As Weekends Go (Choc Lit) (31 page)

Rebecca left Abi’s the next morning, turning down Nick’s kind offer of a lift home in favour of walking off last night’s king-sized bolognese, glad of the thinking time it gave her ahead of facing Greg.

Two streets away from her cul-de-sac, she passed a huddle of worshippers filing into church; the warmth of their camaraderie evident in their welcoming smiles to each other and backslapping enthusiasm for the imminent service. She nearly tagged on the end of the queue for a bit of divine inspiration. There would certainly be nothing divine about what lay ahead of her at home. Her heart jolted thinking about it.

She saw Greg’s car parked in front of their garage as she turned the corner. Unusual for him to leave it out overnight, but not unheard of. Perhaps he’d ventured out in it this morning. He usually went on foot to buy the Sunday papers though. Ah, well, he’d bloody well have to cancel any plans he might have made for today. He was going to sit down with Rebecca and talk things through, and that was that. He might throw fancy words at her, have attended a posher school than her, and excel at firing back those barbed one-liners, but the two of them needed to cut out the sniping and approach this sensibly.

‘Damn right, Rebecca,’ she mumbled to herself, crossing over to her side of the road, hoping that Shirley next door wasn’t on net-curtain-watch.

Naturally, the minute she opened the porch and put her key in the front door lock, the bulk of her bravado jumped ship.

Not that it mattered because when she stepped into her hallway Nina O’Donnell came swanning down the stairs.

‘What are you doing here?’ Rebecca demanded.

‘Supporting Greg,’ Nina replied as though answering an idiot. She sashayed past Rebecca in tight jeans and a pink and white striped fitted shirt, flicking her hair over her shoulder en route to the kitchen.

My kitchen, Rebecca thought, trooping after her.

Greg didn’t even look up from his newspaper. He had it splayed out before him on the breakfast bar, his used Crystal Palace mug to his left, a plate covered in toast crumbs to his right.

Nina slipped onto the seat opposite him and resumed drinking her own mug of coffee, pushing aside a half-eaten bowl of cereal.

My cereal, too, Rebecca noted.

On the draining board stood two wine glasses and an empty bottle of Merlot. It was like spying on someone else’s Sunday morning through a two-way mirror. Greg, sitting there, dressed in his weekend casuals, calmly breakfasting with his ex.

It had
joke
stamped all over it.

He finally acknowledged her, still standing transfixed in the doorway. ‘Why are you wearing an Ibiza Rocks T-shirt?’

‘
What?
’ Rebecca looked down at herself. ‘Oh, it’s Abi’s. Mine’s stained with mango juice from yesterday. Anyway, I’m not here to justify what I’m wearing.’

Nina gave a little false cough and pretended to study her nails.

‘Could you leave please, Nina? I’d like to talk to Greg in private,’ said Rebecca.

‘Don’t speak to Nina like that,’ said Greg, making a great noisy show of closing and folding over his paper.

‘It’s okay.’ Nina rested her hand on his arm. ‘I can imagine what this must look like.’ She transferred her gaze to Rebecca – glacial at best. ‘Greg’s told me what happened. He called me yesterday afternoon. He knew he could trust me not to repeat anything.’

‘I’d rather hear all this from Greg, if you don’t mind?’

Greg sighed heavily and crossed his arms. ‘If you must know, Nina stayed over last night at my insistence.’

‘Don’t worry, I slept down here,’ Nina chipped in. ‘In the armchair.’

Not in that crease-free shirt, you didn’t.

Rebecca was spooked by their coolness.

‘Rather than spend an age talking on the phone, I suggested to Nina that we meet up for dinner,’ Greg continued, ‘purely as friends and business associates,’ he swiftly added, throwing Nina a mock-matey look, receiving a profoundly sympathetic one back. ‘I didn’t pick her up until 8.15. We’d intended to dine nearer to where she lives, but being a Saturday night, most places were fully booked, so we headed back this way as there was more choice. We still had lots to discuss, even after we’d eaten, some of it work-related, and quite frankly, I needed a bloody drink, so we came back here.’

‘I hadn’t planned to stay,’ said Nina. ‘I should be at home now, packing. I’ve a flight to catch this evening. I’m just glad that Greg felt he could open up to me. I was astonished you placed yourself in such a precarious situation. It’s a godsend the staff at Hawksley Manor are schooled in the art of discretion. I don’t think you realise how well-known Alex Heath is, Rebecca. It’s a wonder you weren’t photographed elsewhere. I suppose, ironically, we should applaud him for having the intelligence to keep quiet at the charity ball. None of us want adverse publicity.’ She directed an exasperated look at Greg.

‘Let me drive you home, Nina,’ he replied, moving off his chair. ‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘
WHAT?
’ Rebecca’s anger and humiliation gathered pace. ‘Greg, I know what happened yesterday was awful, and I’m truly sorry for the way you found out, but if you leave me standing here when you know how badly we need to sort this out,’ she said, frustrated that he wouldn’t look at her, ‘it’ll be like a smack in the teeth.’

He pursed his lips and stood up, removing his car key from his pocket.

‘Please don’t go,’ said Rebecca. ‘We need to talk things through.’

‘It’s okay, I’ll get a cab,’ said Nina. ‘Anyway, Greg, you might still be over the limit. On top of all this Alex Heath nonsense, you don’t want to risk losing your licence, do you?’

If Rebecca felt ignored before, she now felt invisible.

Nina whipped out her smartphone from her tan leather shoulder bag.

‘I’ll ring it for you,’ said Greg. ‘The firm I sometimes use to ferry me to and from the station is very reliable. I have the number programmed into my phone.’ He swiped it off the breakfast bar and made the call, announcing shortly afterwards that a car would be outside in ten minutes and that he’d shove the fare on account.

‘No, no, I’ll pay. You settled last night’s dinner bill,’ Nina protested.

Rebecca had now moved beyond anger and was wondering in which cupboard the prankster with the hidden camera was. This was payback, she knew it was. Or part payback. And Greg was luxuriating in every second of it.

She watched him and Nina faffing around one another, Greg apologising to her as he led her down the hallway, wishing her a safe flight for later and saying they’d ‘touch base’ towards the end of the week about some pre-planned conference call. All very businesslike, stiff-upper-lip-office-speak.

After Nina had gone, Greg stomped back into the kitchen and, without looking at Rebecca, picked up his phone again, called his brother Tim and cancelled their pre-arranged-for-tomorrow-night-squash game, neither reason nor reorganisation offered. No ‘Hello, mate, how are you? Family all right?’ Nothing! It made Rebecca feel ashamed of him.

He then phoned Steve Wolfe and asked him if he could crash at his place for a couple of nights, ahead of him going to Birmingham on Tuesday.

‘What are you doing?’ Rebecca cried. ‘How can you sod off to Steve’s when there’s so much left hanging in the air?’ She widened her arms to bar his exit from the kitchen. For an awful moment she thought he was going to slam past her.

He reeled back, fixed her with a cold stare. ‘I think we need a bit of space, don’t you?’

She gawped at him. ‘So, you’re freezing me out? We’ve been together for nine years. However difficult and upsetting it may be, we have to face facts. Things have changed between us. Why can’t you be honest with me, like I’ve been with you, instead of ducking the issue and racing off to Steve Wolfe’s?’

Greg’s stare chilled several degrees. ‘You lost the right to question my actions the minute you let that slut of a best friend of yours encourage you to sleep with a footballer.’ He swept past her and ran up the stairs.

‘So you don’t think me coming home and finding your ex-girlfriend has stayed overnight with you warrants any fuss then? Greg, I swear to you I never slept with Alex. Why don’t you admit your real beef with all this and tell me where I stand,’ she called up after him, her words deadened by the sound of clean clothes being yanked from hangers, ready to pack. She and Greg had his ‘working away’ laundry routine worked out perfectly – one lot of returning clothes in the weekend wash, the spare set good to go the following week. He must own thirty shirts.

Surely he wasn’t going to Steve Wolfe’s now? It was only lunchtime.

Five minutes later he reappeared downstairs in jeans, black round-neck T-shirt and trainers, laptop case in one hand, phone and car key in the other, having parked his trolley bag at the foot of the stairs, and hooked two suits on coat hangers over the banister.

‘I’ll be back on either Friday or Saturday,’ he announced, neither looking at her nor kissing her goodbye.

‘This is madness. You can’t avoid talking to me about this. Besides, didn’t Nina say you might still be over the limit?’

‘I’m not!’ He unhooked the suits.

‘I assume you’ll ring through as normal from Birmingham at some point?’

‘I’ll text you,’ he snapped, unyielding.

Slam
went the front door.
Crash
bang
, the porch. Nothing left behind except the fresh lemony scent of his body spray.

Rebecca stood in the hallway, vaguely aware of his car reversing off the drive and zooming off.

An hour passed, most of which she spent sitting at the bottom of the staircase trying to comprehend what had gone on these past few weeks. As her Mum would say,
‘You couldn’t make it up!’

There were no tears shed. Only an overwhelming sense of resignation, Rebecca’s will to fight it, hampered by tight muscles, aching limbs, and conflicting emotions. Her mind and body, it seemed, were shutting down.

She placed her hands over her ears to block out the voices in her head: Greg’s, Nina’s, Abi’s, Nick’s; feeling the familiar pulling sensation in the centre of her chest upon hearing the most prominent one – Alex’s.

On Monday morning Rebecca phoned her sister Lorraine to say she wouldn’t be able to work her pre-planned shift in Revellers Retreat that afternoon as she felt rough, which wasn’t far off the truth, given how she had the makings of a sore throat and hadn’t been to bed all night.

Lorraine wasn’t fooled though. She knew it would take more than fatigue and a gravelly voice to keep Rebecca from her work.

‘I’m saying this for your own good, Bex,’ she told her, the warmth and concern in her tone, palpable on the other end of the line. ‘I’m not surprised you’re feeling poorly. I know things are far from right at home. I won’t pry, but I am worried about you. We all are. So, the deal is, Will and I don’t want to see you anywhere near this shop until you’re feeling a hundred per cent again. On all fronts. If Greg hadn’t cancelled your flippin’ holiday, you’d have been unavailable to work anyway. We’ll manage. Agreed?’

Rebecca thanked Lorraine, promising to keep her posted, before she ended the call. She then sent a text to Abi fully updating her, insisting that she was fine, and that she’d give her a call later that week.

Unsurprisingly, her mother called her that afternoon. The two of them hadn’t spoken since Rebecca’s visit last week. Rebecca should have known that attempting to shelter her parents from the truth all this time would eventually catch up with her.

And now hearing Mum say, via the answerphone, that she’d spoken to Lorraine, and then tenderly enquire after Rebecca’s health and cautiously suggest that should Greg be at home this coming weekend, perhaps the two of them might like to join her and Dad for Sunday lunch and a nice home-made lemon meringue pie, Rebecca knew what she had to do.

She picked up the receiver. ‘Mum, I’m here.’

‘Oh, hello, Becky. Are you okay?’

‘No. Not really. Is Dad there with you, or is he working today?’

‘He’s working, but he’ll be in around four o’clock. What’s happened, love? You sound awful.’

‘Can I come over and see you both? There’s something important I need to talk to you about.’

‘Yes, of course. Come whenever you like. Stay for dinner, if you want. Kim will be home about five thirty though, don’t forget.’

‘That’s fine. Kim needs to hear this too. I’ll be there by five, Mum.’

Rebecca woke up the next morning, thankful to be in her own bed. She could have stayed overnight with her parents but with every joint in her body creaking and her ears, nose and throat feeling like civil war had broken out, facing even her nearest and dearest would have seemed strenuous.

The clock radio clicked into life on the bedside chest of drawers – the tail end of a bleak news report on the perils of obesity. Hailstones battered the gutters and windowpanes – the delightful versatility of British summertime weather – tempting Rebecca to yank the duvet over her head and lie there forever.

The previous evening had been so hard for Mum, Dad and Kim. Pretty gruelling for Rebecca, too, witnessing them diplomatically acknowledge her recognition of Greg’s change of character, its subsequent impact on her, their marriage and everyone close to them, and the stress of denying it all for months.

Not once had any of them said, ‘We could have told you that ages ago, Becky!’ They’d just made the unfortunate assumption that this difficult but anticipated confession was ‘it’.

When Rebecca had unveiled the news of Alex to them, backtracking over the events of that weekend in York, it had created a split. Kim’s doe-eyed ‘phwoaring’ and fanning of face with Dad’s latest DIY catalogue, coupled with Mum’s subtle eye-glinting and tiny smile,
versus
Dad’s armchair fidget-a-thon and his ‘Dear me, Becky, he’s a footballer!’ face.

By the time Rebecca had covered post-York to present day, the three of them had looked thunderstruck.

‘
Nina O’Donnell?
’

‘Yes, Mum. Nina O’Donnell.’

‘
Working with Greg?
’

‘Yes, Mum. Working with Greg.’

And that had been for starters.

Each new Greg, Alex, Nina snippet had induced a barrage of questions, opinions, suggestions, fears, speculation and stereotyping. On and on and on, until Rebecca, too drained and unwell to hear any more, had held up her hand for them to stop. The burden of it all being ‘out there’, of admitting what she’d secretly suspected all along, that her husband didn’t quite love her enough, and her sadness at hearing her family’s warts and all assessment of the man she’d happily married but no longer recognised, was too hard to bear.

And then, disclosing how meeting Alex in York had made her feel inside, the undeniable chemistry between them, the ache in her belly and in her heart constantly battling the guilt, shame and sense of duty, and trying to convince them she knew Alex felt the same.

She’d sat there, waiting for them to brand her a hypocrite.

Except they hadn’t branded her a hypocrite at all.

Kim had been in tears, Mum on the verge, and poor Dad had looked utterly deflated.

Wits had been gathered, tissues passed round, and four mugs of strong coffee brewed, after which had come untold love and cuddles, a collective sigh of relief and pride at Rebecca’s resilience, a united vote of confidence that she’d do what was right and best for her. ‘We want you to be happy!’ they’d stated. ‘No matter what happens in the future, Becky, we’ll support you.’

Various texts arrived for Rebecca at intervals throughout the rest of that day. One each from Mum and Kim fully heeding Rebecca’s ‘I’ll call you’ stance but, predictably, wanting to check on the patient in view of how poorly she’d looked and felt upon leaving them. Rebecca had had hell’s own convincing them she be able to drive herself home. She’d had to pull over twice to stem her tears.

Mum had agreed to brief Rebecca’s two older siblings, neither of whom Rebecca suspected would faint with shock, well certainly not at the Greg parts, something both of their subsequent texts to their younger sister confirmed. Brother Mark’s was short, sweet and supportive. Lorraine’s longer message, followed up with a phone call. Rebecca had felt too ill to talk to her, so had let her mobile chime away next to the clock radio until it diverted to voicemail.

She stayed in bed for most of the day, only rising to schlep to the bathroom or to pour herself another glass of tap water and raid the medicine cabinet. The hailstones, mercifully, had given way to steady rain.

She woke up at teatime to two more messages.

Abi’s via voicemail – received at 2.20 p.m.:
‘Hi, honey, I know you said you’d call me, but I can’t bear what’s happened to you. I keep thinking about Alex and how saddened he’d be to know how much you’re suffering, which I know you probably don’t want to hear right now … Look, please ring me when you can. And don’t you be fretting about me and Nick. We’re rock-solid. We’re more worried about you. We want you to be happy. Love you.’

And Greg’s via text – received at 2.40 p.m.:
‘In Birmingham until weekend. Speak then.’

Rebecca hadn’t the energy to respond to either.

By midweek she no longer felt as weak as an orphaned fawn, merely sluggish; the bonus being that she’d slept all night. Food was still a no-no. Even the last orange in the fruit bowl couldn’t tempt her. She’d have to go shopping at some point. They were low on bread and milk.

They?

How much longer would that apply?

She’d make a list. Last weekend’s upheaval and then being ill had completely thrown her.

She did at least manage to reply to all her messages. To Greg, she typed a simple:
‘Thanks for letting me know.’

After that, she wanted peace and quiet. No phones. No TV. No radio. No internet. Just a date with her sofa and no more drama.

The following day Rebecca half-heartedly tackled the supermarket. Shirley from next door was standing at the cheese counter and spotted her immediately.

‘Hello, dear! I thought I saw you come in. I recognised your pink mac,’ she said, one eye on a potential queue-jumper. ‘Are you okay, Rebecca? You look ever so pale.’

Rebecca went even paler when she saw what the man standing behind Shirley had in his basket. A football magazine with a fabulous photo of Alex on its front cover. Above the photo were printed the words:
‘Spotlight on Heath – exclusive pre-season Q&A’

If Shirley hadn’t distracted her by hurriedly excusing herself when suddenly served, Rebecca would have been forced to explain her silence and the crick in her neck she’d developed, goggling at said man’s purchase.

Instead she promised Shirley she’d catch up with her later, grabbed the few essentials she’d written down on her list and, unable to resist buying herself a copy of the magazine, paid for her items and dashed out to the car park before anyone else she knew collared her.

It was only a ten-minute drive home. Rebecca could have walked, but hadn’t trusted herself to stick to her list and overload with shopping. She’d laid the magazine on the front passenger seat. Alex’s face stared up at her as she sat, waiting to turn right at the traffic lights. Never had she been so desperate to read anything.

Once home, she unpacked her bags, brewed a lemon and ginger tea, and perched at the breakfast bar, eagerly flicking open the magazine.

Alex’s feature was a four-page spread, inclusive of six photographs – four football action shots, a picture of him on a golf course, and another of him captured seemingly unaware, sitting poolside, tanned, and wearing a pair of shades, in some uber-exotic looking location. Rebecca’s heart melted looking at them. She wanted to text him and say, ‘Hey, Mr super-photogenic, guess what I’m reading?’ such was her desire to re-connect with him, however small and fleeting it may be.

She almost caved in to it, too. It was only the fear of him calling her back, and her breaking down and selfishly offloading a ton of angst upon him forty-eight hours before he was due to kick off a new season that vetoed it.

Most of the Q&A section was football-associated; pre-season regime, hopes for the coming campaign, etc. Rebecca already knew most of the lifestyle and background answers Alex had given. It was information he’d shared with her both in and since York.

It was the fun quick-fire stuff that knocked the breath from her. One answer he’d given, in particular.

Interviewer:
‘Favourite non-team hotel and why?’

Alex:
‘
Hawksley Manor’s pretty special. For all sorts of reasons. Too many to state, really.’

Interviewer:
‘Ooh, do we detect a romantic overtone within those words? Go on, Alex, you can tell us. We can keep a secret.’

Alex: (
laughs) ‘Yeah, right! You’ll have to watch this space on that one, I’m afraid.’

Interviewer:
‘
Spoilsport!
’

Rebecca re-read it three times, before the landline rang, interrupting her.

Stuff it! She’d let the answerphone click in.

‘Oh, good morning,’
said a posh male voice.
‘Jeffrey Collins here, calling from Ravenswood Park Golf Club. Urgent message for Mr Stafford regarding a booking you have with us for yourself and a Mr Brian Trent. We’re going to have to rearrange the date, unfortunately. Sorry for the inconvenience. If you’d be so kind as to call me back, preferably by 6 p.m. today if you’re able, on …’
he rattled off two different numbers, the latter one being a mobile,
‘… I’d be very grateful. As you can imagine, the course is extremely popular. Once again, apologies for the inconvenience. Hope to talk to you soon. Many thanks. Goodbye.’

Oh, hell! Must be the silent auction package Greg and his boss had bid for at the charity bash. Rebecca couldn’t leave it until Greg came home at the weekend to tell him. He and Brian might miss out. She dreaded to think what they’d paid for it. She’d have to call him.

She trailed an arm around the back of her chair in search of her handbag, still hanging there, along with her mac, from when she’d come home from the shops. She dug out her phone and called Greg’s number. It diverted straight to voicemail. Rebecca left a brief message detailing Mr Collins’ phone call, asking Greg to please call her or text her back so she’d know he’d received it okay.

She then sent Abi a cheeky little text, telling her to go and buy a certain football magazine.

She took her own copy through to the lounge, the warmth of the ginger in her tea tickling her throat slightly where the soreness hadn’t fully recovered.

Late afternoon a beautiful bloom of pink and red roses and white freesias arrived for her, with a card attached, saying,
‘Dear Bex, Thinking of you and sending you all our love always, Abi & Nick Xxx’

How blessed was she to have such lovely friends?

She realised she’d heard nothing from Greg re her earlier voice message.

4.30 p.m.

Had he rung the golf club back yet, or what?

Maybe this Mr Collins had managed to get hold of him by some other means. Or contacted his boss, Brian, perhaps?

Something told Rebecca she ought to double-check.

She tried Greg’s mobile number again. Straight to voicemail.
Bugger!

She scrolled through her contacts list, found the number for Greg’s usual Birmingham hotel and pressed call, explaining who she was and why she was calling to the friendly receptionist.

When she was told that Greg had checked out the previous day, she had to ask the woman to repeat herself. ‘
Oh, yes, Mrs Stafford. He definitely left here yesterday. Just after lunch.’

Rebecca thanked the receptionist, apologised for doubting her, and rang off.

How embarrassing!

Greg must either be back down south or visiting clients elsewhere.

She called his head office in London. Mim would know where he was.

Except Mim had left for the day, so Rebecca spoke to her colleague – Julie the temp as she’d introduced herself – who had no idea she was talking to Greg’s wife as she’d declined to ask who was calling. Furthermore, Julie surprisingly confirmed that, according to Mim’s desk diary, Mr Stafford was now on leave for the rest of this week – back in the office on Monday.

On leave?

Okay, don’t panic, Rebecca …

She didn’t bother revealing who she was to Julie, or leaving a message. She did, however, manage to obtain a number for Nina O’Donnell at Torrison Products and Solutions.

Surprise, surprise … On leave and non-contactable until Monday.

Rebecca contemplated ringing Steve Wolfe but, seriously, what was the point?

Sod worrying any more about whether Greg had rung the golf club back or not. That was his problem. What she’d discovered today intrigued her more now. It would be interesting to see what Greg chose to tell her if and when he came home.

‘So, tell me,’ said Nina, refilling her champagne flute, ‘was this morning’s meeting with the powers that be worth being dragged back early from Birmingham for?’

‘If you mean do I think I’m Zurich-bound, it’s a cast-iron certainty,’ said Greg, rubbing the back of his neck.

‘Yesss!’ Nina clenched her fist and gazed at the heavens. ‘They’re so keen to get us on board, Greg. The set-up there is amazing. Honestly, if you could have seen my face when they gave me the official tour of the offices on Monday, I couldn’t stop grinning. Wait until you see the place. I mean, for the top guy to actually fly back with me to talk to us both in person about it all, says everything. The salaries alone cushion any logistical upheaval, surely?’

Greg nodded. ‘So, who knows about this exactly? Only I’ve not breathed a word to either Brian or Steve Wolfe as yet. I told Steve when I left him at the hotel yesterday that an important client in London needed to see me. I know we’re all more or less one company now, but it still feels weird attending covert meetings.’

‘Well, the Torrison board know,
obviously
, it’s their new branch, albeit it’ll be Rutland’s too once the company connections are made fully public, but no crime has been committed here. They’re simply sounding us out. Internal headhunting. They’ve named us the dream team,’ she said, whooping with joy. ‘Anyway, we both know your boss plans to retire within the next year or so. And Steve Wolfe, I imagine, could temporarily cover any of your absences here? It’s not like you’ll be in Zurich for twelve months of the year solid, there will be some toing and froing, especially at first. We won’t be needed for at least three months, so plenty of time to sort things out this end beforehand. It’ll be brilliant!’ She raised her glass in a toast and beamed at him. ‘You just need to decide what to do about Rebecca.’