Strictly Love (6 page)

Emily laughed out loud. Listen to her. She'd spent, ooh, half
an hour in the presence of a very attractive man, and already she was lining him up against Callum. She was being ridiculous. As if he was even interested.

The phone on her desk rang.

‘Someone to see you down here,’ drawled the bored-sounding receptionist.

Emily frowned. She wasn't expecting anyone.

Oh God, no. As she approached the front desk she vaguely remembered Callum had had a big pitch on today. Please don't let him be here and be drunk.

‘Hey babe,’ he said. ‘Am I the dog's bollocks or what?’

‘What, I think,’ said Emily, squirming under the gaze of the supercilious receptionist.

‘I just won the shittest, hottest pitch in town. You are looking at the new account handler of
Smile, Please!
I am
the
man. ‘Callum raised his hands above his head and practically beat his chest.

‘Callum,’ hissed Emily. ‘I'm at work.’

‘I just wanted to see you, babe,’ he said, lighting up a cigarette.

‘This is a non-smoking office,’ said John Turnbull, one of Emily's more likeable colleagues, who'd just walked in.

‘Sweets for my sweet,’ said Callum, ignoring him and proffering a rather squashed box of chocolates.

‘Thanks very much,’ said Emily. ‘But can you just leave now. I've got stuff to do.’

‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ Callum pleaded with her. For once it had no effect. She was furious. How dare he show her up here? How dare he?

‘Callum, I'll be any way I like,’ she said, her manner cold and stiff. ‘Now just go, please.’

‘Do you want any help escorting this waste of space off the premises?’ said John.

‘No, it's all right,’ said Emily. ‘Callum's just leaving, aren't you?’

Something of the coldness of her tone seemed to have pierced
through Callum's skull because he shambled off with his cans of Stella. Jeez, he stank like a brewery.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Emily, shamefaced.

‘No problem,’ said John, ‘but you're hot to trot, and he's a wanker. What on earth is a babe like you doing with a twat like that?’

What indeed
, thought Emily, as she made her way back upstairs.
What indeed … ?

Chapter Six

 

‘You're going away
again
?’ Katie sat and faced her husband across the table, laid with her white damask cloth, their Royal Doulton blue and white wedding china, their poshest Sheffield steel cutlery, a vase full of freesias and daffodils and two scented candles.

‘Needs must,’ said Charlie, tucking into the steak Diane that Katie had lovingly prepared. ‘This is jolly good, by the way. I have to go. The takeover is turning out to be trickier than we thought. In fact,’ he paused, as if uncertain as to what to say next, ‘you may not like this, but there's a distinct possibility that I might have to be permanently in Amsterdam for a while.’

‘No!’ Katie put down the glass of Chablis she was sipping and stared at her husband in dismay.

‘I'm afraid so,’ said Charlie. ‘So we'd better start looking for schools and things.’

‘Woah!’ Katie stood up and looked at him. ‘Charlie, one thing at a time. When you say you have to be there for a while, how long is a while?’

‘Six months – a year tops,’ said Charlie.

‘Don't you think,’ Katie tried to choose her words carefully, knowing how capable Charlie was of twisting them, ‘you might be jumping the gun a bit? We can't just pull the kids out of school. It will be so disruptive for them. When are you going?’

Besides,
a little voice was hammering insistently in her brain,
we tried living abroad as a family before, and it was a disaster. And you promised …

Charlie had relocated once before, in his previous job, and Katie had had to leave the job where she had met and made friends with Emily. She probably would have done so eventually anyway as she had found it increasingly difficult to manage a career and two young children, but having the decision forced on her hadn't helped. Katie had gone on to spend a miserable year in Frankfurt with a five-year-old and a toddler. She didn't speak the language, had no social network and found the other English wives dreary beyond belief. When he'd seen how unhappy it had made her, Charlie had switched jobs and sworn he'd never put her through that again.

‘Oh, I didn't think of that,’ admitted Charlie.

‘No, you never do.’ Shock and disappointment – that her romantic evening was being tainted by the prospect of changes that could only make her home life worse – made Katie's response more acidic than she'd intended.

‘What's that supposed to mean?’ Charlie looked belligerent.

‘That you only think of what you need and want, and forget about the rest of us.’

‘Don't be ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I work the hours I do, if not for the family?’

Great. He'd done it again. He could always get her there. Charlie had always worked incredibly hard for them. Now Katie felt guilty. But she was still angry. How dare he just waltz in and assume they would all up sticks without a by-your-leave?

‘I know,’ said Katie, ‘but I don't want to live abroad again. It was bad enough last time, and now we‘ve got
three
kids. It's okay for Molly, she won't know the difference. But the boys have all their friends here. You can't expect them to uproot themselves.’

Charlie seemed to take a step back.

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘I don't know,’ said Katie. ‘Why not try commuting? you've
been away more than you've been home recently anyway. And if it's not for long, I'm sure I can manage here.’

‘I'll think about it,’ shrugged Charlie. ‘It's not definite yet anyway.’

‘Oh good,’ said Katie. ‘That's settled then.’ But later, as she followed Charlie into the lounge and cuddled up with him to watch TV, she couldn't help dwelling on it. Neither choice was a great one. And Charlie didn't really seem as bothered as he ought to be about spending the week away from her …

‘Dad, can we have Domino's tonight?’

Beth put on her special pleading look, but Mark was having none of it.

‘Nope,’ he said. ‘Not tonight. Your mum will kill me if I give you a takeaway again.’

‘Aw, that's so unfair,’ said Beth, with a pretend pout. With her long fair curls and dimples, even at ten she was still able to make a bid for cutest kid on the block.

‘Yup,’ said Mark. ‘But then so is life. Get used to it.’

Sam was always on at him to feed the kids healthily. Mark wasn't a brilliant cook, but he could rustle up spaghetti bolognaise or roast chicken (the kids' favourite) when he had to. And of late, he'd noticed that Rob's bad influence of late-night beers and takeaways were having a rather disastrous effect on his waistline. In order to make amends, Mark had bought a low-GI diet book and was busy trying to find out what constituted low-GI food. White bread, which he loved, alas did not. While rye bread, which he hated, did. One day someone would invent something that was good for him which he'd actually like …

The middle-age spread had come as a shock. Throughout his twenties, Mark had taken it for granted that he would retain his lean, rangy shape without too much difficulty. But when Sam had left him he hadn't bargained for the downward spiral of depression that would follow; a downward spiral which inevitably
sent him and Rob to the curry house late at night. Mark was at least grateful that he hadn't started smoking again, though the temptation had been great at times.

Recently he had made more of an effort to get to the gym or to go for the occasional run. He'd never get another woman interested in him if he looked too porky. Not that that seemed to stop Rob, but if Mark was sure of one thing, it was that he didn't want to end up like Rob. And somehow, he intuitively felt, Emily wasn't the sort of person who would want him to be either.

‘How about I make us a stir fry?’ Mark had discovered from his GI reading that this was apparently Good For Him, and Rob, who was a bit of a foodie, had moved in with a wok, so it couldn't be too hard.

‘Can we have sweet and sour?’ Gemma had mooched in from the room she shared with Beth.

‘I think there's some in the cupboard,’ said Mark. He had done a big shop the previous day, knowing that the kids were coming for the weekend. He loved having them and hated being apart from them. Something people often didn't understand.
Oh well
, they'd say,
at least your time is your own now
. Or,
you've got your freedom back
, nudge, nudge, wink, wink – the implication being,
You dirty old dog you, why not go and play the field?

But playing the field wasn't as easy as all that. For a start, until meeting Emily, Mark hadn't had the slightest inclination to do so; but also, what people – even women – failed to understand was that Mark came as a package. It wasn't only him, it was his kids too. Love me, love my children. Not all the women you met were likely to want to do that. Mark wondered whether Emily would. He'd gone along with Rob's strictures not to mention the children, but it had felt a bit odd.

‘Here it is.’ Gemma passed over the jar. She hoisted herself onto the worktop. ‘Da-ad,’ she began in a wheedling tone Mark knew all too well.

‘Whatever it is, I'm going to say no,’ said Mark firmly as he cut up some peppers.

‘But Da-ad. You don't know what it is yet!’

‘Okay, what is it?’ Mark turned the heat on and put the wok over the gas.

‘Shelly's-invited-me-to-the-park-and-sleepover-tomorrow-night.’ The words came out in a nervous gabble. Clearly rehearsed, and desperate to get his assent.

‘Who's Shelly again?’

‘You
know.
Shelly. The one who does dancing with me.’

Oh. That Shelly. The one with the tattoo. And the ring through her nose. And the one who Mark suspected had persuaded Gemma to smoke on at least one occasion.

‘I don't think so, Gemma, do you?’ Mark chucked the vege tables into the wok.

‘Oh Da-a-ad,’ said Gemma. ‘Why not?’

‘Because I don't want you hanging round the park after school,’ said Mark with half an eye on the recipe. He had found a sachet of black bean sauce in the cupboard and tore it open with his teeth.

‘But why can't I go to Shelly's?’

‘Because I say so.’ Mark hated himself the minute the words came out. He'd always sworn he wouldn't use that one on his kids. How parenthood makes hypocrites of us all, he thought. At least he hadn't done the one thing guaranteed to make sure she would stick to Shelly like a limpet, namely let Gemma know just how much he disapproved of her friend. ‘Besides, it's a school night.’

‘So?’ Gemma wasn't going to give up that easily.

‘So don't you have homework or something?’

Mark had chucked the sauce into the pan and turned the flame up a little – the stir fry didn't seem to be frying quite as quickly as it should.

‘Homework sucks,’ said Gemma sulkily.

Mark turned away to face her.

‘So does going to work, but I still have to do it,’ he said. Suddenly he was aware of the smell of burning. He turned round to see the pan had caught fire. ‘Holy shit!’ Mark turned the heat off and grabbed a lid to smother the flames, while simultaneously soothing Beth who had started to scream.

‘But Da-ad –’

‘Not now, Gemma.’ Mark surveyed the charred content of the pan. Apparently stir fry was much harder than he'd imagined.

‘You are so unfair!’ Gemma stomped off to her room. It was only the third time she'd performed that trick that evening. ‘Yup,’ said Mark.

‘What's up with Wednesday now?’ Rob wandered in from the shower, rubbing a towel on his head. He'd christened Gemma ‘Wednesday Addams’ the first time she'd dyed her hair black. And, realising how much it annoyed her, he'd kept it up.

‘Oh, the usual. I'm the meanest dad in the world for not letting her out with her mates.’ Mark was scraping the remnants of his stir fry into the bin.

‘What were you trying to do?’ asked Rob. ‘Burn the house down?’

‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Mark. ‘Domino's anyone?’

Emily sipped her drink, stared around the glitzy nightclub and sighed. The tubthumping music blaring out from DJ Rappa, The Sugar Daddy, who, despite the moniker, was actually a former accountant called Tim Seiver, was giving her a major headache.

Jeez. She was too old for this. But it was the sort of happening place that Callum liked. Though she still hadn't figured out how he'd managed to persuade her to come here after the whole work debacle. Somehow he'd sweet-talked her into it, and a late night at her desk for the third night running hadn't been immensely appealing. So here she was.

Emily leaned her head against the wall. It was cool and felt like a haven in this dark maelstrom of sweating bodies and
flashing lights. Once she'd have thought it was the height of cool to be here. She'd have been wowed by the bright city-lights appeal of it all; impressed by the zedlebs all crowding over each other in a desperate attempt to behave in a sufficiently outrageous manner to merit a picture in
Heat
magazine.

Once.

Now she wondered what had happened to her. When she had become a lawyer, Emily had been fired up with youthful idealism inspired by what had happened to her dad. He had never got the compensation owing to him after the accident, thanks to the fat cats who always covered their lardy arses. She would make up for that, and fight for all the little people: the ones like Dad who sat for years living a kind of half life breathing the shallow breaths of someone infected with asbestosis. An old man before his time. He'd been so proud of her when she'd told him.

Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. Oh God, no, not here. She still wasn't used to these overwhelming surges of grief that took her when she was least expecting them. They seemed to come at any moment, unannounced, like a huge shock wave, each one larger than the last. Would she ever get used to the fact that he wasn't here any more? She wondered if he had been disappointed in her. He'd never said if he was, but she wouldn't have blamed him. The idealistic Emily her dad had loved had turned into a shallow narcissistic creature, seduced by the false glamour of a fake lifestyle and ropey job. How had she let that happen?

‘You are such a loser!’ Jasmine Symonds came storming past with Twinkletoes Tone.

Tony looked, as ever, like a rat caught in a run.

‘Oh, babe, don't be like that,’ he whined. ‘You know I love you.’

‘Aw, do you?’ said Jasmine. ‘Well, I don't love you. It is so over.’ She threw the contents of her bottle of Bacardi Breezer over his head, to the cheers of several bystanders. A couple of cameras flashed and Jasmine paused to pose – no doubt the whole scene would be being written about in next week's issue of
Heat
. Emily
sighed. How had she ended up in this facile world? How?

‘What you staring at?’ Jasmine looked at her belligerently, and Emily quickly looked away. God, that woman was foul. Why on earth were so many people interested in her antics? Seeing she wasn't likely to get the fight she was clearly looking for, and to Emily's considerable relief, Jasmine turned round and disappeared into the crowd.

‘Ready to dance, babe?’ Callum came swaying up to her, no doubt stoked up after a visit to the gents. He was hyped and ready to keep partying all night. And she wasn't. With a moment of utter clarity, Emily knew that if she stayed with Callum for a hundred years, nothing was ever going to change. But she could take control of her life. She'd start here and now.

‘No, actually,’ said Emily, ‘I'm a bit knackered. I've got an early start tomorrow. I'm going to make a move.’

‘Oh.’ Callum put on his little-boy-lost face. Once she'd have thought that endearing. Tonight it just irritated her. ‘Please stay, pretty please.’

‘Sorry, Callum,’ said Emily, thrilled with the sudden realisation that, after all, this was going to be easy. She should have done it months ago. ‘I've got to go.’

‘Ring me,’ he said, trying to give her a kiss on the mouth.

She brushed him aside. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Sorry, Callum, but it's over. I won't be ringing you again.’

He looked gratifyingly open-mouthed at this news, but he didn't try to stop her from leaving. Instead, he shrugged and turned back towards the heaving crowd. No doubt by the end of the evening there would be a replacement. Emily made her way to the door, with an ever lighter heart. This really was the way the world ended, then, with not a bang, but the merest of whimpers. But even whimpers could feel great …