The Other Half (6 page)

James shifted in his chair. Oh dear, I’ve overstepped the mark, thought Chloë. He appears uncomfortable. Then he said, “You have a point. I suppose I’ve wondered … Though Maggie had very strong principles about certain things, and when we found out, she said there was no way she wasn’t having it.”

“Anyway,” said Chloë brightly, conscious she’d best backpedal some more. “I’m sure you’re glad it happened now, aren’t you?”

“Ye-es … I mean, I don’t regret having Nathan, not at all. I love him to death. And Maggie’s a fantastic mum. It’s just … sometimes I think about it.”

“Think about what?”

“What might have happened if Beth and I hadn’t split up.”

“You’ll probably never know.” Chloë felt sympathy for this woman apparently so like her. “You can’t turn back time. Where is she now?”

“She returned to New York years ago. She’s married with two children.”

At that moment the waitress stopped at their table. “Dessert?”

“I’d like a coffee,” Chloë stated, without waiting for James to contemplate whether he wanted any pudding. I’d better sober up, pronto, she thought. She was quite tipsy. Or was it all the emotional honesty and sexual tension in the air?

“Me too,” said James, and the waitress left.

“You’d better be getting back soon. What time’s your last train?” Her conscience was niggling. She shouldn’t have brought all this up.

James looked at his watch. “Oh, I’ve ages yet.”

“Won’t Maggie be expecting you?”

“No. She called to say she’s staying at her sister’s tonight with Nathan.”

Chloë’s heart missed a beat. Lord, she
was
in deep.

*   *   *

Two coffees each later, they tumbled out onto the pavement. The August night was still warm, and Soho was buzzing. The theaters were emptying, and the excited exchanges of tourists mingled with the more cynical critiques of locals. The lights of Piccadilly, the smell of the city, the energy of the crowds—it was intoxicating.

“What now?” asked James and, to Chloë’s horror and delight, he grabbed her hand.

Chloë tried to be firm. “I think this is when I should go home.”

“So should I.” James’s expression said the opposite. “But I haven’t been out late for ages. Shall I tell you what I’d really like to do?”

“What?” She was afraid she knew the answer.

“Go to a bar.”

Chloë, who was already drunk though by no means out of control, realized she should accept the compliment of James’s obvious attraction to her and run.

But he’s so sexy, her alter ego argued. Surely one more drink won’t hurt?

She sensed his hand in hers—it was as if an electric current was shooting up her arm. It fuzzed her brain and sent rationality running for the hills.

“Okay.”

James led the way to a late-night club on Broadwick Street that barely advertised its existence outside. Down a flight of stairs and in a cellar, the atmosphere was sultry; dim red lighting made everyone appear their most beautiful, and seduction hung in the air. Clearly it was designed for an elite who knew precisely where to go when the night was yet full of possibilities.

“What’ll it be?” he asked, leaning against the counter. Chloë squeezed in next to him, acutely aware of his presence by her side.

“A margarita.” Nothing beat tequila when she was in a reckless mood. “No salt.”

“I’ll join you,” said James and, with the assurance of a man who could get the attention of anyone he chose, signaled to the girl behind the bar. “Make them large ones, in a tall glass.”

“Cheers,” he said, when the drinks arrived.

“Cheers.” Chloë clinked his glass and looked him in the eye. For a second she thought he was going to kiss her right then.

“’Scuse me.” A drunken young man in a suit pushed her out of the way in his keenness to get served, nearly knocking her drink flying.

“Shall we go and sit down?” asked James, and they headed for a table surrounded by low sofas.

Chloë took a seat. She noted that although he could easily have sat on his own sofa, James sat next to her. Again, she was conscious of his physicality, the crisp white of his shirt, the crumpled linen of his trousers, the polished leather of his shoes. By contrast her own outfit seemed frivolous and girlie, but she liked that.

I wonder how he looks in out-of-work clothes, she thought. Suits make it hard to place a man. Although somehow she knew that whatever his taste, she was bound to approve.

James picked up on her thoughts. “Great shoes.”

“Thanks.” Chloë held her feet up so they could both admire her sandals’ offbeat shape. As she swung her legs down, she maneuvered slightly closer to him. “Is that all that’s great?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” James began to stroke her arm, with tiny movements of his fingers at first and then, as Chloë didn’t rebuff him, with more assured motions of his whole hand.

He edged closer to her. And, almost before she knew it, they were kissing. Softly at first, then more intensely, and finally with full, caution-to-the-wind passion. The couple sitting opposite, the people at the next table, the woman whose elbow Chloë accidentally bumped off the back of the sofa behind her, none of it mattered. It was sensual, magical, heavenly. Wives, work, principles, conscience, even tomorrow—none of it had any relevance. There were only the two of them, here, now.

And now she
did
want to go home—though not alone. She pulled away from him, just enough to speak. “Mmm,” she murmured, in a way that unashamedly expressed her appreciation.

She reached forward for her cocktail, and as she did so, he ran his hand up her back, then inside her top. Fuck! When was she going to outgrow this sort of behavior? He smelled gorgeous—
irresistible—
and she kissed him again. Desire overwhelmed her. “We could leave,” she said moments later.

“We could.” James took a large gulp of his margarita. “C’mon.” He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Chloë drained her drink and, as they left, slung the glass on the bar. Her apartment was on his way home, and things got even more heated in the taxi. Inevitably, he invited himself in “for coffee”—the very thing she wanted too. Fumbling, she dropped her keys in the porch, and as she bent to pick them up, level with his crotch, she thought she could see his hard-on.

Inside the apartment, he pushed her up against the wall in the hall and kissed her again, more intensely still, urgently.

“Shh! We’ll wake Rob,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom.

Immediately they fell onto the bed and within seconds he’d removed her top, her skirt, her shoes. She undid his belt, his trousers—yes, he did have a hard-on—and they kissed all the while. They shouldn’t be doing this—but hell! She’d left resistance somewhere in Soho.

He slid his hand into her knickers—wow—he certainly knew where everything was—and then, because what he was doing was
so
good,
so
delicious, she let him peel off her underwear and kiss her there too. He seemed content to do it for ages—bliss—knowing when to be gentle, when not to be … and not to stop too soon, but to carry on … and on … She was going to come any minute—any second—now, NOW! (Oops! The noise—Rob!) Then she wanted it all, inside, and there was no point in stopping and, anyway, she didn’t want to.

At four in the morning she woke, after about an hour’s sleep, parched. James was asleep beside her, his arm flung over her shoulder. Gently she lifted it off and slid out of bed, hoping she hadn’t disturbed him. When she returned, he was awake and half sitting up. The room stank of sex. Lord, she could scarcely walk!

“You are one of the horniest, sexiest, most gorgeous women I have ever met,” he said, grabbing her and pulling her back into bed.

“Thank you.” At that moment Chloë felt all of those things, head to toe. “You’re okay, too.” And to show she meant it, she slid slowly under the covers and licked down his chest—that oh-so-male broadness—down his belly. Down. Down.

Later, much later, she called another taxi so he could go home and change. And, later still, she bade him farewell on the doorstep, hastily slung-on silk petticoat exposed to the early morning light of Battersea Rise.

8

It hurt. Really hurt. With every pulse, the back of her head throbbed. She could feel the blood pumping around. White wine, red wine, tequila. Ouch. It was seven forty-five in the morning. Friday … Fuck.

Even Radio Four seemed loud.

Ibuprofen.

If Chloë took painkillers on top of that lot, it would be a drug too far. She had one rule about drugs: wait for the last ones to wear off before taking more. Except tea. That didn’t count.

She tiptoed into the kitchen. Such a mess! She was glad James hadn’t seen it. As she stood waiting for the kettle to boil, she cast her mind back to the night before. What had she done? What
hadn’t
she done? She’d had sex. Sex with a married man. Not just had sex with a married man, but one who, while he wasn’t her boss, could play a vital role in getting her ambitions off the ground.

Lots of people have to approve my magazine concept aside from him, she tried to reason. And I didn’t sleep with him because of that.

Yet she could hear a voice—partly her mother’s, partly her own: “
Now you’re one of those women
.” What women? “
One of those women who sleeps with men to get what she wants.
”

Chloë poured the water into the mug. God, she felt awful. She opened the fridge, sniffed the milk—still OK—poured it into the tea, and returned to her room trying desperately to get her act together.

It had been great sex, though.

Even through her hangover, she felt a warm, sensual rush as she recalled it. Her fingers still smelled of him, them.

Fuck!

Why was it so … so
good
with some people? It wasn’t that it wasn’t good with others—Chloë tended to enjoy sex with most of the men she slept with, especially now that she was older and more confident about saying what she liked—but there were a few with whom it was … well … better. More … fun? Yes. Passionate? Yes. Daring? Yes, that too. Or was it that she’d believed he was safe—because he was married—she was less guarded, more at ease? She remembered his touch. Stroking her right from her feet, slowly up her thighs, over her hips, in at the waist, up to her breasts, circling there, teasing—oops, she was getting turned on all over again—stroking her neck, then her hair … his mouth, kissing …

That
was why I did it, she recalled. The kissing was the point of no return. Then there was the tequila, of course. And before that, the things he’d said about Beth, his ex. He seemed to really like me, fancy me. And, damn it, I really liked him … It was a lovely—no,
unforgettable
night. We got on so well—he was so open and easy to talk to. So interesting, so interested in me, so charming, so sexy …

Better have a shower. Go to work. I
have
to go to work, she told herself. Shit! Will I see him? Will everyone be able to tell?

Round and round, the thoughts went. Bong, bong, went her head. It was a weird combination—the bus to work (normal), the hangover (not unheard-of), the lack of sleep on a weekday (unusual but something she had done before), the
I-went-out-for-dinner-with-the-publisher-of-UK-Magazines-who’s-married-with-a-child-to-discuss-my-idea-which-he-likes-and-we-slept-together-and-it-was-great
(a totally new scenario). It was all so recent, so complicated, so awful, so fantastic. It was beyond her comprehension.

“Bloody hell!” said Patsy, as Chloë plonked her bag on her desk. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing.”

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Bacon sarnie?”

Chloë thought for a moment. “Good idea.” She fumbled for her purse.

“It’s on me,” said Patsy, and she bounced out of the office appearing sickeningly healthy. A little later she returned with a white paper bag, grease seeping through already.

“You’re a doll,” said Chloë, peering into the bag. It looked foul. Would it help? She took a bite. Delicious. Brown sauce squidged onto the article she was trying to read.

“So,” chivvied Patsy. “Tell all.”

Ten minutes had given Chloë time to fabricate a tale. “Rob. His birthday. You know. His crowd—they love to party. We hit Soho.”

“You’re such a fag hag!” laughed Patsy. “And I thought you’d had sex.”

“Ha!” feigned Chloë. “Not bloody likely. Well…” She rummaged in her in-tray for authenticity. “What’s on today?”

She got through the day with the help of several cans of Red Bull and Patsy, who fended off callers with a heroism that would have made Robert the Bruce proud. At lunchtime they resorted to their favorite hangover cure—heading to the Top Shop superstore on Oxford Street, and Chloë, who didn’t really have the energy to remove her clothes again, waited patiently outside the changing room while Patsy tried on endless outfits.

There was one call that afternoon, however, Chloë did take—it came through internally on her direct line so she didn’t have much choice.

“Chloë?” It was a woman’s voice that Chloë didn’t immediately recognize.

“Yes?”

“It’s Vanessa Davenport here. Is now a good time?”

“Er, um, ish.” Chloë glanced over at Patsy, who was busy typing but whose gossip radar was legendary.

“I’ve just had a word with James Slater.”

Chloë’s heart lurched.

“He showed me your proposal and says you’ve made up a dummy. I thought we ought to meet for a chat.”

“That would be great.”

“Obviously James can recommend ideas,” Vanessa explained, “though it’s me you’d be working with, should we decide to take on the project.” Chloë understood the subtext:
You might be in with James, but you’ll have to win me over too
. It was Vanessa’s job to handle the day-to-day business of launching new titles. “How about lunch next week, say, Tuesday?”

“Lovely.”

“I’ll call you that morning and we’ll arrange somewhere then.”

When Vanessa had hung up, Chloë couldn’t help but wonder what James had said about her. Presumably it was good or Vanessa wouldn’t have phoned. And she must have been on his mind for him to contact Vanessa in the first place.