible with a nanny anyway
unless she lived-in, and neither of them wanted that invasion of privacy.

Over time, they had found a way to make it work, but it hadn’t been easy. In the beginning, Jamie had felt emasculated and impotent earning so little money and having to rely on Martha.
But Martha had made it easier by setting up a standing order so that half of her money was paid directly into Jamie’s account each month, meaning he could take responsibility for paying the
household bills.

Jamie was therefore in charge of the family’s finances, which helped him to feel more in control. For her part, Martha struggled being away from him and the children, so he wanted to do
all he could to make it work for her. He never called her when there was a problem, unless absolutely essential, like the time he had had to take Tom to hospital when he thought he had meningitis,
and he never let her know if the children cried because they were missing her.

In return, Martha had learned not to complain that the house was a mess or that the children had had pizza again for their dinner, because all that really mattered was that they were happy and
healthy. And they were, Jamie thought proudly now, as he put their lunchboxes in the hall beside their book bags. They were such interesting, intelligent and well-balanced children, and he knew
that he had played a major role in making them that way. Whatever else he achieved in his life, nothing would compare with making a success of bringing up his children; he had a bond with them that
he knew was rare and was borne of spending so much time in each other’s company.

Mimi was the first to come down the stairs, now wearing her regulation summer uniform of navy blue skirt and pale blue polo shirt. Her long hair was loose and in her hand she clutched her
favourite silver scrunchie and a large hairbrush. ‘Will you do my plait, please, Dad?’ she asked, handing him the brush and scrunchie and spinning around so that she had her back to
him.

‘You betcha!’ Jamie grinned at her and thought, just as he did every day, how very beautiful she was becoming. He brushed through her hair and deftly tied it into a thick plait.
‘How’s that?’ he turned her so that she could look at herself in the large hall mirror.

‘Fab, thanks, Dad,’ she replied, bending to pick up her lunchbox and book bag. ‘See you later, love you – oh, and do put some clothes on,’ she added, kissing him on
the cheek, before setting off in the direction of the school, which was just five doors down the street.

Jamie watched her go, smiling to himself. She was so like her mother. He and Martha had met fourteen years previously when they had both been taken on as trainees on a national newspaper. Jamie
had fancied Martha immediately, but she wasn’t so easily won over. She had a boyfriend from her university days, and although she seemed to like Jamie and was friendly towards him, she
appeared to be impervious to his charms.

As a tall, handsome, Scandinavian-looking blond, Jamie was used to women falling at his feet, and so it came as a shock when Martha resolutely refused to do so. He tried absolutely every tactic,
from trying to make her jealous by getting off with the editorial secretary at the Christmas party, to taking her out and getting her drunk, but nothing seemed to work. The boyfriend was apparently
there to stay.

In the end, deciding he had nothing to lose, Jamie got drunk himself and declared his undying love for her, asking her outright if she would leave her boring boyfriend and go out with him
instead. To his astonishment, Martha told him in a very matter-of-fact way that she had already finished with her boyfriend because she had fallen in love with Jamie, and that if he asked her again
in the morning when he had sobered up, the answer would be ‘yes’. The next morning, in between bouts of retching and endless cups of black coffee, Jamie repeated his declaration and
asked her again. True to her word, she said ‘yes’, and they had been together ever since.

Their relationship had worked so perfectly from the start that it was clear that they were meant to be together. They rarely argued and were both placid and easy-going personalities, but there
was also an intense, enduring passion between them. Even after two children, their sex life was as strong as ever and Jamie still found himself hardening at the merest thought of Martha naked. She
had an incredible body, with surprisingly large breasts and a perfectly rounded bottom, despite her slenderness. Her long, dark hair and flawless skin meant that she turned heads wherever she went
and Jamie always felt proud that this gorgeous creature was his wife.

‘Bye, Dad!’ called Tom, interrupting Jamie’s lustful musings, as he came down the stairs in his uniform. Tom grabbed his bags before cheerfully making his way down the road
after his sister, his messy blond hair glinting in the sunlight.

‘Bye, Tom. Love you!’ called Jamie, earning a scowl from his son, who pretended to despise any such public displays of affection in front of his friends. ‘To infinity and
beyond . . .’ he added, just as he always did.

Jamie closed the front door and took a deep, contented breath. He loved the children’s company, but he also loved being at home alone. It meant he had a whole, inviting day stretched out
ahead of him. It also meant he had ample opportunity to have uninterrupted sex with his mistress.

Charlie Simmons was woken by the sound of his mobile on the bedside table. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to make sure that he wasn’t still dreaming, but the phone
continued to vibrate angrily and play the theme tune to
The Sopranos
. He tried to swallow as he reached for the handset but his throat was too dry.

‘Hello?’ he rasped, silencing the noise.

‘Charlie, it’s me . . .’ said an unfamiliar voice.

Charlie shook his head to try to wake himself as he bunched the soft, goosedown pillows into a pile behind him and sat up. ‘Who’s me?’

There was a dry, husky laugh. ‘Well, I guess I sound as bad as I feel if you don’t know my voice.’

Recognition dawned and Charlie smiled to himself, groping with one hand for the bottle of mineral water he had half-drunk the night before. ‘Hi, Louisa. You sound bloody terrible,’
he said, taking a grateful gulp.