Monday to Friday Man (31 page)

49

When I return from work the following day, I turn on my computer in the vain hope that I have had some further Monday to Friday enquiries. As my screen lights up, the telephone rings. No doubt that’s Mr Cox telling me he’s either cancelling or running late.

‘Hello?’ Pause. ‘Oh, Mum, hi!’ Mum tells me she’s spoken to our father about Nick’s divorce and that she’s planning a trip home, and I am surprised by how happy that makes me feel.

As we talk on the telephone, my computer makes encouraging noises.

Your house in Hammersmith has had 12 VISITORS and 1 ENQUIRY.

I click on the enquiry box. To my amazement, it’s from Jack.

Anxious to read his message, I ask Mum if I can call her back after my Monday to Friday viewing.

Jack tells me his little girl is called Vanessa. She means the world to him, ‘But I wasn’t ready to settle down again,’ he writes.

That’s arrogant, I think to myself, him presuming that I wanted to ‘settle down’ with him. I was only asking him to stay the odd weekend.

‘I’ve made so many mistakes in the past, Gilly,’ he continues, ‘like getting married too young and having a kid. I love Nessa but I can’t even begin to think about committing myself until I’ve sorted out my own situation, and what with you being thirty-five . . .’

I knew my age was a problem! Bloody Jack Baker . . .

‘I understand your time is running out, so it wouldn’t have been fair to pretend or lead you on as I’m sure you’d agree. I live temporarily at home with my parents because my ex lives in our old apartment near Bristol. I see my daughter pretty much every weekend, which is why I need to get my act together and buy my own place. I need to work hard, not think about diving into another serious relationship.’

All you need to do is say sorry for lying, Jack, I think, as I read on reluctantly. Just say sorry for being an idiot.

‘We had great fun, Gilly. I loved being with you, but if you’re honest with yourself, you didn’t love me.’

I pay more attention now, scrolling quickly down the page. ‘I saw the way you looked at him at your birthday party. He looked at you in the same way. I’m not just saying that to excuse my behaviour, I shouldn’t have kissed Nancy (though to be fair she came onto me first).’

Oh, the arrogance of this man!

Ruskin nudges my foot, reminding me it’s his supper-time. I glance at my watch. Shit! It’s 6.45 and I arranged the viewing with Mr Cox for seven and I haven’t even tidied up the spare room! I bolt upstairs, check that everything is in order, run a brush through my hair, wonder whether to put some make-up on, but then decide not to as I can’t really be bothered. I want to finish reading Jack’s email.

I scoop Ruskin’s meat into his bowl, along with his dried biscuit, and place his meal on the floor by the television as he likes TV suppers. I then rush back to my computer.

‘I’m sorry for being a jerk,’ Jack apologizes finally, ‘but I hope that maybe, one of these days, I can take you out dancing again. Good luck, Gilly. Love Jack.’

There’s a loud knock on the door that makes me jump. Ruskin barks so furiously that anyone would think he was a Rottweiler.

I look through the peephole to make sure that the person has shut the gate. I can’t make out what Mr Cox looks like as his back is turned. ‘Can you shut the gate?’ I call out. ‘Dog here!’

I hear the clang of the iron and the latch locking.

Then I open the door.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks.

‘No, I mean, it’s not a good time. I’m waiting for someone. My Monday to Friday man.’

‘Mr Cox?’

‘Yes, Mr Cox,’ I repeat tentatively, wondering how he knows.

He stands on the doorstep staring at me.

‘Can I come in?’ he asks again.

‘It’s really not a good time. Listen, I promise to call you . . .’

‘I am Mr Cox!’

‘No you’re not,’ I say helplessly. ‘You’re Guy. Why are you pretending to be Mr Cox?’

‘Gilly. I’m Guy Cox. Mr Cox. I’m your Monday to Friday man.’

‘No you’re not. You don’t need a spare room.’

Guy pushes his way inside. ‘I’m going mad,’ he says.

‘That’s not my fault.’

‘Yes it is. You won’t see me, won’t answer my calls, and I know you were at work the other day when I met Mari. You were hiding downstairs, weren’t you?’

I nearly smile at that. ‘We need some time apart. You can’t blame me for that.’

‘We don’t need time apart, that’s just stupid.’

‘Why are you here, Guy? Does Flora know?’

‘We need to talk.’

‘OK,’ I agree finally. ‘Talk.’

He’s standing so close to me that I take a couple of steps backwards. ‘Gilly, I had to see you,’ he explains. ‘I knew if I’d called again, you’d have either ignored my message or told me we couldn’t meet. This was the only way. I was on the computer, just happened to look at the Monday to Friday site because I was thinking of you and . . . Oh God, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you . . . not since that night.’

‘I’m sorry for avoiding you,’ I say, ‘but I’ve had a lot to think about too.’

‘And?’ he asks hopefully.

‘I’ve missed you, really missed you. But the thing about you and me Guy is we can’t be friends, it’s not going to work. It’s just not going to work. I think it’s best we leave it, for now anyway.’

‘Leave it?’

‘Yes. I think that’s best.’

‘But what if I can’t leave it?’

‘You have to.’

‘So you’re not going to listen to what I have to say?’

‘What’s the point, Guy?’

He heads for the front door. ‘I’m sick of this. You know what, I’ve done everything I can to show you how I feel, but you’ve done everything you can to run away from me! I came here to tell you something important, but if you’re not even prepared to listen. You’re right – what’s the fucking point? Fine. Let’s leave it.’ He opens the door, is about to go . . .

I swing round to face him. ‘Guy . . . wait!’

One hand on the door handle he stops and turns to me expectantly.

‘It’s complicated,’ I say.

‘No, it’s not. You’re just scared to say how you feel so you’re hiding from me. You’re running away.’

‘I’m not running away!’ I retort. ‘I’m protecting myself! In case you hadn’t realized, you’re getting married, and I should never have kissed you!’

He grabs my hand. His firmness takes me by surprise. He guides me back to the sofa. Ruskin jumps onto my lap territorially, watching Guy’s every move.

‘Just listen to me, OK?’ he demands.

This time I nod, obediently.

‘What I’ve been trying to tell you all this time is that it’s over. When Flora came home I knew it was wrong, all wrong. I should have been happier, not thinking about someone else. We’d been together for all these years,’ he continues, ‘and I’d slipped into proposing, thinking it was the right thing to do after so much time, but when I picked her up from the airport . . . when she was home . . . all I could think about was you . . . and that kiss . . . and . . . I need to know, do you love me? Gilly?’

I see Guy giving me my writing book, he and I walking circuit after circuit in the park with Ruskin and Trouble, sharing coffees and parting at the zebra crossing, Guy turning left, me turning right . . .

‘Gilly?’ he pushes again. ‘If you don’t feel the same way, I’ll leave right now.’

I think of the way he’d talked to Megan in our church; how he gave me his precious hat for my birthday; our shopping trip for his wedding suit; laughing in the Playboy shop; going for long evening drives.

‘I know you do,’ he says, ‘but you’re scared of losing another person you love, aren’t you? Well, I won’t leave you. I’m here to stay.’

I remember Guy telling me he loves my honesty and that I am unlike any other girl he knows. I love the way his eyes light up when he talks about his work, the way he listened to me crying on his doorstep late at night and stood up for me at Nancy’s. His hand reaching down to pull me up from the ice . . .

‘Gilly, please say something,’ he begs. ‘I need to know how you . . .’

‘Mr Cox, will you just shut up,’ I say, wrapping my arms around him, ‘and kiss me.’

Guy and I are curled up on the sofa together. ‘Flora and I, we both pulled out. We felt exactly the same way. I should have guessed by her initial reaction. I mean, who runs off the moment their boyfriend proposes?’ He smiles sadly.

I stroke his arm, he clutches my hand again, kisses it. ‘We’re determined to be friends. I still care about her. We just realized deep down we had grown apart. We didn’t want to make the mistake of marrying because we felt we should.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t give you the chance to say any of this, that you had to pretend to be a Monday to Friday man.’

‘I know. It was either this or climbing that tree in the park, ready to jump down when you and Ruskin arrived . . . but I hate heights.’

I smile. ‘Sometimes, when things turn out badly in your life Guy, you don’t have the faith that anything’s going to change, but . . .’

‘But?’

‘I should have had more faith in you.’

‘Do you want to hear the line I rehearsed as I walked over to yours?’

I nod.

‘I don’t want to be your Monday to Friday man. I want to be your every day of the week man.’

I turn to him and hit his chest gently. ‘That’s terrible,’ I say. ‘Shocking. Worrying, in fact. But I still love you.’

50

A year later

‘Here it is,’ I say to Guy, as we drive into a small square in Beaminster. Guy and I have decided finally that we want to move out of London. He can work in the country and I can continue to write from home. I told Guy I wanted to move to the West Country, and after months of researching the countryside and house-hunting, he agreed that he also loved the ruggedness of Dorset and we have just put in an offer for a small house in Cattistock. Cattistock is a larger village than most, with a lot more going on than just a post office and a church. The countryside is stunning and, if our offer is accepted, I will have a view from the kitchen of rolling hills, horses, sheep and, from here, not another house in sight. When Guy and I had lunch in the local pub the landlord mentioned it was a young place with families and children and many divorced and singletons here too, reinventing their lives. ‘We’re just as social as London,’ he’d claimed proudly. ‘And what’s more, Tesco’s deliver here.’ He asked us what we young folk did and I was proud to say I was a writer.

My novel was accepted by a literary agent who secured a two-book deal with a top UK publisher. My father and Nick, along with my mother, who had flown in from Australia to be with us for three weeks, took me to the Ritz for tea. A year ago I wouldn’t have dreamt I’d be in this position. I thought I’d be on the scrap heap. More importantly, as Mum, Dad, Nick and I talked over tea I had to pinch myself – I never believed we could sit around a table again, as a family, and celebrate.

It took a while for me to believe in myself, and to start writing, but I did. This last year, I have felt so happy working in Mari’s shop and writing in the evenings, or during my lunch hours. ‘When you feel stuck in a rut, you need to change one thing,’ Richard had said. ‘Life can be like a padlock refusing to open. One little change in the combination can finally open the door.’

I’m glad I met Richard again. It was lucky that Dad knew his father. It was the best advice he could have given me – to stay in London and advertise for a lodger. I have no regrets about Jack Baker, despite what happened. He did do me a favour in that he brought me out of my shell back into life, and, besides, if I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t have rushed to Guy’s that night he kissed Nancy; we wouldn’t have followed him back home; we wouldn’t have kissed. I wouldn’t be here now.

I look over at Guy. I think I fell in love with him the moment he gave me the leather book, I was just too stupid to see it. ‘Maybe this is your something,’ he’d written, giving me a chance to change my life.

Guy parks and I tell him there are no meters or traffic wardens.

We enter the estate agents, now called Butler & Sampson. Today it’s busier, with many clients sitting at desks being shown houses on flash computer screens. The office has been modernized, with a plush carpet, fancy lighting and updated furniture. A plump blonde receptionist with spectacles perched on her nose asks if she can help us. I tell her I’m looking for Richard Hunter.

‘Richard left well over a year ago.’ She tells me she’s sure someone else could look after us. Why don’t we take a seat? She offers us both a cappuccino, which makes me smile.

I ask her if she has Richard’s contact details. ‘Do you know where he works now?’

‘We don’t normally hand out addresses I’m afraid,’ she states.

‘I know, but it’s really important I see him.’

She looks at me curiously.

‘He’s a very old family friend, but we’ve slightly lost touch,’ I improvise. ‘My father’s his godfather, and . . . look, I’ve driven all the way from London to see him.’

She taps her keyboard and scribbles his address onto a card.

Guy and I drive down one small winding road after another until we find ourselves in a village called Cerne Abbas. There’s no parking space on the main road, so Guy drops me off outside a delicatessen.