Take a Chance on Me (4 page)

Des’s flat, above the garden center, was plainly furnished, decorated in shades of magnolia, and tidier than she’d imagined. He was being so kind. When he offered her a drink, Abbie said, ‘Wine please, white if you’ve got it,’ and Des said apologetically, ‘Sorry, I don’t have any wine. I could go to the pub and pick up a bottle, or there’s some brandy left over from last Christmas.’

He evidently wasn’t a great drinker, which was no bad thing. In the narrow beige kitchen, discovering lemonade in the fridge, Abbie said, ‘Well… brandy and lemonade then, that’ll be fine,’ and didn’t have the heart to complain when Des, knowing no better, poured equal quantities of each into a half-pint beer mug.

Actually, it kind of grew on you after the first few shudder-making sips. And the spreading warmth in her stomach was definitely helping her to relax. You could see why people in times of trouble turned to drink. Next to her on the faded leather sofa, in front of a real fire, Des was being a brilliant listener, nodding sympathetically, and being completely on her side. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t seem to mind that she was dominating the conversation, and passed the box of tissues every time she’d soaked another one right through.

‘… We found out when I was seventeen. I had to go to the hospital and have all these tests done, then they told me I didn’t have a viable womb. And that was it, there isn’t anything you can do about that, is there?’ Having spared him the gory details, Abbie sank her head back against the slippery sofa cushions. ‘I just wanted to die. I thought Tom would leave me. Why would he want to stay stuck with someone who could never have children? Because even then, already, we knew we’d want to have them one day. But he was fantastic.’ Tears slid down her face and dripped off her chin. ‘He said it didn’t matter and he loved me too much to let me go. Of course, he forgot to mention that he’d be taking his mind off things by screwing other women behind my back.’

‘It might only have happened the once,’ said Des.

Abbie wiped her eyes. ‘And that’s meant to make me feel better, is it? You’re sticking up for him now?’

‘No, no, I’m really not.’ Covering her hand, Des gave it a squeeze. ‘I don’t know how he could do it to you.’ He shook his head. ‘What about adoption? Did you never want to try that?’

‘Oh, we did want to. We got married when I was twenty-one and started trying straight away. But everyone kept telling us we were too young to adopt, like we were being punished for it. And I couldn’t wait.’ Abbie closed her eyes as the painful memories of that time came flooding back. Cleo, their parents’ unplanned but happy accident, had been a lively seven-year-old then, and she had loved looking after her little sister, but it had only served to emphasize the gaping, baby-shaped hole in her life. ‘All I wanted was a baby of my own. Every day felt like a month, every month felt like a year, and they told us to come back in five years when we were more settled. Settled! And if you get upset when they tell you that, as far as they’re concerned it just goes to prove how unsuitable you are!’ The words were tumbling out of her now. ‘So we tried surrogacy but that was traumatic and it didn’t work… then we couldn’t face any more tries after that, so we saved up for a couple more years and investigated adopting from abroad instead. But it was all so complicated and hard, and I ended up getting into such a state that my doctor had to put me on tranquillizers. She told me I was obsessed, that it was taking over my life, and if I wasn’t careful I’d have a complete nervous breakdown. And that was when Tom said it had to stop. He put his foot down and told me he wanted a wife, not a gibbering wreck. He said the way things were going, we’d end up tearing each other apart. And you know what? After going through eighteen months of hell, it was almost a relief. We’d tried everything and nothing had worked. So we gave up and told ourselves we’d leave it for another four years. But then every time we started thinking about it after that, Tom saw me getting wound up all over again and said he wasn’t going to put me through it. And when I went along to my doctor in a state, she told me I wasn’t doing myself any favors, and that with my mental history I might not be considered suitable to adopt anyway.’ She paused, turned to look at Des. ‘So that was it. We drew a line, gave up for good, told ourselves that at least we still had each other.’

He gave her hand another sympathetic squeeze. ‘I never knew. I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ Frowning at the empty glass in her other hand, Abbie said, ‘Did I spill this?’

Des smiled. ‘You drank it. Stay there, I’ll get you another one.’

By the time he returned from the kitchen, Abbie was in tears again.

‘Sorry, I don’t know where it’s all coming from.’ She fumbled for another tissue. ‘This must be the most boring night of your life.’

‘Don’t be silly. We’re friends, aren’t we?’ He sat back down. ‘You’ve had a rotten thing happen and you don’t deserve it.’

A rotten thing happen. Well, that was one way of putting it. But he was trying so hard to help. And it was comforting to know that he was on her side.

‘I don’t know what to do.’ Abbie’s voice broke. ‘I still can’t believe he did it. I can’t believe this is h-happening… I just want to hurt him like he’s hurt me…’

***

Oh no. Oh God. The moment Abbie opened her eyes, the events of the night before came flooding back in technicolor detail.

Every single detail
.

Her stomach clenched with horror, she gazed at the unfamiliar curtains and felt the unfamiliar arm draped over her side, the warm breath on the back of her neck. How had she got herself into this situation? Except she already knew the answer to that. Fueled by the second half-pint mug of mostly brandy with a dash of lemonade, she had carried on ranting and raving while Des had been… well, lovely, really. Kind, patient, and endlessly understanding. Until finally she’d cried, ‘I mean, how would Tom like it if I did it to him?’ and Des had gazed wordlessly into her eyes until the penny finally dropped.

If she was honest, there had always been a frisson of attraction between them. Not that either of them would ever have dreamed of doing anything about it, simply because that wasn’t the kind of people they were. She was a respectable, happily married woman, and Des had respected that.

But now, after all this, well, why shouldn’t it happen? A combination of alcohol and the desire for revenge was what had propelled her to do it. She had leaned over and kissed him. That was all, just a kiss, but Des had responded with alacrity. They’d kissed some more and it had felt strange, but it was a way of getting back at Tom, so she’d carried on. Then, after a while in Des’s arms, the slippery leather sofa has become uncomfortable and he’d helped her to her feet, leading her through to the bedroom. By that stage, the alcohol had well and truly kicked in. Recklessly, she’d almost made up her mind to have sex with him
. There
you go, Tom, see how you like that
. But when it came down to it, she hadn’t been able to see it through. Des had taken off his shirt, but by the time he attempted to unfasten her buttons, she was already shaking her head and pulling away, saying no, no, sorry but no. And to his eternal credit, he hadn’t pressed her to change her mind. He had stopped at once, comforted her when she started sobbing all over again, and told her that it didn’t matter, just being here with her was enough. Not long after that, overwrought and exhausted and unaccustomed to the alcohol she’d drunk, she’d fallen asleep in his arms.

Still fully clothed, thank God.

Abbie blinked and shifted to the edge of the bed. Her mouth tasted sour and last night’s torrent of tears had left her eyes sore and gritty, as if they’d been sandpapered by a deranged carpenter. The clock on the bedside table showed that it was ten to six. Outside, the sky was still pitch black; it wouldn’t start to get light for another hour.

‘Where are you off to?’

Guiltily, she turned and saw that Des had been watching her. If last night had been embarrassing, this morning already felt worse. ‘Sorry, did I wake you? I need to get home.’

‘You don’t have to. You’re welcome to stay.’

He was her boss. She had led him on and nearly-but-not-quite slept with him. And he was still being kind. Feeling sick and dreading Tom’s return from his fishing trip this evening, Abbie said, ‘Thanks, but I want to go.’

‘I’ll give you a lift.’ He began to throw back the duvet and she caught a glimpse of bare torso.

‘No, no… really there’s no need.’ She backed hastily towards the door; anyone hearing a car at this hour on a Sunday morning could look out of their bedroom window and see him dropping her off.

‘OK, I know you’ve got stuff to sort out with Tom.’ He pushed back his tousled reddish-fair hair with the flat of his hand. ‘But… I meant it when I said you didn’t deserve to be treated like that. You’re lovely… amazing…’ He saw her flinch and went on hastily, ‘Look, you can call me or come over whenever you want. Anything I can do to help, please, just say the word.’

‘Right.’ Abbie nodded. ‘Thanks.’ If it wasn’t so tragic, it would almost be funny; they sounded so clipped and British, like something out of a 1940s black and white film.

He blinked. ‘Will you tell him about this? I mean, you spending the night here?’

‘Don’t worry.’ As she shook her head, she saw the relief in Des’s eyes. ‘I won’t. It’s just between us. No one else is going to know.’ Awkwardly she added, ‘And you won’t tell anyone either?’

Des’s expression softened. ‘Whatever you want.’

‘Thanks. Well, bye then.’

He cleared his throat. ‘I hate to ask, but will you be able to work Magda’s shift on Wednesday?’

God, this was what he’d phoned up to ask her last night. If he hadn’t, none of this would have happened.

‘Yes. Fine.’ Abbie nodded helplessly. She’d spent the night in Des Kilgour’s bed and nearly ended up having sex with him, and it was all Magda’s dead uncle’s fault.

The moment she saw Saskia and Shelley walk into the pub at three o’clock, Cleo knew where she’d be spending the rest of Sunday afternoon.

How could she even have thought her casual offer would slip a determined six-year-old’s mind?

‘Cleo!’ Saskia came hurtling towards her, mittens-on-strings flapping as she flung out her arms.

‘Sass! You came!’ Picking her up and swinging her into the air, Cleo pretended to stagger. ‘Oof, you’re heavier than a house.’

‘I’m not. You are.’ Saskia had inherited her mother’s slender frame, dancing green eyes, and infectious giggle. ‘When are we going? Soon?’

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Shelley, her mother, ran her hands over her neatly tied-back dark hair and grimaced by way of apology. ‘She hasn’t stopped going on about it all weekend. Are you sure you don’t mind?’

Of course she didn’t mind. Cleo knew how much she owed to Shelley. Following a series of less-than-thrilling jobs—waitressing, office work, tour guide—she had been more than ready for a change three years ago when she’d heard through a friend of a friend about the vacancy for a chauffeur at Henleaze Limos. Grumpy Graham, who owned the company and ran the tiny office from his home just off Henleaze Road in North Bristol, had wanted another male driver. Shelley, in her late thirties and divorced, had persuaded Graham to take Cleo on instead. She had then been the one who’d shown her the ropes and taught her how to stand up to Graham, who took his grumpiness seriously. She and Shelley had hit it off from the word go, and Saskia—three and a bit then, six years old now—was the light of her mum’s life. She also had the memory of an elephant; many months ago, Cleo had mentioned in passing that next Christmas, Saskia might enjoy a trip to Marcombe Arboretum, where an illuminated path through the woods led to a hut in a snowy clearing where good children got the chance to meet Santa. When she’d said, ‘You should ask your mum to take you there,’ Saskia had brightly replied, ‘Or you could take me,’ and when she’d responded with a vague, ‘Yes, but I expect your mum would want to go with you,’ Saskia had moved expertly in for the kill with: ‘Or you and me could go, wouldn’t that be good?’

In years to come, when selling double glazing became a recognized Olympic event, single-minded Saskia would surely bring home gold, silver,
and
bronze.

As it was, she was doing pretty well. The moment Shelley had mentioned that she had a pick-up at Heathrow on Sunday afternoon, Saskia had announced without hesitation, ‘That’s fine, Cleo can take me to that tree place to see Santa.’

But never mind, because it
would
be good. Saskia was endlessly entertaining and they’d have a lovely afternoon together. It would be magical.

‘You’re a star,’ said Shelley, heading for the door. ‘I’ll come and pick her up at seven, is that OK?’

‘Perfect.’

‘Bye, Mummy! See you later!’ Tugging at Cleo’s hand as she attempted to finish her Diet Coke, Saskia said eagerly, ‘Come on, hurry up, let’s
go.
’

***

And to be fair, once they’d reached Marcombe, parked in the arboretum car park, and trudged along the winding, lit-up path through the woods, it
was
magical. People had come from miles around for this, and a serious amount of effort had been put into making it memorable. Strategically positioned uplighters shone differently colored lights into the trees, others were strung with garlands of twinkling white stars, and a snow machine had been brought in to dust the entire clearing with a festive layer of biodegradable snow.

‘Is he really in there?’ breathed Saskia, gazing in wonder at the gingerbread-style wooden hut with Santa’s helpers guarding the entrance and a pair of real reindeer being fussed over by families at the head of the queue.

‘He really is.’ Squeezing Saskia’s mittened hand, Cleo felt her eyes prickle with sentimental tears. There was such a festive feel to the place. This was what Christmas was all about, wasn’t it? Creating wonderful memories for children while they were still young and innocent enough to believe in Father Christmas. All around them, happy families were laughing and chattering, clouds of condensation puffing out of their mouths as they stamped their feet and rubbed their hands together.

‘Are you cold, sweetie?’

‘No.’ Saskia, who had been picking bits of white papier-mâché fluff off the front of her pink flowered Wellingtons, said, ‘It’s not real snow.’

‘It’s better than real snow. It doesn’t melt.’

‘But it’s the real Santa?’

‘Oh yes, definitely the real Santa.’

Saskia did an excited skip. ‘Can we see him now?’

‘Soon, sweetie. We have to get in the queue.’ Actually it was pretty long; they were going to be here for a while. ‘Come on, let’s line up, shall we? Ooh, look at those lights shooting right up into the sky!’

It was while Saskia was busy twirling around and gazing skywards that Cleo glimpsed something that gave her a jolt. Several feet ahead of them in the queue, someone was wearing a tan leather jacket just like Will’s, and for a split second as the man gestured with one hand he even looked like Will from this angle, which was spooky. Wait until she told him she’d thought she’d seen him ahead of her in the queue for Santa’s grotto with two small children in tow.

Except…

Oh…

Oh God no,
surely not
.

But of course it was him. It was Will, her boyfriend, not in Manchester preparing for the conference that was taking place tomorrow. Instead, unbelievably, he was here, not three yards away, waiting to see Father Christmas.

Cleo’s heart was banging so hard against her ribs she could barely hear all the different voices around her. Her ears were filled with the drumming sound of it. Will wasn’t married and he didn’t have children but somehow, inexplicably, a small girl in a pink coat and a purple sparkly beret was hanging onto his hand and behind her a boy aged six or seven was stealthily filling the pockets of her coat with fake snow.

Cleo became aware of a tugging on her own arm. Saskia was saying urgently, ‘How many presents am I allowed to ask for? Can I ask for six?’

‘Um…’ The drums of the massed bands of the Coldstream Guards were still fogging up her brain. It was so hard to concentrate. ‘No, just one.’

OK, let’s be logical about this. She was here with Saskia, but did that automatically make Saskia her daughter? No, of course it didn’t. So it stood to reason that the same went for Will. He was simply doing a friend a favor, bringing the friend’s two children along to the arboretum out of the sheer goodness of his heart and…

‘Mummy? Mummy!’ A child in a Postman Pat jacket was pointing an outraged finger at Cleo. ‘That lady there just said you’re only allowed to ask Santa for ONE present! But you said we could ask for THREE.’

Oh God, get me out of here
. Hurriedly, apologetically, Cleo stammered, ‘S-sorry, I made a mistake… it’s three.’

‘
Ha
.’ The child shot a look of triumph at Saskia.

‘Three?’ Saskia gazed up at Cleo for confirmation. ‘Three
big
presents?’

Distracted, Cleo nodded. OK, it would be useful if Will could turn round now, catch sight of her and break into a huge delighted smile. He’d exclaim, ‘I don’t believe it, have you been roped into this too?’ before going on to explain that the Manchester conference had been canceled at the last minute and his boss had asked him for this huge favor and hey, wasn’t this fantastic, now they could all queue up together…

‘Does an X-Box count as a big present or quite a small one?’

‘What? Um… big.’ Reaching for her mobile, Cleo dragged her gaze away from the back view of Will and scrolled through to his number. She pressed Call. Watched, dry-mouthed, as his phone began to ring. Saw Will take it out of his jacket pocket, glance at the screen, and calmly switch it off.

Straining her ears, Cleo heard the girl holding his hand say, ‘Who was that, Daddy?’

Will smiled down at her. ‘No one darling. Just work.’

Just work
.

Of the extracurricular variety.

Cleo didn’t often find herself at a loss, but watching the three of them, she couldn’t for the life of her figure out what to do now. If it had just been Will and herself here, she would have confronted him,
obviously
. But how could she do that with his children present?

So confrontation was out.

Ditto, murder. Sadly.

And she couldn’t leave, because that would break Saskia’s heart.

So basically, she was stuck here, while Christmas music piped out from speakers hidden in the trees and fake snow drifted down, watching the cheating lying bastard who had, up until this afternoon, been her lovely boyfriend… then again, hang on, might it be possible that he was a liar but not a cheat? Thinking fast, it occurred to Cleo that he could still be single; he just hadn’t plucked up the courage to tell her about the children by a previous girlfriend in case it put her off him. Because if
that
was the case, discovering the truth like this could actually turn out to be quite sweet and romantic, like the heart-warming ending of one of those schmaltzy films you only ever see on TV at Christmas.

It was a fabulous idea, scuppered in moments when a thirtyish woman squeezed past, the sleeve of her navy coat brushing against Cleo’s arm as she murmured ‘Sorry… excuse me…’ before reaching Will and the children.

‘Yay, you’re back from having a wee,’ sang the girl, beaming up at her.

‘Yes, well, thanks so much for sharing that information.’ The woman exchanged an amused look with the couple ahead of them in the queue. ‘I’m sure everyone’s delighted to know where I’ve been.’

‘You’re always going to the loo,’ the son chimed in. ‘Every time we go out. Doesn’t she, Dad?’

‘
All
the time,’ the girl agreed.

‘She does.’ Will nodded solemnly.

The woman mimed outrage and pretended to hit him. Will ducked away and used his son as a human shield. Everyone around them was laughing now. The perfect family sharing a perfect moment, with pretend snow tumbling down, fairy lights twinkling in the trees, and Christmas carols being piped out, creating the perfect festive mood.

‘Si-lent night, Ho-ly night…’ Saskia sang along, her voice as pure and high as helium.

Ha, chance would be a fine thing. Cleo wondered what Will would do if she were to march up to him and his family and introduce herself. She wouldn’t dream of actually doing it, but what
would
he do if she did? Because somehow or other, he had managed to spend the last three months conducting an affair while he was married. The woman was wearing a wedding ring and now she was affectionately brushing fake snow out of Will’s hair, which wasn’t something you’d do to an ex-husband.

There was no getting away from it; she was his wife.

The nerve, the colossal
nerve
of the man…

‘Aaaaaalllll is calm, aaaaaallll is bright,’ Saskia sang again. People in the queue turned to smile at her and that was when it happened. The woman nudged Will and he turned to look at Saskia. Then, like a join-the-dots picture, his gaze traveled from Saskia’s face to her arm to the mittened hand holding Cleo’s before traveling upwards and finally reaching Cleo’s stony face.

Ha, now whose heart was hammering in his chest with shock and fear? She saw it in his eyes, raised an eyebrow fractionally in return, but otherwise didn’t react at all. Will looked away first, turning back to his children and shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Even from this distance, she could see the tension in his shoulders. And his breathing was rapid, each exhalation marked by a tell-tale puff of condensation.

‘Cleo?’ Now that the music had stopped, Saskia tugged her hand again. ‘Is an iPod a big present or a small one?’

‘It’s a big present, sweetie.’

‘But it’s only
tiny
.’ Saskia pulled off her green mitten to demonstrate the minuscule distance between finger and thumb.

‘They cost a lot.’

‘Oh.’ Saskia’s eyes were huge. ‘So… would a dog be cheaper?’

‘You know you can’t have a dog.’ Cleo had wondered how long it would be before the D-word was raised; getting a dog was Saskia’s latest mission in life. ‘Your mum’s already told you that. Dogs need too much looking after.’

‘And they wee a lot.’ Breaking into a grin, Saskia pointed ahead of them. ‘Like that lady over there.’

This was unbearable.

‘OK, look, how about this for an idea?’ Her voice super-bright, Cleo made it sound like the most genius idea ever. ‘My feet are frozen and this queue is being really
really
slow! So why don’t we go back to the café, have some hot chocolate and a huge cake each, then come back later when there’s hardly any queue at all? Wouldn’t that be brilliant, hmm?’

From the look of horror Saskia gave her, you’d think she’d just suggested stringing up a cute little puppy and cutting off its legs. Her lower lip began to quiver. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘But we wouldn’t miss Father Christmas—he’ll still be here when we get back, I promise! And we wouldn’t have to queue, so isn’t that better?’

Saskia wavered for a second.

‘’Scuse me love,’ said the elderly man behind them with his grandson, ‘the later you leave it, the longer the queue gets. By five o’clock it’s murder. Take it from me, you’re best off staying put.’

Helpful old men. Couldn’t you just shoot them?

‘We’re staying,’ Saskia said flatly.

Mutely, Cleo nodded. Great.

Forty hellish minutes later, it was Will and his family’s turn to be led inside the grotto to meet Father Christmas. He hadn’t looked round once since discovering who was in the queue behind him, although he was probably aware of the mental knives being plunged into the back of his neck. Cleo wondered if Will was having a go on Santa’s knee: ‘Dear Santa, I haven’t been a very good boy this year, in fact I’ve been very, very
naughty
. But could I still get a Christmas present anyway? An invisibility cloak would be nice.’

Or…

‘All I want for Christmas is for my wife not to find out about my mistress.’