A Minor Indiscretion (24 page)

E
d and Orla didn't go to Budleigh Salterton. Mainly because neither of them were quite sure where it was. Instead, they went to Bath. Ed had this notion that Orla would enjoy it, being American and all that. If they didn't get on, then surely there were plenty of Roman bits and pieces and ornate buildings to keep her happy? And Ali always said the shopping was great—which was something he never felt qualified to comment on. But it probably didn't matter which side of the Atlantic a woman was born on to appreciate great shops.

They stayed in a hotel just on the outskirts. A comfortable thirteenth-century manor house in pale gold Bath stone set in its own grounds. Orla had nearly fainted with delight when they swooped into the gravel drive and wound their way up through a field full of miserable-looking cows huddling together in the rain, past a brimming duck pond to the iron-studded front door. She had nearly fainted with shock when they had been forced to walk on planks from the car park to the house because everywhere was so flooded. But then this had been the wettest winter on record and the records went back a fairly long way. This was not going to be a weekend for tramping through the countryside, and it was a shame because Ed hadn't tramped anywhere for a while and had started to look forward to it. Or, at least, he'd started to look for
ward to it once he was out of Ali's radar gaze. She had sussed straight away that this was no business trip, try to fool her, and himself, as he might. And he had felt so guilty, which was a bit rich, all things considered.

Ed had stayed here once before years ago when he'd been filming a promotional extravaganza for dog biscuits, of all things, to be screened in premier pet shops across the nation. So some things never change. The hotel had, though. Beyond recognition. It had been subjected to extensive refurbishment, and everything that had been faded with age and elegantly worn on his previous visit seemed to have been replaced with brand spanking new antique replicas.

They checked in and climbed the lurid carpet to the first floor and their room. Deciding that everyone in the thirteenth century must have been midgets, Ed ducked down through the low door that led to their bedroom. Carpet aside, the rooms were a definite improvement. A roaring log fire greeted them, and beyond that a four-poster bed complete with heavy silk drapes adorned the center of the room. The only small snag that Ed could see was that the bed was most definitely a double and not the twin beds he had requested when booking. Although, on reflection, it seemed a very stupid thing to do, to assume that two fully grown, emotionally stable and commitment-free adults were going to spend the night divided by a bedside table and a yard of carpet, ghastly patterned or not. But it was a daunting thought. How do you spend the night with someone, particularly in the carnal sense, that you've never even held hands with, let alone seen naked? This presumably was just another one of the taxing puzzles of our times. And one he'd only had to face once before, and that had been aided and abetted by copious amounts of local hooch, which had all but blotted out the memory of it. Ed's mouth was suddenly dry. He could do with a drink now, come to think of it.

His one and only one-night stand had been a lesson to him in many ways, although Ali might not appreciate the educational value of it if he were to confess to her now or had done then. He'd seen too many of his friends and colleagues strike out to grasp the alluring flower of adultery only to have it turn to a stinging nettle in their hands. And a very expensive stinging nettle too.

He wondered if this little liaison was helping him one step further along to the divorce courts, and questioned his wisdom in
agreeing to it. Perhaps he should have viewed Ali's indiscretion as an educational jaunt, and then they might not have been in this situation.

He'd narrowly avoided seeing the lovely Nicola Jones naked too. She'd been rather more keen to disrobe herself in the kitchen than he'd thought appropriate for a nursery-school teacher. Not that he hadn't wanted to see her minus her Laura Ashley, but he was so totally unprepared for it. Spontaneity and sex were definitely out of bounds since the children had arrived and it was hard getting his mind, and other parts of his body, back into leaping-around mode. And that was another thing. If it was difficult enough to find the opportunity to have sexual relations with your wife because of being interrupted by one or more bored and/or weeping children, just think how much the odds went up when you added a stranger to the equation. The kitchen table had just not been an option for him. He had tried to explain his predicament nicely, but Nicola had left in the early hours of the morning clearly feeling rejected at having had to chase him round the chairs. At least this setup—i.e., no children—was more conducive to a little adult fun should it be on offer.

Ed's eyes traveled round the room. In lieu of a separate bathroom there was a Victorian enameled claw-foot bath in a corner of the room and a matching washstand complete with water pitcher and the added modern accoutrement of skillfully concealed Ideal Standard new millennium taps, for which Ed was truly grateful. There was no screen to separate it or hide behind—it just stood there sturdily slap bang in front of them. It looked like he was going to be seeing Orla naked long before bedtime. Thank God for small mercies that, at least, the loo wasn't an open-plan affair too!

His companion dropped her small holdall to the floor. “This is just so English,” she said. Which Ed wasn't awfully sure was a compliment these days. “I love it!”

Orla swept past him into the room, throwing herself onto the bed, which responded by enveloping her in its lacy coverlet. “It's so romantic,” she breathed.

There was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, rapidly getting warm in the face of the inferno of the log fire. Ed hadn't had the forethought to order it, but he was glad that someone had.

“Champagne?” he suggested.

Orla propped herself up on an embankment of small, silky cushions stacked on the bed. “You are a wonderful man, Ed,” she breathed. “I'd love some.”

Ed set the two flutes on the tray beside them. He wondered what had happened in the intervening twenty years since he had last been on the dating scene. No one had ever shown the slightest bit of interest in dirty dancing with him then.

Orla kicked off her shoes.

Ed lifted the champagne from the bucket, wiped the ice water away with a cloth and a flourish. Perhaps a few gray hairs and a certain air of suave maturity was what women wanted these days? He smiled a sultry Roger Moore smile across the room.

Orla stripped off her coat and threw it to the floor. With her red lips pouting, she started to unbutton her blouse. “Bring it to bed,” she instructed throatily.

Ed's nimble fingers froze on the bottle as his cork popped prematurely and shot straight across the room, knocking a grinning pot dog off the mantelpiece with one fell swoop.

 

They'd gone down to dinner late, the delights of Roman Bath in torrential rain having been forsaken for torrid pleasures of the flesh in a four-poster bed.

The dining room was filled with lovey-dovey couples holding hands across tables set for two. The restaurant was Egon Ronay–recommended and the food was sublime, but no one seemed to be doing much eating. The subdued lighting had been taken to coal-mine proportions—there were candles on the tables, candles in the alcoves, candles competing with the light from log fires at either end of the room. An azure-blue swimming pool housed in a tropical oasis of a conservatory adjoined the dining area, and candles shaped like lotus flowers floated serenely across its untroubled surface.

Orla smiled up at him. She looked lovely. And not a little flickery.

“You told Alicia this was a business trip?” she said.

“Not really. I just didn't tell her it wasn't.” Ed savored his wine. “Besides,” he admitted, “I wasn't entirely sure myself.”

Orla slid her fingers into his. “But you're sure now?”

“Yes,” he said. Well, it seemed churlish not to, but the truth was he still wasn't sure. Orla was beautiful. She was clever, looked
great in a business suit and was very organized. What more could a man want in a woman?

Ed didn't know, but he knew there was no buzz in his stomach like there should be. No stirring in his loins. Although he was wearing a slight smirk. But then he had just had sex—and pretty good sex—for the first time in weeks, and he was only human after all. He'd felt that with Nicola Jones too, but then the only woman who had ever made his stomach churn was Ali—and that wasn't just with some of the meals she produced. Ed turned his attention back to his Dover sole.

“Are you going to tell her that we're an item?”

Ed choked and sloshed down a gulp of mineral water. The other diners stopped to glare at him. “Bone,” he croaked, smiling weakly at the other tables.

“She needs to know.”

“Does she?” he said, dabbing his mouth with his napkin. “I don't want to rush this.”

“She'll find out soon enough,” Orla reasoned.

“Elliott will probably tell her.”

“I mean when you come to the States with me.”

Ed felt moved to choke again, but knew he couldn't get away with blaming it on a fishbone twice.

“You are coming, aren't you?”

Was this part of the deal? he wondered. Had it always been? And if it was, did that have to be a bad thing? Was there any reason why he and Orla couldn't go on from here to make a great relationship? But then was it wise to rush into the first shoe shop you came to and buy the first pair you could grab without trying any others on?

“Harrison Ford is waiting, Ed,” she said. “And so am I.”

Making a mental note to kill Trevor, Ed raised his glass and clinked it to hers. Orla's eyes flashed and blazed in the candlelight. A triumphant smile curled the corners of her mouth.

“To Harrison Ford,” he said. “And to us.”

I
f you could be any woman in the world, who would you be? Right now, I'd be Andrea Corr. Permanently. She's petite, extraordinarily pretty, can belt out a tune and looks like she doesn't get involved in any way, whatsoever, with vomiting children. What more could you want?

Next to her, the other two Corr sisters look like regurgitated Nolans and the brother, poor old Jim Corr, looks like a bit of a gonk. But then lined up against such beauty, it would be hard not to. I used to be content being myself, but now I've got all sorts of bits that make me dissatisfied. I examine my face every morning to see if any of my myriad wrinkles have dared to edge another millimeter into my face. When I find another job—thanks again, Kath Brown—I'm going to set up a face-lift fund for when I'm fifty. Or maybe even forty. Depending on how bad things get.

They say that stress is aging, in which case my insides feel about ninety-four. I have almost continual stomachache and a crick in my neck like Ed always used to. My periods are completely up the spout, and I'm terrified of becoming pregnant. Ed, after much persuasion, had the chop—mainly because I'd threatened him with two house bricks in the garden shed if he didn't. We never really got the hang of condoms—something for which Elliott should be eternally grateful. You wouldn't think there was
too much to go wrong, but we always managed to cock it up. No comments, thank you!

Christian and I also exhibit a certain carelessness in the condom department, which surprises me, considering how much he goes on about not being able to stand children. Hasn't anyone told him the cabbage patch is a myth? And I worry about AIDS, but I haven't said anything, because it seems to make a statement about not trusting your partner, which I know is stupid, but I can't help it. I just hope Christian's short past isn't as colorful as his paintings.

I'm sitting here stressing about all this in my lounge and watching
The National Lottery Show,
hoping for a miracle. And a miracle it would have to be, because I never have time to buy a ticket. I have a drink in my hand and my feet on a footstool. And you will not believe this…brace yourself for it…despite his protestation of being a no-go zone as far as ankle biters are concerned, Christian is upstairs bathing Elliott. I think that's worth repeating.
Christian
is
bathing
Elliott! As much a miracle as me winning the lottery without a ticket, I think you'll agree.

This is mainly because I wept in the car all the way home, which, incidentally, made it an interesting drive. Elliott continued to produce vomit the color of candy floss and chopped-up sausage, and Christian, finding a strength of stomach from somewhere that was truly admirable, nursed him all the way home.

I don't know how Social Services or even Ed would feel about the political correctness of a strange man bathing our four-year-old son, but at the moment I don't care. There's a lot of laughter drifting down the stairs, and that suits me fine. I have had enough of real life, really I have. Downing some more gin, I ponder on the day's events. I wanted it to be so great. And, once again, Elliott steals the show. I think I'm going to sell that child for organ donation, starting with his head. The other two are no trouble at all. Or perhaps their version of trouble simply pales into insignificance when faced with a brother who is the world expert on trouble. I think he studied under Bart Simpson.

I have no sympathy for his illness, at all. It is entirely self-inflicted and, therefore, deserving of utmost contempt. If I'd bathed him, I'd have scrubbed him all over with a loofah just to make sure he remembered it. This gin is going down very quickly.

There is a thunder of feet down the stairs, and two faces ap
pear at the door. Christian is clearly a man of his word. He promised not to be sick, and he, at least, has kept all his junk food safely inside him. He is, however, soaked, quite literally, through to the skin. “I've someone here to say good-night,” he says, and pushes Elliott into the room.

Elliott is scrubbed and gorgeous and his damp hair is curling round his face, framing it like a lovely little angel. Christian has dressed him in his cutest pajamas, and what's left of Barney is on parade. Elliott comes up and throws his arms round my neck, cuddling me. “I'm sorry about being sick, Mummy,” he says, and I feel so awful that I've not looked after him properly that I'm going to have to drink some more gin to get over it.

“That's all right, darling,” I coo—yes, I do. “It wasn't your fault.”

“I think it was mine,” Christian says guiltily.

“Christian's going to read me a story,” my beautiful, wide-eyed child says.

“Are you sure he didn't say he was going to bludgeon you over the head with a book?”

“No.” Elliott slithers off my knee. “Christian likes me.”

Christian smiles indulgently. Elliott cups his hand to his mouth to whisper, and in a voice that could wake anyone unfortunate enough to be in one of the several cemeteries in the vicinity says, “And I like Christian!”

 

Much later when Christian must have worked his way through Elliott's entire stash of storybooks, plus a few that he'd nicked from Thomas, my lover finally appears. It's nine o'clock, and I look up from
Parkinson,
the only talk show I know where the host can actually string two sentences together. Parky is trying to get some sense out of the gorgeous, if slightly wrinkled, Welsh crooner Tom Jones and is failing. Christian flops down next to me. I pass him the gin bottle and a glass. He puts the glass to one side and swigs it straight from the bottle. I don't blame him.

“You survived,” I say.

Christian turns his eyes to me. “It's hard work, isn't it?”

“Try doing it every day.” I raise my eyebrows in the very superior way that those with children do. “And it's years before we can force Elliott to leave home.”

Christian takes my hand and fiddles with my nails. “I can see why you miss them so much.”

“Can you?” I didn't mean to sound quite so incredulous.

“Of course I can. Elliott's wonderful. He's his own little person,” he says.

“Bastard child from hell, you mean.”

“You'd be lost without him.”

And perhaps it's the gin, but my throat closes up and my eyes start to water.

“Don't cry.” Christian pulls me to him. “I could get used to this parenting lark yet,” he says chirpily.

I sniff. “One clearing up of vomit does not a parent make.”

“I am trying though.” And even though he is nineteen years older than Elliott, he is every bit as cute.

“You did brilliantly,” I say and squeeze his hand. “You're a hit with Thomas too.”

Christian screws up his nose. “I don't think Tanya likes me.”

What can I say? I can hardly voice my fear that my daughter might like him just a tad too much. As it is, I have to compete for her affection with Ed. This is a situation I don't even want to confront.

“She'll come round,” I mutter.

Parky moves on to David Beckham, who I know is a footballer and, although he's possibly not the sharpest pencil in the box, he is very sweet and uncomplicated. Or perhaps I just have a greater understanding of younger men now.

“Shall I stay here the night?” Christian asks.

I shake my head. “I don't think I could cope with that. Even though it's my house too, I feel very strange being here. It's going to be weird enough to be back in my own bed. I don't think I can face sharing it,” I confess. “Even though I'd like to.”

“We'll have a quick drink,” he says, tipping some more gin into my glass and his mouth. “And then I'll go home.”

“You'll come back tomorrow?”

“I promised Elliott I'd teach him how to use a skateboard.”

“I'll pencil in a visit to Casualty then….”

Christian laughs. He clearly thinks I'm joking.