The Only Boy For Me (13 page)

I march Charlie back up to bed, and he seems totally uninterested in who the strange man was on the living-room floor. But somehow I feel like I’ve been caught out in unsuitable behaviour. I’ve never brought anyone home before. Not that there have been a huge number of opportunities to bring anyone anywhere, but on the few occasions where it has been an option I’ve always gone for their place, or hotels. Somehow Mack is different, but I don’t know why, or whether this will turn out to be a weekend fling, in which case I don’t want Charlie involved. Have a mini meltdown on the stairs, and explain to Mack that I’m feeling rather overwhelmed. He says he quite understands, and he’ll go if I want him to. Which I don’t. I make coffee and decide the best plan is to stay right where we are, with the door barricaded shut, so if Charlie does come wandering in again at least we’ll get some warning. At about three in the morning the living-room floor finally proves too uncomfortable, and the sofa too narrow, so we stumble up to my room to find Charlie asleep in the middle of the bed, doing his starfish impression. Mack smiles, and says he’ll sleep on the sofa, and I should get in with Charlie and let him wake up with just me. Which I think is very sweet. I tell him so, and we end up back in the living room, clinging on to the sofa until we both fall off. Stagger off to bed at dawn, feeling totally shattered, but happy.

I wake up with Charlie, who is frighteningly lively and bounds off into the living room and switches on the television before I can stop him, so poor Mack is woken by cartoons at full blast. Thank God he has kids of his own and
can cope with early-morning TV. Charlie seems totally unfazed by Mack, and merely asks him if he agrees that Shreddies are disgusting and no one should be forced to eat them. Mack says it depends, which I think is an excellent answer. Charlie wants to know what it depends on, and Mack says, ‘Whether your mother is about to give you a bowl of Shreddies, and I’ll get thrown out of the house for saying they taste like cardboard.’ Charlie is delighted, and so am I.

‘Don’t worry. If she makes you go out in the garden you can stay in my house; it’s got a door and everything.’

‘That’s good to know, Charlie, thanks.’

I haven’t the heart to tell him the ‘house’ is actually a filthy old shed, full of mud and sticks. Charlie disappears into cartoon land, and I offer Mack the chance to catch up on some sleep in my bed while I have a bath and make breakfast.

We decide to go to a pub for lunch before Mack heads back to London. Charlie plays happily in the garden, which has a swing and a stray dog which has appeared out of nowhere but seems very friendly. Mack and I talk, and it turns out he’s feeling a bit shellshocked too but does not want to go home, and is thinking of ordering a new extra-large sofa to be delivered in time for next weekend. The logistics of this are going to be tricky: we want to fix up something for next weekend, or sooner if possible, but Mack has his kids for the weekend, and I don’t want to dump Charlie again. A motorway service station doesn’t seem a very auspicious place for a liaison. We end up deciding to talk later as there must be a solution, and then we go home and finish reading the papers, and Charlie does jigsaws. Mack finally leaves at teatime. Charlie is engrossed in his wildlife programme and merely waves, and Mack and
I spend twenty minutes saying goodbye in the kitchen, both agreeing that it’s been an extraordinary weekend. He says he’ll call in a couple of days when he knows what his plans are.

I feel a terrible pang as his car disappears down the lane, but also a huge sense of relief as the combination of both Mack and Charlie is somehow totally draining. Gentle questioning of Charlie during bathtime reveals that he thinks Mack is all right, but he prefers Leila because she brings toys and not just cake. Then we move on to why I am incapable of buying toothpaste which does not taste like sick. He finally goes off to sleep after two escape attempts, clutching a sword and wearing a plastic helmet.

I ring Leila for a debriefing session. She says it all sounds great, and is expert at decoding phrases like ‘I’ll call you in a couple of days’. I’d forgotten just how complicated this all is. It’s a bit like cracking the Enigma code really. If he hasn’t called by Friday afternoon I think it means he’s a bastard, but Leila says not necessarily: he may have outstanding commitment issues. We move on to how I should react if he does call. Screaming ‘Thank God, I’ve been sitting by the phone for the last three days’ is hopeless, apparently, and will guarantee disaster. And you are not allowed to ring them, because this signals that you are a desperate bunny-boiler. I just have to be calm, and if possible leave the answerphone on, so I can play back any messages to Leila and work out an appropriate response.

I feel catapulted back in time, and seem to have turned back into my teenage self waiting for Gary Johnson to ring and ask me to the school disco. Which he didn’t, so I wish I hadn’t thought about it, really. I decide that, despite brilliant advice from Leila, I will simply answer the phone when it rings, and if he hasn’t rung by Wednesday I’ll call him and
ask him what the fuck his problem is. Leila says this is hopeless, but may turn out to be right because she is halfway through a new book which says that playing games is wrong, and you should just go with your instincts. As my instinct is to hide under the duvet for the next six months, this may not be entirely helpful either. I tell Leila that really I’m not even sure I want him to call, because life is complicated enough already. She doesn’t fall for this, and says very sweetly that if I don’t stop being so pathetic she will drive down right now especially to slap me.

Charlie wakes up in the middle of the night and launches himself into my bed saying he has had a horrible dream about a fox eating Buzz and Woody. We end up having to troop outside with a torch to reassure him they are still alive. They are very pleased to see us in the middle of the night, and put on a little cabaret performance, running up and down the hutch and hurling straw about. I put Charlie back into bed, but have to stroke his back for twenty minutes to get him calm enough to fall asleep. I wake up a few hours later feeling like I have had no sleep at all. Charlie is very grumpy, and is on the point of tears and tantrums when I come up with an inspired plan, suggesting we get dressed and then put Buzz and Woody in their run and eat our breakfast watching them. Charlie is desperate to let them out so they can run round the garden and flatten all the plants. But I persuade him that the ground is too wet from the overnight rain, and they’ll get sore feet from all the mud because they don’t have wellies. Charlie offers to lend them his.

Mack rings on Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday. Leila says he has obviously not been reading the right books, because he is showing classic signs of being a stalker. It looks like next weekend is going to be too tricky, but we
arrange to meet up the weekend after that. Lizzie agrees to come to stay – Matt is away at a conference – and she gets very excited and starts planning a thrilling itinerary of things to do with Charlie. Her list includes swimming, making a cake and going for long walks. Charlie’s list includes toy shopping and renting unsuitable videos from Blockbuster’s. I have a day in town in the office, but manage to resist the temptation to call Mack to see if he wants to meet for lunch. Apart from anything else, there’s too much work to do on various new jobs. Barney is very cheerful because his cut of the Cornish film is being hailed as a minor classic by everyone who sees it.

Lizzie arrives at teatime on Saturday and is greeted by a small mountain of jigsaws which Charlie has got out specially. A heated debate follows as to when exactly they can drive to Blockbuster’s. I leave before pieces of jigsaw start flying about, and arrive early at Mack’s. He opens the door dripping wet and draped in a towel. He greets me with a kiss and invites me to join him in the shower. I can’t face stripping off in broad daylight so make him turn the bathroom lights off, and then fall over. Eventually manage to get into the shower, which is enormous, all marble and frosted glass with water jets everywhere, and a whole panel of buttons. I press one inadvertently during a passionate clinch, and the water jets instantly turn into powerful torrents which nearly knock us both over. It’s a bit like being in
The Poseidon Adventure.
Mack resets the controls with one hand and manoeuvres me into the corner furthest away from the buttons with the other. Emerge half an hour later feeling very happy, and also very, very clean.

‘Christ. That was fantastic. I knew spending a fortune on
that bloody shower would come in handy one day. I’m starving. What do you fancy? Chinese or Italian?’

‘Chinese, I think.’

‘Great. I’ll just make a call and we can eat here.’

The takeaway turns out to be rather different from the usual five tinfoil containers delivered by moped. A waiter turns up with countless little padded bags, and there’s no special fried rice in sight. He decants the food into bowls, and produces chopsticks, napkins and a small vase of orchids. The table looks beautiful, and he’s even found some candles and lit them. Finally he asks if we want him to serve the food. Mack says he thinks we can manage, and he departs clutching what looks like a £20 note.

‘Don’t tell me this lot only cost £20?’

‘Darling, that was his tip. I’ve got an account. Trust me, you don’t want to know what this cost.
I
don’t even want to know.’

Mack rejects chopsticks in favour of a fork, saying he thinks chopsticks are a cunning ploy to serve smaller portions and humiliate customers simultaneously. I could get to seriously like this man. We talk about music, and discover a mutual love of Motown, Mahler, Sinatra, Elvis Costello and Italian opera, but only if the sopranos don’t get too shouty. We end up dancing to Frank Sinatra, which quickly descends into a passionate clinch on the sofa when it turns out that neither of us can actually dance to ‘New York, New York’.

Hours later we collapse into bed and I sleep for a few hours, and then lie watching Mack sleep. I could get very fond of him indeed, and hope to God this doesn’t all end in tears and sick.

I’m admiring the curve of his shoulder when he opens one eye and says, ‘For God’s sake, stop staring at me like that
and do something useful, Moneypenny. If you make me a cup of coffee, I’ll be yours for ever.’

‘Shaken but not stirred, right?’

Mack laughs and I go downstairs to make coffee wearing his dressing gown, which is much nicer than mine. I wonder if I can smuggle it out with me when I leave. I ring Lizzie who sounds exhausted. Apparently Charlie persuaded her to rent
Jaws
and then got terrified, and she had to spend half the night assuring him that great white sharks cannot swim up stairs.

We have breakfast in bed, and resurface at lunchtime. I grab a quick shower, after insisting Mack goes downstairs to make coffee and does not join me in the shower or I’ll be there for hours. As I’m leaving he says, ‘I’ll ring you tonight, shall I, and you can tell me how much you’re enjoying wearing my dressing gown.’

‘Blast. I thought you wouldn’t notice.’

We end up spending so long kissing goodbye a small crowd gathers on the pavement.

I get home at teatime, and Lizzie and I have a quick debrief in the kitchen.

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘He is.’

‘Lucky you then, right?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. I mean yes, definitely. It’s all a bit overwhelming, really. And I’m totally knackered.’

‘Yes, but it’s nice knackered. It’s not like doing-the-ironing knackered.’

‘No, Lizzie, it definitely beats doing the ironing.’

Charlie is delighted to see me. He and Lizzie have spent the entire morning making a cake, and he’s eaten most of the icing. I make a cup of tea and Lizzie leaves, and I get Charlie into the bath. After a bit of scrubbing I manage to
get the icing sugar off his arms and legs. We have supper watching telly, and I agree he can sleep in my bed. He finally falls asleep at nine thirty after a long random-chatting routine. I call Mack who says he’s been listening to ‘New York, New York’ again, and thinks he has come up with a dance routine which will score well if we ever find ourselves on
Come Dancing.

I talk to Leila and Kate who both agree that Mack sounds wonderful. I’m not sure I can cope with the full implications of this, so decide to try not to think about it and just see how it goes. I then spend hours thinking about it, and end up feeling sick. I’m due to go off to Spain with Mum soon, for the half-term holiday. Mack has to work this weekend, and has his kids next weekend. He asks if I want to bring Charlie up to stay but I think it might be a bit early to start introducing children into the picture, and anyway I have a million things to do before we leave, so we agree to meet up once I’m back from Spain. I half wish I wasn’t going away at all, but know it’s never a good idea to drop everything as soon as there’s a man on the scene, however tempting this might be. And anyway, Mum would kill me.

‘At least I’ll have brown legs by then.’

‘I’d rather you had white legs and didn’t go at all. Where are you going anyway?’

‘Lanzarote. And don’t make any snobby jokes. I couldn’t face another half-term holiday in the rain.’

‘Sounds good to me. Will my dressing gown be going?’

‘Yes, probably.’

‘Good. I shall program it by remote to keep an eye on you.’

‘Don’t be daft: with Charlie in my room and Mum next door the only thing that will need keeping an eye on is my blood pressure.’

‘Will your mobile still work in Spain?’

‘No. Mainly because I’m not taking it. Otherwise Barney will ring every day.’

‘Fair enough. I tried that once, but the agency sent a messenger to the hotel with a new phone.’

‘Christ. Don’t tell Barney.’

Gatwick. Six thirty am. This is going to be a very long day. Mum has an enormous suitcase and has brought her entire collection of Tupperware which she says is bound to come in handy. She also has an enormous first-aid kit which she is carrying in her hand luggage, although I’m not sure how useful four miles of crêpe bandage will be if the plane ditches in the sea. Charlie has packed so much into his rucksack he can’t stand up straight, and has insisted on wearing his favourite hat, which unfortunately turned out to be a bright-yellow woolly bobble hat Mum knitted him. Sporting this combined with his new holiday shorts, he thinks he looks cool. At least we won’t lose sight of him in a crowd.