The Other Half (2 page)

“Ah, Chloë,” said the receptionist when she emerged. “This is James Slater.”

Triple shit, thought Chloë, as she put out her palm.

“Hello,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it firmly.

“Nice to meet you. Sorry, I think my hands are still wet.”

“Good to know you always wash them after peeing anyway.” He grinned.

2

Upon waking in the morning, before talking, eating, drinking, smoking, or getting out of bed, take your temperature, leaving the thermometer in place for at least five minutes.

Easier said than done, when you had a husband and small child to contend with. Maggie yawned and reached over to the bedside table. It was five fifty. She hit the
Snooze
button for Jamie’s benefit, put the thermometer in her mouth, and counted to three hundred. She wondered what would happen if she bit the thermometer. Presumably she’d end up with a mouthful of broken glass and mercury poisoning, and all her efforts at consuming a relatively toxin-free diet would be wasted. Time’s up. By now she knew the instructions by heart.

Record your temperature by making a dot on the chart. As soon as there is more than one dot, join them together with a straight line in order to bring the record up to date.

Well, well. Her temperature was down. She was ovulating. Lucky old Jamie. She hit the
Radio On
button. It was so early that
Farming Today
was on—hardly a seductive choice of program, but she hadn’t the energy to retune it.

“Darling…” Maggie snuggled up to him.

“What?” He groaned.

“‘Now Humphrey Henderson brings news from Bonn, where farmers are carrying out trials on a new kind of sheep dip suitable for organic herds,’” said the gravelly voiced presenter.

Maggie gave Jamie’s shoulders little kisses.

“Jamie.…”

“Jesus!” He sat up with a start. “What’s the time?”

“Six o’clock. Relax.”

“Got to get up.” He threw off the duvet and leaped out of bed. “I’ve a string of meetings today. Back-to-back. Haven’t prepared at all.”

“Oh,” said Maggie, deflated. Maybe it could wait till the evening, although these days Jamie was better at making love in the mornings. Last month they’d missed their chance because Nathan had been up three nights in a row with a virus—something always seemed to be conspiring against them.

Sighing, she got up and followed Jamie into the bathroom where he was already running water for a shave. She switched on the shower and stepped in.

“So, who are your meetings with?” She raised her voice so he could hear.

“Nine o’clock I’m seeing Peter Blandford about a fitness supplement for
Men
. Ten thirty some woman from
Babe
wants to talk about a new idea. Then a lunchtime meeting to go through next year’s figures with Susie Davis and Mark Pickles, and a three o’clock at the printer’s to discuss whether we can bring our on-sale dates forward to be more competitive.”

“It sounds all go.”

“Blast!” said Jamie, his face now lathered. “Is my razor in there?”

“Oh—yes.” Maggie guiltily passed it to him.

“I thought you had your own. You know how much that bugs me.” His very dark hair meant a daily shave was vital, otherwise he looked stubbly by early evening, and though Maggie secretly preferred him that way, he insisted it wasn’t appropriate for an executive in his position.

“Nathan pulled it apart and broke the catch. I haven’t had a moment to buy another.”

“You let Nathan play with razors!”

“Yes—before I slip cyanide into his breakfast cereal. Look, he’s six years old. I can’t watch him every second—you know that only too well.”

“I suppose so,” admitted Jamie. Just last week Nathan, worryingly accident prone, had tripped down the stairs while Jamie had been minding him. For a few days they thought he’d broken his nose, and Jamie had felt particularly guilty.

At six forty-five Maggie went in to wake Nathan. He was sound asleep, fair hair tumbled across the pillow, last night’s bedtime reading still open by his side. She shook him tenderly.

“Grab me by my wings!” he said.

What magical world was she wrecking to bring him down to earth? Was he an angel, perhaps? She doubted it. Far more likely he was an insect in midflight. Maggie smiled. “Nathan,” she called softly.

“Grab me by my wings!” he said again, insistently, and reached out his arms.

“Here.” She hugged him. “I’ve got you.”

“Woah!”

“What were you dreaming?”

“Not sure,” said Nathan, puzzled.

Next the ritual fifteen-minute battle to get him ready for the day. Without Maggie’s watchful eye, teeth cleaning would be a feeble ten-second encounter with a toothbrush, face washing would leave a grimy neck or snotty nose, and hair brushing would mean missing the back of his head completely. School uniform simplified matters, but there were clean shirts and matching socks to find, and the inevitable loss of a trainer he’d only been wearing the night before.

With so much time devoted to getting her son presentable, Maggie couldn’t spend as long on her own appearance as she had in the past. She’d always been reasonably comfortable with her looks and still took care about what she put into her body—indeed, she had long been renowned among her peers for her healthy eating habits and unique dress sense. But these days she often felt drab. A quick dab of mascara had to suffice before she flung on her clothes—something comfortable that she could spill food down was vital in her line of work.

Presently, Jamie left for the office. His publishing house was in the West End of London and he had to drive to Guildford and catch the train. At eight thirty another local mum came to collect Nathan—they took turns walking the children to the village school.

“Bye, love.” Maggie kissed him and handed him his packed lunch.

“Bye. Look after Monday.” Monday was his gerbil.

“Of course,” said Maggie, knowing full well she would ignore the animal. He had been a gift from her friend Jean, who—to Maggie’s frustration—indulged Nathan as she had no children of her own. Personally, Maggie found Monday a bit too ratlike for comfort, but because Nathan loved him, didn’t have the heart to say so.

*   *   *

Back in the house, she leaned against the kitchen door frame, closed her eyes, and listened. There was the low hum of the refrigerator, the regular
shum, shum
of the washing machine. Otherwise it was silent. It was at moments like these that she persuaded herself she was glad they’d moved out of London. Here in Surrey it was much quieter, and though her social circle was tamer, she loved being closer to nature, noticing what season it was, waking to the sound of birds rather than traffic. Shere, the village where they lived, was exceptionally pretty.

Time to get cracking. Literally.

Today she was testing recipes for “Pulling Dishes,” an article for
Men
suggesting meals to help a man to score with a prospective girlfriend. Hardly a credible concept—it would take more than a well-cooked meal to lure me into bed, thought Maggie—but it was more fun than the dreary suggestions many magazine editors went for. It was only a way of dressing up old favorites—soufflé, goat cheese salad, tagliatelli. In an ideal world she’d rather have written something more controversial that drew on her expertise in nutrition and interest in subjects like GM-free crops and organic farming. Yet somehow she’d slipped into producing more traditional pieces because it was easy, the money was good, and Jamie had lots of contacts in the magazine world.

She opened the refrigerator and got out eggs, butter, cheese.

Damn, she thought. I forgot to order more milk. How could I have made such a basic mistake? I’ll have to nip out to the shop. As she reached for her bag, she sighed to herself; it’s obviously going to be one of those days.

*   *   *

A couple of hours later and she had one recipe almost complete.

Artichoke Soufflé with Three Cheeses

There’s nothing more likely to whet a woman’s sexual appetite than a well-risen soufflé. But if you want to impress her, don’t be fooled into thinking bigger is better. In fact, a small dish with a collar tied around is rather more tempting. Then you can pile the mixture up high and when it’s cooked remove the collar to reveal something quite spectacular.

She laughed at the thought of being seduced by a soufflé. She had a vision of being cajoled into the bedroom for some “intercourse” and being surprised by the sight of a man, his penis happily erect and tied with a red ribbon.

I guess the first test of good copy is that it should do something for the writer herself, she thought.

Better focus, make a drink. Maggie had been an early convert to proper coffee. Even as a student, when her fellow undergraduates had been content with the filthiest instant made with—horror of horrors—
powdered
milk, she had had a percolator in her room. In the run-down Victorian terraces of Manchester this had been unusual, but now in their immaculate, well-equipped kitchen her perfectionism seemed less misplaced. These days she had one of those espresso makers that went directly on the gas burner—something about the ritual of using a more basic implement appealed to her sense of authenticity.

Around the house were various tributes to Maggie’s ongoing campaign to get things aesthetically right. She would prefer to slave stripping layers of paint off a cornice herself than hire someone else to do it, lest they chip a vital plaster detail. Equally, she was happier to have no paintings rather than twee prints that anyone could have; unlike some of the other stockbroker-belt women locally, Maggie wasn’t one for off-the-shelf style. When she and Jamie had lived in London, their friends had admired her individualism and confidence in her own vision—their home had even been featured in a couple of magazines. Here Maggie felt her insistence on using pure pigment paints and real candles on the Christmas tree was probably seen as arty-farty and pretentious. Yet while she wasn’t prepared to compromise to keep others happy and seem less threatening—that would have meant denying herself pleasure—sometimes she felt lonely, cut off from kindred spirits and those with more eclectic tastes.

Perhaps that’s why I want a second child, she thought. Or maybe it’s because as a toddler Nathan seemed happy to be endlessly cuddled, whereas now he’s inclined to push me away and say I’m being soppy.

Whatever the reason, over the last few months Maggie had been broody—and with it came a desire to make love so strong that at times it seemed overwhelming, despite the passion-killing thermometers. But Jamie had not been in the mood for sex of late. Maggie knew it was a tough time for him professionally and was loath to seem too pushy.

The coffee failed to do the trick, and no amount of aphrodisiac recipe-testing was going to alleviate her sexual frustration. There was only one solution. Retail therapy.

It’s ages since I’ve treated myself to a spree purely for my own pleasure, she reasoned.

But first, damn it, she would take a little time getting ready. Experience had taught her that shopping in one’s grottiest clothes was a mistake—lines failed to flatter, and even her favorite colors made her appear washed out. Thanks to good skin, naturally fair hair, and a leggy physique, Maggie scrubbed up both well and quickly, and within minutes the tired tracksuit had been replaced by a honey-colored silk shirtdress that helped her feel less suburban mum and more city chic. Settled behind the wheel of her car, she pumped the volume up on the CD player
much
louder than usual, blasting an old favorite from her student days into the countryside.

Forty minutes later she was in Kingston. She swept into the mall, got out of the car, scooped up her bag, and flicked on the alarm. First stop, John Lewis. She took the escalators to the second floor, turned left, and breathed a sigh of relief.

There they were. Hanger upon hanger. Push-up bras and basques, F-cups and G-strings, French knickers and frilly panties.

She prowled around like a lion assessing its prey. Yes! That one. And that. And those …

There are blessings to being a 34B, she thought. I might not have the bosom to make a man stop dead in the street, but it’s relatively easy to find something that fits. And it was well worth driving a bit farther for all this choice.

Within minutes Maggie’s arms were full of lilac silk, black lycra, pink cotton, and white lace. Then, on an uncharacteristic whim, she picked up a red-and-black basque with suspenders and headed for the fitting room.

The assistant counted the number of hangers and agreed to hand her the surplus items through the curtain. The good thing about the changing room was that it was private, well-lit, and spacious. The bad thing was it had three angled mirrors so she could see every imperfection.

Still, she reasoned, determined to see the bright side, it means that whatever I choose will look good when I get home. Unlike those mirrors designed to make me appear three inches taller and twenty pounds lighter than I really am.

Although over the years people had told Maggie she had a nice figure, she’d always considered herself rather androgynous. She hankered for a more voluptuous shape, a defined waist, and breasts that hadn’t lost their pertness after childbirth. Sometimes she had a vague suspicion Jamie liked women who were more generously endowed …

As she tried on the different items, Maggie was amazed how each of the various styles seemed to give her an entirely new persona: white broderie anglaise, and she was pretty, young, and innocent; grey marl, she was doubtless more interested in comfort than sex; in a black lycra G-string and seamless bra, there were several more notches on her bedpost. In the past, she would have opted for the latter—the combination was simple and sporty, not too sexually overt.

Maybe I should be more daring, she urged herself, as she slipped on the black-and-red basque.

She adjusted the straps and swiveled around. Without stockings it was hard to gauge the full effect, but she had a good imagination. Her nipples were clearly visible through the sheer black lace.