Hitched! (12 page)

George and I tried to explain the Mr and Mrs game to her, but
it was hard going.

‘So if Frith and I were the couple, for instance, you’d ask me
what Frith likes in her sandwiches,’ George tried, ‘and I’d say cheese and
chutney.’

‘Whereas, in fact, my favourite sandwich is cheese and salad,’
I put in.

George shook his head definitely. ‘You only
think
you like salad,’ he said. ‘Actually, you prefer
chutney.’

I opened my mouth to argue but saw that Saffron was looking
bewildered. ‘But I don’t know what Jax likes,’ she said. ‘And I don’t eat
sandwiches.’

‘That was just an example,’ I said, shooting a warning glance
at George. ‘There are lots of others. What’s Jax’s pet peeve, for instance?
George can’t bear a dirty dishwasher. You’d never think it to look at him, but
he’s really quite anal that way.’

‘Hey, pot, look who’s talking anal!’ He turned confidentially
to Saffron. ‘If you want to drive Frith wild, leave a drawer open just a bit.
Works every time!’

Saffron bit her bottom lip, her perfect brow creased with the
effort of thought. ‘Jax doesn’t like bad reviews,’ she confided at last.

I suppressed a sigh. ‘It’s really about more intimate things
than that, Saffron. Does Jax know what brand of moisturiser you use? Does he
know how you take your tea? Does he remember what you were wearing when you
first met?’

‘I was in a John Galliano yellow dress.’ Saffron remembered her
own wardrobe, but I wondered how much notice Jax had taken.

It worried me that the two of them seemed to spend so little
time together, but, as George kept saying, they were old enough to make their
own decisions.

‘What was Frith wearing?’ Saffron asked George unexpectedly. I
thought it would put him on the spot, but he answered promptly.

‘Oh, that’s easy. It was raining, and she was standing in the
mud in a jacket and boots and a yellow hard hat, but still managing to look cool
and crisp and elegant. I noticed that straight back of hers first of all, and
then she turned and put her chin up when she saw me.’

Saffron clapped her hands together. ‘Was it love at first
sight?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said George, playing up to his role
magnificently. ‘She looked cross at first. She had her lips folded together, the
way she does. You know?’ He demonstrated for Saffron, exaggerating madly of
course, and she giggled in recognition. ‘Still, I thought she was really pretty,
and I asked her out, and she said no.’

‘You didn’t?’ Saffron gaped at me in disbelief.

‘I didn’t want to be a notch in George’s bedpost,’ I said. ‘And
really, I had better things to do.’

George exchanged a look with Saffron. ‘Frith didn’t make it
easy for me, I have to admit,’ he said. ‘She’s a hard woman, but then, I’ve
always liked a challenge, and the more I saw her, the more intrigued I was. I
know she’s not obvious, but she’s got the most lovely eyes—have you noticed
that?’

‘I suppose they
are
unusual,’
Saffron agreed, turning to stare at my face.

‘They’re like ditchwater,’ I mumbled, forgetting my role as
insatiable man-eater in my embarrassment.

‘Ditchwater? They’re the most beautiful hazel,’ George
insisted. ‘They’re the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen,’ he added, looking straight
into them, and for a moment there were just the two of us, and my pulse tumbling
in my ear.

‘Ah-h-h,’ said Saffron.

‘And her hair!’ George recollected himself, lifting a few
strands from my shoulder. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’

‘It’s brown,’ I said, rolling my eyes, but he shook his
head.

‘You think it’s brown when you first see it, but when you look
closer, you can see honey and gold and melted butter.’

‘Oh, please!’

‘No, he’s right,’ said Roly, to my surprise. I hadn’t thought
he had noticed anything except Saffron. ‘It’s really pretty.’

‘That’s the thing about Frith,’ George confided to the others,
smoothing my hair back into place, and ignoring my attempts to kick him under
the table. ‘You take a first look and you see one thing, but when you look
again, you see more, and every time you look at her, she seems more
beautiful.’

I cleared my throat. ‘Gosh, George, I didn’t know you were a
poet.’

‘It’s true. You think you’re ordinary, but you’re not. You’re
just not obvious, and I think you do that deliberately.’

‘I’ve always thought Frith didn’t make enough of herself,’
Saffron agreed.

‘Anyone for more pasta?’ I asked brightly.

‘It’s difficult to pin down just what it is that attracts us to
someone else, isn’t it?’ George spoke across me to Saffron. ‘Take Frith’s
features one by one, and, yes, maybe they’re not that special, but put them
together into Frith, and I can lose my mind just thinking about what she feels
like.’ He turned to me with his glinting blue smile. ‘And when I make her smile,
I feel like I’ve conquered Everest.’

‘Ah, sweet!’ said Saffron.

‘George, Saffron isn’t interested in this,’ I said with another
kick under the table. I was very much
not
smiling.

‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed about George wanting you, Frith,’
said Saffron. ‘It’s lovely to see how much you love each other.’

I opened my mouth to inform her that there was no danger of me
being in love with George when I caught his eye and remembered the deal we had
made, and shut it again.

‘Frith’s a behind-closed-door woman,’ George told Saffron. ‘But
don’t let that cool exterior fool you. Inside, she’s a wild woman, aren’t you,
Tiger?’

I pushed at his shoulder, and he pretended to topple over.
‘Ignore him, Saffron,’ I said. ‘And as for you,’ I said severely to George,
‘you’re to behave yourself or I won’t take you to Saffron’s wedding.’

‘Oh, no, you must come!’ exclaimed Saffron. She turned to Roly
with a sweet smile. ‘And you’ll come too, won’t you, Roly? I’d love to see you
on my special day.’

Roly turned pink. ‘I’d be honoured,’ he said.

* * *

Once George had stopped his ridiculously over-the-top
performance, it turned into a surprisingly enjoyable evening, and nobody seemed
to care that the wine was on special offer.

I’d been nervous that Roly might not be able to play along—he
was a darling, but not the sharpest crayon in the box, it had to be said—but I
needn’t have worried. When Saffron was in the room, he didn’t notice what anyone
else was doing anyway. He sat and gazed adoringly at her and, as Saffron was
more than happy to sit and be adored, the two of them needed little
entertaining, which left George and I to bicker as normal.

Whatever normal was. I wasn’t sure any more.

That month in Whellerby, I thought of my life as two halves:
Before Kiss and After Kiss. Most of the time, I longed to go back to how I was
before that kiss, when I had been focused and in control and my life was
proceeding perfectly according to my five-year plan. I flayed myself endlessly
for having given into temptation, for letting George kiss me. For kissing him
back.

What a stupid, brainless thing to do! Because now, of course, I
couldn’t get the memory of it out of my head.

In spite of everything I’d had to say to George about wanting
to forget that it had ever happened, I couldn’t.

Too many times during the day, I’d find my mind drifting away
from timescales and local authority regulations or where to source recycled
cellulose insulation, away from the things I should be thinking about to George
and how he had kissed me.

I’d sit at my computer and stare at an elevation on screen, and
instead of picturing the finished building I’d think about how George had smiled
at me in the firelight. I’d remember the wicked pleasure of his mouth, the
insistent roam of his hands. I’d remember the ripple of muscles in his back and
the feel of his sleek, strong body pressed into mine, and my mouth would dry and
my pulse would start a dull thudding.

Too many times at night I’d have to give myself a stern lecture
entitled Don’t Be Stupid. I had a plan, I reminded myself, and it didn’t involve
making a fool of myself over any man, especially not one as unsuitable as
George. I was focusing on my career for the next five years. There would be time
enough to think about a sensible relationship after that, and it wasn’t going to
be with someone who thought it was funny to mess around with my phone and who
couldn’t sit on a chair properly.

Annoyingly, George himself didn’t seem to be having any
problems at all carrying on as if nothing whatsoever had happened. I saw him
every day. He’d turn up at the site with a sandwich for me, and wait for me to
scold him about the latest ringtone he had installed.

Somehow he managed to change it every day. I never knew what my
phone was going to sound like. I had snarling tigers and barking dogs, I had
bells and whistles and blaring sirens. I had the theme tune to
Hawaii Five-O
, I had the national anthem. I had Elvis
Presley and Elvis Costello, Beethoven and Bach, splats and whoopee cushions. I
had stupid voices and sexy voices and once an angelic choirboy whose pure tones
made me want to cry.

I still have no idea where he got them all from, but the men on
the site loved them. They vied with each other to guess what the next day’s
ringtone would be, and if no one else rang my mobile when I was on the site they
would call me themselves just to see what absurd sound emerged from my
pocket.

I saw George almost every evening too. He’d let himself into my
cottage and cajole me into going for a drink, or to keep Roly company up at the
Hall. Invariably Mrs Simms had cooked a delicious supper, so that was a popular
choice. The three of us would ignore our grand surroundings and hole up in
Roly’s private sitting room instead, watching television or arguing. Well,
George and I argued. I suspect Roly tuned us out and dreamt of Saffron.

George teased me and irritated me and made me laugh, and
somewhere along the line we became the friends I’d said I wanted to be.

Again and again, I told myself that was enough. I told myself
it was all for the best. But every time I looked at George’s mouth, my mind
would go hot and dark for a moment. If I brushed against him while we were
sitting in the pub or slumped together on Roly’s sofas, every cell in my body
would jitter with longing, and my pulse would jump and throb in sympathy.

I was exasperated with myself. I had
decided
. I was sticking to my plan. There was absolutely no point in
thinking about it any more.

And yet more and more I found myself remembering what George
had said about making the most of my time in Whellerby. Treacherous thoughts
kept sneaking in, undermining my sternest resolution. Why
not
treat it as a light-hearted affair? I didn’t have to do anything
rash like falling in love. I couldn’t afford to do that and, besides, that
wasn’t the point. It would be a purely physical relationship, I persuaded
myself. Surely I could keep things superficial? It wasn’t as if George would
want to get embroiled in a passionate affair either.

The trouble was, having made such a stand about that kiss, I
couldn’t think of a way to raise the subject with him. I didn’t do flirting or
seduction. I was sure Saffron would have been able to let him know that she had
changed her mind without saying a word, but every time I thought about starting
the conversation, I lost my nerve.

It wasn’t just finding the words. I’d no sooner decided that I
would say something to George than all my old insecurities would come tumbling
back. Why should George want me? He had probably just been amusing himself when
he kissed me. It wasn’t even as if I were his type. If we went to the pub, he’d
pretend to be disappointed that he was stuck with me when I pointed out all the
pretty girls there he ought to get to know, as they were bound to be so much
more suitable than I was, but I suspected I had become a challenge for him.

I had been a challenge for Charles too.

Not that George was like Charles. We were friends. I knew he
liked me, but what if he was bored with me the moment the challenge was won?
Worse, what if I was a terrible disappointment in bed? In spite of all my
boasting about all the ‘fine’ relationships I’d had in the past, I wasn’t very
experienced. I was afraid I wouldn’t match up to the sweet-sexy-fun Annabels of
this world.

I went round and round in circles of longing, doubt and
frustration, winding myself up into such a state that I was actually glad of the
distraction when the weekend of Saffron’s party arrived.

* * *

Saffron and her friends spilled out of their cars with
much shrieking and squealing and showing off of perfect cheekbones. I’d met some
of them before, but honestly found it hard to tell them apart. They were all
called things like Feathers or Jinx, and spent a lot of time dragging their
hands through their hair, omigodding when they saw the Hall and making play with
their lashes.

And that was just the men.

As a group they were impossibly glamorous. There was a
glossiness to them, a sort of nervous energy that set me on edge. I felt like a
sturdy pony shoved into a field full of racehorses.

I felt sixteen again, and as excluded from the in-crowd as I
had been when Charles decided he could have some fun with me.

But Saffron was happy, and Jax turned up in time for the
dinner. That was all that mattered, I told myself.

The Hall looked wonderful. It had been open to the public since
Easter and every surface gleamed. The beds in the east wing had all been aired,
and preparations for the elaborate dinner were under way in the kitchen.

After discussion with Mrs Simms, I had kept the decoration to
fresh flowers, as befitted the Edwardian theme of the weekend. There were great
bowls of peonies in the centre of the polished mahogany dining table, and vases
of larkspur and phlox massed in the long gallery where the party had gathered
for pre-dinner cocktails. It was a beautiful May evening, and the long windows
in the gallery were open onto the south terrace with its view down over the
lake.