The Other Half (7 page)

Is he as hungover as I am? she wondered. Will he ever call me again? I doubt it—surely he’ll only be able to get away like that for one night. So I presume our relationship will be purely business from now on. Will having had sex affect his professional dealings with me? I hope not … Will he tell his wife? Chloë felt a pang of remorse at the prospect. Of course he won’t, she told herself. Though she might find out anyway. Some women just
know.
Horrors—what if she comes by and confronts me? Worse, if she confronts me at the office, in front of Patsy, Vanessa, Jean, and everyone! Imagine if James is so bowled over he decides to leave Maggie at once—and turns up on my doorstep later tonight with a suitcase and hangdog expression …

Chloë’s mind was in overdrive. She wanted to call him, but what would she say? And with Patsy tip-tapping away right by her—not to mention all the other complications—she knew that it would be foolish in the extreme. For once she must curb her inclinations to talk about anything, although she was itching to confide in someone. It would have to wait until she got home. There she knew she could offload it all on Rob. So, once she’d clarified that he was going to be in, she put her whirling thoughts on hold and busied herself sorting through her pending tray.

*   *   *

Back at the apartment, Rob and Chloë curled up on the sofa with the cat snuggled in a half-moon in his favorite spot between them, and waited for the delivery of a fifteen-inch extra crunchy supreme pizza.

“Well,” said Rob, “was that you I heard crashing around the hall in the small hours? Either you were so pissed you were making enough noise for two or you had a man with you. Please tell me it was the former.”

Chloë jerked her head toward the TV. “I think we’d better record this program.”

“Oh, my God! That means trouble! You did, didn’t you? You brought him back here! Oh, Lord! You actually slept with him?”

“Yes,” admitted Chloë.

“So…” Rob leaned forward. “Was it good?”

It was one thing she loved about Rob—he was very nonjudgmental. Perhaps it was because his own behavior was pretty reprehensible at times that his moral code was so flexible.

“The best,” sighed Chloë.

“OOOH!” shrieked Rob. “This warrants a glass of wine.” He virtually skipped into the kitchen. Sex, scandalous sex, forbidden sex—he was in his element. “Want one?”

“I couldn’t.” Chloë shook her head. “But you go ahead.”

Once Rob had settled back down with his glass and Chloë had set the recorder, she began. “So we met at this little restaurant on Lexington Street—”

“Stop, stop!” Rob held up his hand. “I want to know what you were wearing!”

“Ah, yes,” said Chloë, conscious it hadn’t been the Whistles suit. “That, um, crisscross turquoise top, black lace skirt, and my Miu Miu sandals?”

“The crisscross top that makes your boobs appear the best in Christendom?”

“The very same.”

“Shit. You’re
irresistible
in that. Almost enough to turn me straight. Jesus, woman, you are so naughty! I warned you, dress like you mean business!”

“Anyway,” Chloë ignored this, “I arrive at this restaurant—Louisa’s, do you know it?”

“Indeed I do. Great menu and fab décor. Hangout of the discreet media in-crowd. Good choice—his?”

Chloë was proud to be mixing with someone who knew such prestigious venues. “Yes.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“A suit.”

“I want more! Be precise girl.”

“Okay, okay. A navy linen suit—I didn’t see the label, but it looked expensive—only he wasn’t wearing the jacket, he’d taken that off when I arrived—and a white cotton shirt. He had his sleeves rolled up.”

“Could you see his forearms?” gasped Rob.

“They’re to die for.”

“Oh, stop! I’m horny already.”

“So he pulls this bottle of wine from the bucket, dripping—”

“How erotic!”

“—and offers me a glass.”

“Which you guzzle ’cause you’re nervous and you always knock back the first drink rather quickly.”

“Exactly! And then we discuss the magazine.”

“Oh.” Rob looked deflated. “Cut that out. We’ll come back to that. I want the sex, now!”

“Okay.” Having been restraining herself all day, Chloë was glad to cut to the chase. “So then, he starts to look at me strangely, you know, a bit too long, and begins confessing about this ex-girlfriend of his in New York, Beth, her name was, and says how I remind him of her, how I’ve got the same spark, and that he, well she broke his heart, though he left her and … to be honest, Rob, it sounded like he was still in love with her and not really in love with his wife at all!”

“No!”

“Well, that’s what he said … Though I suppose he could have just been saying that.”

“Mm,” Rob mused, a cynical tone creeping into his voice. “It’s amazing what some men come up with to get their end away. But we’ll analyze later. I want gore! So tell me—did he have a big willy?”

“Of course.”

“Thick?”

“Very.” Chloë grinned.

“I am so jealous!”

“Don’t you want to know what he did with it?”

“Oooh, no, all that heterosexual stuff. Makes me feel a bit squeamish. I suppose you could tell me about giving head though. I can cope with that. So, did you?”

“I did.”

“Before, or after, he did it to you?”

“How do you know he did it to me?”

“’Cause you’ll never let a man get away without doing it, you love it so much.”

“True, though I hardly had to ask. Anyway, I like to make sure a man has earned it.”

“How many shags?”

“Two,” said Chloë. “But they lasted for hours. Or, at least, a long time. The first was all, you know, heated, the second more slow and sensual.”

“Did he take you from behind?”

“Rob!”

“Well, did he?”

“Yes, actually, he did—at some point during the first time. But the second time he didn’t—we just, well, looked into each other’s eyes.”

“Boring soppy stuff,” said Rob. “I suppose you came together too!” Chloë’s expression obviously said they had. Rob stopped and looked at her seriously. “Oh dear.”

“What?”

“You’re not hoping this is more than a one-night stand, are you?”

“Of course not!” Chloë lied.

“Good.” Rob slumped, relieved. “Because what with his being married, your publisher, and all, it would be a disaster to take this any further.”

Chloë knew that was true. But when she recalled the sensation of him deep inside her, she couldn’t bear for it never to happen again.

9

“Who did you say was coming tonight?” asked Jamie. He was sorting their silver cutlery, a wedding present from Maggie’s parents, which they used on special occasions.

“I’ve told you.” Maggie was concentrating on the chocolate mousse—it was not a good moment to interrupt a perfectionist.

“Tell me again.”

Why couldn’t he listen the first time? “Jean and Simon, William and Liz, Alex and Georgie.”

“Alex your ex-boyfriend?” asked Jamie. “I thought his wife was called Stella.”

“She is. Or rather was. They’re divorcing.”

“Really? Why?”

“Don’t know the full story.” The mixture was ready. Skilfully Maggie poured it into eight glass bowls. “Perhaps we’ll find out more later. Never liked her much, anyway. Thought she wasn’t right for him—too out for herself.”

“You were always so nice to her.”

“I know. I didn’t want her to be threatened by me.”

“Was she? She didn’t seem the insecure type.”

“I don’t know. Alex said she was.”

“Oh?” Jamie sounded miffed—the response Maggie had hoped to provoke. He’d been rather preoccupied the last couple of days, and had shown little interest in the dinner party she was looking forward to enormously. “He’s still got a bit of a thing for you, hasn’t he?”

Maggie felt guilty for winding him up. “Not really. Anyway, I met this very nice woman the other day. She’s just moved in around the corner so I thought I’d ask her to even up the numbers. You never know, they might take to each other.”

“And she’s called Georgie. So, why’s she moved here? Not much of a place for a single woman.”

“Maybe she likes the country.” Maggie resented the implication the area was only suited to the dull and married. “I gather her job has just been transferred to Guildford. She runs Waterstones there.”

“Hmph. A bookworm. Sounds right up Alex’s alley.”

Maggie carefully placed the bowls in the fridge. “Why are you so foul about him?” Yet she knew very well. Alex had been the major relationship of her student years and they’d long had a soft spot for each other. Then, years later, only weeks before her wedding, Alex, who had no idea she was pregnant, had asked Maggie to get back together with him. She’d never told Jamie, but he seemed to have picked up that Alex had carried a torch for her until the last minute.

“Actually,” she said pointedly, “Georgie seems good fun.” She checked her watch. “They’ll be here in half an hour. Have you finished?” Jamie grunted. “Then you’d best put Nathan to bed while I get changed.”

*   *   *

Fifteen minutes later she was showered and sitting wrapped in a towel at the dressing table, feeling better now everything was under control.

“There.” Jamie patted his face dry as he emerged from the shower. As Maggie put the final touches to her makeup, she watched his reflection as he got ready.

The ritual was virtually the same as it was each morning. First, he dried himself thoroughly—the bathroom was too steamy, he maintained. Then he dropped the towel on the floor.

“Please hang it up, darling.”

He did as he was told, and rummaged in a drawer for a clean pair of underpants. As he pulled on the fitted boxers she smiled: they’re the black ones I gave him for Christmas, she noted. Next he selected an almost new pair of trousers, and a shirt. He pulled on the trousers, zipped the fly, and with a
swoosh!
removed the belt from his work suit, and threaded it through the loops. He’s doing it up on the final hole, she thought. Is he getting tubby? No, even though he had put on a couple of pounds in the last year or two—no doubt thanks to her cooking and an increasing number of business lunches—he was broad shouldered enough to retain the pleasing
V
shape that made his outline so different from hers. Yes, she concluded, he’s still a very attractive man.

“Inside or out?” he asked about the shirt, tucking and untucking it.

She realized with a jolt he was dressed and ready before she was. “Out.”

He headed downstairs, while she selected her clothes.

The navy shift dress, she decided. And the new basque.

*   *   *

The doorbell rang—it was Jean and Simon, as usual meeting a deadline with time to spare. Jean looked chic in black chiffon; Simon—bless him—had made the effort and put on a suit. Fifteen minutes later William and Liz arrived, equally smart, then Georgie—I like her dress, thought Maggie—and, finally, Alex. Typically, he was half an hour late, and hadn’t dressed up at all. Yet he grinned at Maggie winningly, said “you look ravishing” and handed over not just wine but her favorite dark Belgian chocolates, so she decided to let him off.

With the guests gathered, drinks in hand, and introductions over, Maggie began to relax. She turned to Jean. “How’s work?”

“Exhausting!”

Maggie smiled to herself. She knew that Jean really loved being editorial queen; long sufferance was just a role she played.

“You know how it is. And I must say, though I have a good team, at times I
despair
of some of my junior copy editors. Call me old-fashioned, but it does seem education isn’t what it used to be. I’m constantly picking out grammatical errors at the eleventh hour! And the spelling! I was thinking on the drive down here,
please
make sure Nathan goes to a decent secondary school, won’t you? Only last week I picked up a classic error in an article about agoraphobia. We’d split ‘therapist’ over two lines into ‘the’ and ‘rapist’—changed the meaning completely. Had to get my features editor to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Actually—” she turned to Jamie “—didn’t you come in and see her the other day? What was that about?”

“Eh?” Jamie, who’d been gazing absentmindedly out of the window, was forced to jump to attention.

“Chloë Appleton. Didn’t you come in to see her last week?”

“Oh, er, yes. I thought it’d be a good idea to introduce myself to the senior members of staff at UK Magazines. I’m eventually hoping to get around everyone. Information gathering, you know.”

“Well, how
thorough
!” said Jean. “Sounds a bit over-keen to me. Rather like when you’ve got a new car. For the first few weeks you’re out there cleaning and polishing every Sunday but sooner or later you’re back to your old ways. I’m sure that once you’ve talked to a couple, you’ll feel you’ve talked to them all.”

“Maybe. Though so far I’ve found it most enlightening. Well,” Jamie turned to Georgie, “all this magazine chat must be rather dull for you. How’s life in the fast lane at Waterstones?”

Maggie winced; she could recognize Jamie’s sarcasm. She hoped it would pass Georgie by.

“You’d be surprised.” Georgie grinned. “It’s one earth-shattering crisis after another. ‘Are the stocks on
Roget’s
running low?’ ‘Have we got that order in for Mrs. Bradshaw yet? She’s called twice already today.’ ‘Is it worth persuading that local author to do an evening signing, or will the sales not warrant paying staff to stay late?’”

Maggie warmed to Georgie even more. She liked a woman who didn’t take herself that seriously. She glanced at Alex. From the way he was leaning forward, it seemed he might like her too.

“How did you get into the book world?” asked Jamie.

“Oh, it wasn’t some major career plan. It was just the first job I got after college.”

“Know the feeling. But you must be pretty good at it. Maggie said you’re in charge of the one in Guildford. It’s one of their biggest branches, isn’t it?” Clearly he was prepared to be more charming now Georgie had revealed she could hold her own.

“It is. I like working out which books might sell and helping give them a push. But what I most enjoy is the people; managing my staff and meeting customers.”