A Minor Indiscretion (7 page)

“V
eggie, fruit, fruit! Veggie, veggie, fruit, fruit…”

Ed held up his hand. “Okay, okay, okay!” All the dancing fruit and vegetables stopped, bumping into each other as they did so. “Let's just take five.”

He motioned to the lead tomato, who waddled over to him from the oversize kitchen that was the background to the Kitchen Kapers video—a ready-made sauce for less than discerning vegetarians.

“Could you possibly just run through your lyrics one more time and see if you can't commit them to memory before the next take?” Ed smiled pleasantly at the tomato, but naturally couldn't see if he smiled back, although from the way the tomato stomped off, it was evident that there wasn't a lot of hilarity going on beneath his lurid red costume.

Ed tried to crack his interlinked fingers by stretching them and failed. Why was this taking so long? The set was built yesterday, and the ingredients had spent all day rehearsing their big moment. It should have been a piece of precipitation. Dead easy. The advert should take five minutes to record, plus a bit of post-editing, and yet they'd been here for more than an hour already, to no good purpose. They were supposed to be a lean, mean, budget-conscious production team, and the vegetables were supposed to be actors.

Trevor looked at Ed, who said sarcastically, “I thought it was
supposed to be children and animals that are difficult to work with? I don't remember anyone ever mentioning organic produce.”

“Will it help if I tell you that eventually the…er…fruits of your efforts will be screened in every supermarket and in post offices all over the country?”

“Not a lot.”

“What about if I tell you that it'll make the advert for diarrhea tablets they're going to show before it look like a heap of crap?”

“Shut up, Trevor.”

Trevor put his camera down. “You can tell one of your Harrison stories if it will make you feel better.”

“I don't think even Harrison can help me today. It's not every day one has to deal with a vegetable who can't hold a note or remember four words.”

“Technically, a tomato is a fruit,” Trevor pointed out.

“Yes, of course,” Ed said. “How stupid of me.”

“Go easy, Ed. It must be difficult being a grown man in a tomato suit.”

“You're right.” Ed picked up the white plastic cup next to him, but his tea had gone cold. “He'd probably rather be playing King Lear.”

“He'd probably rather be playing anything other than a tomato. We all have to pay the bills.”

“Some of us more than others,” Ed agreed.

“Do I take it we're still not finding the exciting world of corporate videos any more enthralling?”

Ed rubbed his hands over his face. “And I thought I was hiding it so well.”

“If you do decide to go back to Hollywood,” Trevor said, “take me with you.”

Ed looked defensive. “Who said anything about Hollywood?”

Trevor shrugged. “It's the only place to be if you want to work at the cutting edge. And I'm not sure how much longer you can stand this.”

Ed turned away before he was tempted to answer. He could see the juicy carrot right there just in front of him. Only this one was sitting on a six-foot polystyrene frying pan with its foam head peeled down, eating a Mars bar. “Shall we see if the vegetables
are ready? Otherwise we could both be doing this for the rest of our lives.”

Ed clapped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen! Are we ready?”

A door opened behind him, and Orla came onto the set. She walked up until she was close behind him and he could feel her breath on his neck. She always smelled good. A blend of fresh, clean soap and some ferociously expensive perfume that lured him to drink it in even if he didn't want to. “Nice,” Orla said, and he wasn't entirely sure what she was talking about.

“Hi,” he said, distracted by the tomatoes falling over each other to get back in line.

“This is a bad time, right?”

“You could say that.”

Orla lowered her voice. “I need to talk to you some more.”

Ed looked round to check that they weren't being overheard, but as soon as Orla arrived, Trevor had faded into the background. “Right.”

“Did you manage to discuss this with Alicia?”

Ed made an apologetic noise. “The timing hasn't been quite right yet.”

“Things are moving on. Can we set up a meeting?”

“Sure.”

“Tonight. What about dinner?”

“Er…” Ed scoured his brain for any remnants of conversations with Ali about parents' evenings, dentists' appointments, concerts, dinners with friends, but none came. “Dinner should be fine.”

Orla parted with one of her rare smiles. “I'll look forward to it.”

Ed's mobile rang.

“Damn,” he said as he checked all his pockets before finding it. He noticed that the vegetables were getting restless. “Ed Kingston.” He bit his lip while he listened and then spoke again. “Have you contacted my wife? Fine. Fine. I'll be there right away.” Ed snapped his phone shut, wiping his damp palms on his trousers. His face had blanched and his forehead was creased in a frown. “Orla, I have to go. Can you do me a favor and take over here?”

Orla spread her hands. “Sure.”

“Find Trevor. He'll give you the lowdown.”

“Is everything okay?”

“No, not really.” Ed was shrugging on his coat. “I'll talk to you later.”

“Are we still on for dinner?”

Ed was heading toward the door. “I'll see you at the Groucho at eight.” He turned on his heels, came back and kissed Orla on the mouth. “Thanks,” he said. “You're a pal.”

Orla watched him rush out of the door before she ran her tongue over her lips. “You're welcome,” she said under her breath.

C
hristian is jogging up the road. I want to wring my hands with relief, but stand there looking unconcerned instead. I was on the verge of leaving. Really, I was. Another few seconds and I'd have been gone. Perhaps I'll look back on this very moment in years to come and wonder how things would have been different if I'd walked away, got on the Tube, gone back to work and chalked this whole thing up to experience.

I was coming down with a cold the night I met Ed and nearly didn't go to the rugby club do of indistinct origin. What would have happened if instead I'd retired to my bed with a hot water bottle and a good dose of Benylin Expectorant? Would I be married to Ed now or would he have met someone else that night, and the chance for our paths to cross would have been lost forever? As it was, we met, danced all night, had a tentative snog, during which I gave him my cold, resulting in me going through agonies wondering why he didn't ring me for over a week to arrange our next date.

Things happen all the time that can change our lives, don't they? It's like a perilous journey across shifting sands. Small, seemingly innocent incidents that suck us away from our intended life course, altering our emotional landscape forever. And I know that this is one of those moments, not yet consciously, but somewhere down deep inside round one of the corners of my psy
che in a place I'm choosing to ignore. I didn't know I did denial so well. But then it isn't only love that is blind. Guilt, inertia and lust can all be pretty shortsighted too.

This is a beautiful road. Leafy and green. It is lined with magnificent trees, and all the houses are grand and rambling. Their gardens are overflowing with flowers and spring bulbs and are a fitting precursor to the glory of Kew. I turn my eyes and study them rather than watching Christian, because I feel so exposed out here, waiting. It's as if everyone who sees me knows that I really shouldn't be here.

Christian arrives in front of me breathless and smiling. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“I'm sorry I'm late,” he rushes on cheerfully. “The Tube was delayed. Jumper.”

“Oh,” I say, and brush aside the thought that he might be lying. There was no mention of a delay on my line or anyone jumping on the track. But I do wonder what awful thing can happen in someone's life that they want to stop it by launching themselves into thin air in front of a moving Tube train?

“I thought you might have gone,” he says, and clearly hasn't even considered that I might not have been here in the first place. He is so sure of himself, whereas I am sure of nothing anymore.

Christian grabs my hand with a familiarity that momentarily stuns me, and he pulls me toward the grand gates and the waiting kiosk.

I stop. “Christian.” He turns and stops too. “I can't do this.”

His face is the epitome of disappointment. He looks like Elliott did when Barney the perky purple dinosaur parted company with his ear.

“I came to tell you that I can't spend the day with you.”

“Why not?” He is genuine in his disregard for anything else in my life.

“I have a family.”

“I know.”

“I'm deceiving them.”

“Only a little bit,” he reassures me. And I wonder if there is a scale to grade deception, like the Richter scale for earthquakes. Is there one that can measure how much damage this will do?

“You wouldn't believe how difficult it was for me to get away,” I plead.

“You're here now,” he says, and his face softens and I can see how pleased he is that we are together.

“I know.”

“It seems stupid to come so far and then just leave.”

I say nothing, because that's the thought that's going through my mind.

“What are you so frightened of?”

Oh, to be young and fearless again and not realize the dangers that wait ahead for us, round the next corner, just out of sight. “I'm frightened that it will go too far.”

Christian grins mischievously. “Do you think I'll try to seduce you behind the palm fronds in the Temperate House?”

I laugh and say, “Don't be silly!” But it's exactly what I'm frightened of, and I'm even more frightened of what I will do.

“I've taken the day off work,” Christian adds, twisting his sugar-coated knife.

“So have I.” And I remember that I haven't phoned Kath Brown to tell her that I won't be there, because it was my intention to be there all along.

“Come on, Alicia, Ali Kingston. Live dangerously. You can be home hours before you've got to give your brood and your husband their supper and do your ironing and all the other wild things you've got planned.”

“You're mocking me.”

“No,” he says with a shake of his dark blond hair. “Never.”

Christian curls his fingers round mine and tugs gently. “Let's have some fun, Ali. Just for today. No one will ever know. I promise you.”

E
d was stopped at the traffic lights. He quickly grabbed his phone, punched the redial button and tried Ali's mobile again. “The Vodaphone you have called may be switched off,” a charming woman's voice informed him.

“No,” Ed said sarcastically.

“Please try again later,” she continued, robotically unabashed.

“I've been trying solidly for over an hour, you stupid woman,” he shouted at the phone. “Where the fuck is she!” Ed banged the steering wheel in frustration and the lights turned green. He tossed the phone back onto the passenger seat and slammed his foot on the accelerator. His wife wasn't at work where she should be, that much he knew.

Kath Brown had been beside herself with concern when he'd phoned up looking for Ali, only to be told that Alicia, for whatever reason, hadn't shown up at the studio that morning. This was all he needed. Had she said she was going somewhere else today? Was this Parents' Evening Syndrome all over again? Had they had a perfectly pleasant conversation about some change in Alicia's plans that had completely bypassed his memory banks?

Ed zipped past a speed camera and could have sworn it flashed. He should slow down. This was a time when he needed to be calm and in control. He knew he was panicking. Alicia normally dealt
with this sort of thing, not him. Ed tried to take deep breaths. He was sure the traffic was going slower in direct proportion to the speed his heart was racing.

He took the opportunity of a traffic jam to ring Jemma's shop, but it wasn't his sister-in-law's voice that answered.

“You Must Remember This…vintage clothing.”

“Is Jemma there?”

“No, sorry,” a Sloaney voice replied. “Can I take a message?”

“Do you know when she's due back?”

“No, sorry.”

“Do you know where she's gone?”

“No, sorry.”

“Has she gone with her sister?”

“I didn't know she had a sister.”

“Can you tell her Ed called. If she's seen Ali, can she get her to call me. It's urgent.”

“Ali?”

“Her sister.”

“She should call Ed.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Thanks.” Ed hung up, more frustrated than he had been before. Was Ali supposed to be going somewhere today with Jemma? He didn't think so. Damn, damn, damn. How could Alicia do this? Just disappear off the face of the earth. It wasn't like her at all. Some phenomenal number of people went missing every year. Just like that. There were all sorts of stories in the paper about people who woke up one morning and, for whatever reason, walked out on their lives and loved ones, never to be seen again. The next thing you knew, their faces were adorning milk cartons with HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? in ominously bold letters above a grainy black-and-white photograph which could be any one of a million people. Ali would never do that. Would she?

The traffic inched forward, and at the head of the queue was a policeman, waving on the cars which rubbernecked their way past an accident. Two cars had shunted each other in what looked like a fairly terminal way, and Ed was relieved to see that neither of the cars was Ali's, even though he knew her battered red Renault was safely ensconced on their drive where she had left it
this morning. He'd gone back to the house to pick up his own car, and there was no note, no message, nothing untoward to give a clue as to where Alicia might possibly be.

There was an ambulance parked by the roadside, and one of the drivers was being helped inside. Ed hoped Alicia hadn't had some other kind of accident. A cold dread dried his mouth. Something wasn't quite right, he could feel it.

He wasn't a man given to great bouts of intuition, but this was giving him a tingly feeling, as if there were thousands of those little black thunder flies in the hairs on the back of his neck. The speed of the traffic picked up, and Ed put the car into gear and followed it. Get a grip, Edward, he told himself. There was bound to be some reasonable explanation. No need to make a drama out of a crisis.

Finally, with a sigh of relief he swung into the car park, fumbling through his pockets for change for the Pay and Display meter at the same time as pulling on the hand brake. He left the car at an alarming angle, bought a ticket with all the loose change he could muster and, forgetting to put the ticket in the windscreen, raced across the road. Breathless, he rushed through the automatic doors and into Accident and Emergency, where he found a very tearful and unhappy Elliott being tenderly nursed and comforted by Nicola Jones, the sunny, smiling owner of the Sunny Smiles nursery school.