Your Roots Are Showing (38 page)
“I want chicken nuggets or I won’t be your
fwiend
anymore,” Alex yelled belligerently as they negotiated the traffic circle and pulled away at speed past the McDonald’s in Oxford.
“Let’s wait till we get home,” Lizzie said, biting back the more infantile reply — “ Don’t be my friend, then, see if I care!” — that sprang to her lips. “Why don’t you close your eyes and have a little nap?”
“Not
sleepy
,” Alex yelled back.
“Are we nearly there?” came Ellie’s plaintive cry.
“Not yet.”
“Are we nearly there
now
?”
“No, not yet.”
“Are we nearly there
now
?”
“Ellie! Will. You. Be. Quiet. I’ll tell you when we’re nearly there.”
Silence. Lizzie glanced over at Bruno. He was either asleep or pretending very well.
She felt a surge of gratitude toward him. He was so kind, so diplomatic. She’d been unbelievably lucky to have a man like him just show up on her doorstep when she needed him. Most divorced women had to jump right back into their nylon stockings and kitten heels to brave the perils of the manhunt all over again before they found anyone half as nice as Bruno.
Not that she was “with” Bruno, of course. She couldn’t possibly enter into anything like that until she’d finished things for once and for all with James. She wasn’t the sort of woman to let her affairs overlap in that way. Okay, she seemed to have slept with Bruno, but that was just a blip, and he’d soon find he was very much mistaken if he was expecting more of the same — at least for the moment. She had the children’s morals to think about, after all.
When Lizzie drove her cargo of sleepers up the driveway of Back Lane Cottage at last, she was surprised to see Sarah sitting on her doorstep.
“I was about to give up on you,” the girl called, standing up. “Are you still going running this afternoon?”
Lizzie got out of the car and shrugged her stiff shoulders. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “I think I’ll skip. I had no idea we’d be back this late.”
The passenger door opened and a rumpled Bruno stepped out, stretching. “No run tonight, huh? Why don’t you come out to the pub with me instead — I mean, since you have a babysitter already. Pity to waste it.”
Lizzie thought for a moment. Her head was seriously hurting now and she felt bruised all over. She knew her eyes were bloodshot and she hadn’t had time to blow-dry her hair after her rushed morning shower.
But somehow none of that seemed to matter.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll come, but not to the pub, please. Can we find a restaurant? And you’ll have to help me settle the children first.”
“Was it good for you last night?”
Bruno sprang this question on her just as she was sinking her teeth into a crusty bread roll. They were sitting at a secluded table in a tiny French restaurant somewhere along a winding country road heading out toward Heever Castle.
Lizzie chewed quickly and swallowed with a gulp. “ Um — yes. Of course. Very nice, thanks. Was it — was it okay for you?”
“Fantastic,” Bruno grinned at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that thing where you pretend you’re on a merry- go-round horse before.”
Caught taking a sip of water, Lizzie half choked, snorted a bit of water out of her nose, and had to be patted on the back. When she was able to talk again, she whispered, “Merry-go-round horse?”
“Is it one of your favorites? Personally, I’m keen to try the French maid game you mentioned.”
“French . . . maid?” Lizzie’s cheeks were burning. Okay, so she knew she’d been a bit tiddly, but — but saucy little games between the sheets had never been in her repertoire.
Bruno suddenly took her hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. “It’s just no fun teasing you, Lizzie,” he said. “You’re way too gullible. You don’t remember a thing about last night, do you?”
Lizzie stared at him, bemused. After a moment she shook her head. “No,” she confessed. “Not a thing.”
He kept hold of her hand. “There weren’t any merry-go-round games, Lizzie. As a matter of fact, the field was closed for play.”
She shook her head, not understanding.
“We didn’t do anything, Lizzie. Not that we weren’t ready to give it a shot. Everybody was more or less primed for action when you suddenly asked me if I could —” he lowered his voice, “take some precautions. I just nipped off to turn my toiletry bag upside down, but by the time I got back, you’d, er, dropped off.”
“Dropped off?”
“Gone to sleep.”
“Passed out,” said Lizzie with a flash of insight.
Bruno nodded.
They sat and thought a moment, Bruno still holding Lizzie’s hand.
“Probably a good thing,” Lizzie said at last. Bruno’s fingers, which had gently been stroking hers, went still.
“Why a good thing?” he asked.
Lizzie looked at him — his bright, dark eyes, his cherubic curls, his generous mouth. “Always a bad idea to rush into things,” she said with a little shrug. “If we — when we
do
get it together we want to know that we really mean it.”
“No drunken one- night stands?” he asked.
“That’s right,” she said.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said, raising his half pint of lager. She raised her water and they clinked.
After she’d taken a sip, she said awkwardly, “I’m not going to be — you know, ready for that sort of thing for a while. You know that, right?”
He nodded. “I know it. I’m a patient man.” And he gave her a wolfish smile.
From: [email protected]
Sent: 08 September
I don’t know, Lizzie. I’m not convinced. Are you really over James? Are you ready for this thing with the gardener? Just remember, you want a little light relief, not another Big Commitment right now. Give yourself time to bounce back properly. No rebound stuff, okay?
Of course I want Mum and Dad here, by the way. Dad cooks, Mum cleans, and Dad holds Elizabeth when she’s asleep. If we put her down on any non- human surface, no matter how deeply she’s sleeping, she wakes straight up and screams her lungs out. Dad doesn’t mind sitting with her on his lap while he watches stuff about the ozone layer and genetic engineering.
I have to say, I can’t believe James has buggered off to France! When exactly did he leave? And he gave you no warning? Lord knows, this isn’t the James I remember. Do you think it’s male menopause? I mean, I know he’s not even forty yet but how else do you explain it?
Be careful now.
Love,
Janie
As Lizzie hit reply, her phone rang. She felt her heart begin to beat a little faster. It could easily be Bruno. She hadn’t spoken to him for at least four hours. But the voice on the other end was Maria’s.
“Maria! How lovely! How was the honeymoon?”
Maria gave a low laugh. “Fabulous,” she said. “We went surfing.”
“In
Wales
?”
“Oh yes, it’s a big thing there. You wear wet suits, of course.”
“Good grief!” Lizzie was diverted by the thought of the newlyweds riding big breakers into secret coves side by side, Maria like a mermaid with ringlets flying in all directions, Laurence like Neptune without his trident. “We must . . . I must go some time. But Maria, why did you
really
phone? There’s something else, isn’t there?”
Maria sighed audibly down the line. “I’m sorry, Lizzie, but you did ask me to be your eyes and ears, remember? It’s about James. You know he’s gone to France?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, the thing is — he took Sonja with him.”
Lizzie sat down on the floor as if someone had yanked the rug rather suddenly. Okay, she’d spent the days since the wedding chanting the mantra, “I am over James,” but this was a nasty surprise. “Sonja? Sonja Jenkins? You mean Erin, surely?”
“No,
Sonja
. Laurence drove them to the airport yesterday. James was going to get a taxi, but Laurence insisted. Well, he nearly jumped out of his skin when
she
opened the door. He says she was all togged up in her holiday gear, sunglasses and everything even though it was raining; and she was towing this dinky little pink suitcase on wheels.”
“But what happened to Erin Wilde? Was she there too?”
“A threesome? Come on, Lizzie. This is James we’re talking about! He must have dumped her. Or vice versa. Anyway, Laurence was gobsmacked. But sure enough, Sonja hops in the backseat and keeps up a running commentary all the way to the airport — beaches they’re going to visit, shopping she’s going to do, the tan she’s going to get, restaurant recommendations her friends have given her.”
“You’re joking. Right?”
“Lizzie, why would I joke about a thing like this?”
“Well, what about James? Was he blathering on about tans and restaurants too?”
“No. Laurence says James just sat with his mouth clammed shut. Didn’t look too good either, Laurence says. Hadn’t shaved, rumpled clothes, that sort of thing. Hangover type behavior.”
“I’m sorry, Maria, I have to go.” Lizzie put down the phone and ran up to her bedroom. She stood there for a moment, looking around wildly, then began to grab things off her dressing table and smash them onto the floor. Her hairbrush, a bottle of perfume, a basket of mismatched socks, a coffee mug with some dregs in it, a notebook containing some unfinished verses. Yes, she was over James (ker-splash went the mug against the wall), yes, she was about to embrace a new life (the basket bounced off the plasterwork almost soundlessly), but was she unreasonable to expect her husband at least to confine himself to one woman at a time for his extramarital capers? First Sonja, then Erin, now Sonja again — what was the matter with the man?
Lizzie was about to smash a plate she’d spotted on the windowsill when the door burst open and Ellie came in. “What you doin’, Mummy?” she asked, looking at the chaotic room.
Lizzie jumped guiltily and set down the plate. She managed to contort her face into a smile. “I’m just — cleaning up, sweetie. Clearing some surfaces.”
Ellie looked at her doubtfully. “I think you doin’ it the wrong way,” she observed. “You don’t jus’ frow ebbyting onna floor. You got to find a new place for all dose fings.”
Lizzie breathed deeply and dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. “Really, sweetheart? Will you help me do that?”
Ellie’s face broke into a smile. “Of course,” she said kindly. “Why you cryin’, Mummy? You made a big mess, but nobody gonna be cross wid you, cos you the
mummy
, you know.”
Fifteen minutes later, the room was tidier than it had been in weeks, and Lizzie was feeling a lot calmer. After all, she was
over
James. She didn’t care if he was in France with Sonja. She had her own new romance to nurture.
The truth was, when she thought of Bruno she couldn’t suppress a secret smile. More often than she cared to admit — she wasn’t a voyeur, after all — she found herself picturing that moment in the B&B when the flowery sheet had slipped off his sleeping body. When she married James, she’d certainly never expected to see another naked man in her bed again. But when you got right down to it, there was something exciting about the thought of exploring virgin territory just one more time. Well,
virgin
was perhaps not the
mot juste
. Novel. That was a better word. Novel and, yes, definitely exciting. She hadn’t felt so invigorated in years.
By the time the children were in bed that evening, Lizzie felt she’d allow herself the little luxury of ringing Bruno up. He’d been calling her on a regular basis ever since the wedding, and they’d been out for a drink a couple of times — and even back to his place once or twice for coffee (
just
coffee), but Lizzie had been quite happy to let him make the moves. Right now, though, she stood in real need of a dose of his lovely, rich voice gently mocking her down the line.
The only thing was, his phone just kept ringing. There was nobody home. He wasn’t even picking up his mobile.
Lizzie still hadn’t spoken to Bruno by the time she went in for her appointment with G. H. Brightman two days later.
Feeling more than a little panicky at the cavalier way her many job applications were being rejected, she’d broken down and phoned up Brightman the day before, briefly sketching for him the changed state of her affairs and the urgent need she now had of going back to work. He’d been kind enough to suggest an interview.
Ingrid Hatter had given her a quick squeeze on the shoulder for good luck when she’d dropped the children off with her that morning, but she’d really been hoping for a good-luck hug from Bruno. Still, he was obviously very busy in people’s gardens at this time of the year.
“Good of you to come in,” G. H. Brightman said from the other side of his large, untidy desk. “I must say, I was a little surprised —. That is, marriage is one of those peculiar things —. At any rate, it’s an ill wind, my dear. Not that any of us here would have wished divorce on anyone. But if it had to happen —. In short, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl.”
Lizzie gazed at her former boss in mild wonder. How he’d come to make his way up in the PR profession, she’d never know. He was possibly the least articulate man she’d ever come across, but he was the one man in the city of London who seemed to think Lizzie still had anything to offer the world of public relations.
He eyed her silently for a moment. She met his gaze levelly, trying hard to look eager but not abject, keen but not desperate, poised but not complacent. They both knew he was going to offer to take her back.
“I have something,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I do have something . . . It may not be precisely . . . I do like to deal with people I can trust . . . I’m not sure exactly how you’re placed . . . In short, we
are
opening that office in Glasgow.”
“Glasgow?” Lizzie was stumped.
“Glasgow. City in Scotland? Not as classy as Edinburgh, some say . . . But not the industrial wasteland of days of yore . . . By no means a cultural desert . . . And of course, home of the new PetLove factory. So, what do you think? Could you possibly . . . ?”
“Could I possibly what?”