Читать книгу Ice Creams at Carrington’s - Alexandra Brown, Lindsey Kelk - Страница 7

Flinging back the duvet, I bounce out of bed with an uncharacteristically exuberant flourish and immediately stub my toe on the side of an empty Prosecco bottle. Working through the pain, I squeeze my foot and think about last night as a more pleasurable distraction – Tom had just arrived back after a fortnight-long business trip, visiting practically every major city in the hunt for suitable premises in which to open a new store. Carrington’s is expanding! So it was me, him and a large stuffed-crust Hawaiian followed by a bottle of bubbles and an evening of clothes-rippingly glorious sex involving practically every surface in my flat. Two weeks is a long time to be apart, and he’ll be off again soon, no doubt, so you can see why we didn’t waste a second of his R&R just chatting – oh no, there was so much more fun to be had. I still have the friction burns from the carpet on my backside and the stubble sting from his chin on my inner thighs as an exquisite souvenir. Tom may come over all gentlemanly and polite in company, but when we’re alone it’s a whole different thing. Pure filth! And I love it. Anyway, better get a move on, the soirée starts in exactly three hours.

I leg it down the hallway as my mobile buzzes with a text message from Tom, which I press to view while simultaneously kicking the bathroom door open with my good toe.

Sorry I had to dash. Really do need to get this paperwork done See you later. Mooooo! X

Ha-ha, in a funneee boom-boom way – he does work too hard, though, but then he’s totally focused on building the Carrington’s brand, and has already made some incredible changes since buying the majority share in the store from his aunt Camille – there’s the pet spa, the gourmet food hall down in the basement, a new cocktail bar (installed specifically to attract the glamouratti instore from the new Mulberry Marina), the roof top ice-rink, the glitzy Cartier boutique and there’s even a staff crèche now, so everyone’s a winner, which reminds me, I must call Sam. She’s my best friend and her adorable twin girls; Holly and Ivy (yes they were conceived at Christmas time) play in the crèche while Sam creates truly scrumptious comfort food and bakes delicious cakes in her café, Cupcakes At Carrington’s, up on the fifth floor. Sam also owns the freehold for the Carrington’s building, so she’s invited to the party too. Her wonderful dad, Alfie Palmer, the charismatic and incredibly wealthy owner of Palmer Estates, one of the biggest estate agencies in the country, died last year, leaving his vast fortune to Sam. And we’ve known each other since boarding school days – before I got thrown out because Dad had gambled everything away and couldn’t pay the fees. So I was billeted back home on the first train and then slapped around for talking posh in the local school playground by the following Monday morning.

I promised to call Sam for a pre-soirée briefing before arriving on board. And I never go back on a promise, even if I am tight for time.

‘Hey you. How was last night?’ Sam says after the first ring.

‘Sizzling as always,’ I smile. ‘But how are you?’ I quickly add, knowing how she’s been feeling really jaded recently.

‘Exhausted. Ivy was screeching at three o’clock this morning, which then set Holly off. And then my darling husband, Nathan, couldn’t get back to sleep so started rattling on about a client that he’s been having problems with … Like I’m interested in all his legal work stuff at four in the bloody morning!’ She lets out a big puff of air.

‘Oh dear,’ I reply diplomatically.

‘Never mind. I’m not complaining. Well, I guess I am a bit,’ she quickly adds. ‘But it’s just what babies do. And lawyer husbands, I guess … So, tell me about the sex. Remind me, please, what it’s like to have a whole night of bacchanalian bliss without the tandem wailing of year-old twins as an immediate passion killer, because I can’t even remember my last time.’ She does a feeble laugh. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I’d literally die for my girls, but it would be sooooo nice to have just one whole night off – to drink champagne, share a bath and have wild uninterrupted multiple orgasms courtesy of my own husband. Just like before. You know how much I love sex … does that make me a bad mother?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m not an expert – hell, I’m not even a parent, so what do I know about mummies and their orgasms, but aren’t there places that use sleep deprivation as a preferred method of torture?’

‘Ha! Yes, very good point. Nathan reckons we should get a nanny. A team of six, to work eight-hour shifts ensuring twenty-four-hour cover for each twin.’ She heaves another weary sigh. ‘He’s practically dead on his feet at work each day – me too, I’m so exhausted, I feel like I’m wading through treacle most of the time. And I’m making mistakes – baked a whole batch of lemon drizzle cupcakes yesterday and totally forgot the crucial ingredient, the actual lemon juice!’

‘Oh no!’ Sam’s lemon drizzle cupcakes are legendary; shoppers come from all over Mulberry-On-Sea to devour them. She’s even had phone orders from people who’ve moved away but just can’t live without them.

‘Yep, we’ve tried the whole taking-it-in-turns thing to stagger out of bed, which never works as we both still end up wide awake in the middle of the night, and then start bickering over the duvet and whatever other trivial things our addled brains have suddenly elevated to paramount importance. But an actual nanny? I’m just not sure.’

‘Why not?’

‘Hmm, well, it just seems so grown up, somehow. And I’d feel a bit guilty, I guess. I’ve overheard the stay-at-home yummy mummies in the café bitching about the “lazy women with help” and, “why did they bother having children if they were just going to give them to someone else to look after?”’

‘Oooh, harsh,’ I tut.

‘Indeed.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you have to be superwoman. Sam, you can’t do it all – run the café, oversee Alfie’s estate with all those meetings up in London, not to mention the management of the Carrington’s freehold, and still find time to be Mary Poppins. For the sake of your orgasms you must say no!’ I laugh to lighten the mood.

‘Don’t you mean yes yes yes?’ Sam laughs too, not missing a beat.

‘Ha!’

‘Do you think Mary Poppins had orgasms?’

‘Stop it! There’s no place inside my head for that image.’

‘Hmm, on second thoughts, you’re right.’ And Sam makes a bleeeeugh sound down the phone.

‘Besides, you’re already a fantastic mother just the way you are. You really are. So you must do whatever works best for you and ignore the opinions, because everyone has one, but they’re just that … opinions!’ I say gently, wondering where the old Sam went – she would never have been bothered by a bit of gossip; she’s always been so self-assured and confident. Blimey, she’s put me right on many occasions, but now it seems to be the other way around, which is OK – of course I’ll champion her as best I can – but I’d much sooner see Sam happy. And by the sounds of it, this really doesn’t seem to be the case.

‘I know. And you’re right, of course. But then my own mother couldn’t be bothered with me, remember? So I don’t ever want the girls to feel the way I did, and still do sometimes …’ Her voice trails off.

‘Oh Sam, that will never happen. You’re not Christy …’

At boarding school, Sam and I had shared a bedroom, and she’d lie awake at night wondering about her mum, Christy, an interior designer who ran off to LA with a famous rock star client when Sam was only five years old. I used to try to comfort her by sharing sweets and whispering bedtime stories about princesses in castles, and even though Sam hasn’t mentioned Christy for years until now, I think she still struggles to understand why she left. And even more so since becoming a mother herself, but then who can blame her? Christy literally did a moonlight flit. There at bedtime and gone by breakfast, and that’s tough, especially when all you have is a bag of Haribo Strawbs and the vivid imagination of a nine-year-old friend to comfort you.

‘True … but my brain is so addled from lack of sleep, it’s affecting everything, and it’s just sooooo not like me,’ she replies.

‘Of course it isn’t, you’ve always been the most positive, upbeat person I know. Tell you what, why don’t I babysit for a weekend or something? You and Nathan could stay in a hotel overnight, get some rest, chat, have loads of sex – do whatever you like, it would be just like the old days,’ I say impulsively, instantly pushing away the panicky feeling that follows – I’m sure it can’t be that hard to look after two tiny babies for an evening. Heeeelp!

‘Would you really do that?’ Sam perks up.

‘Sure, that’s what best friends are for. I’m just sorry I didn’t think to offer before now.’ I know Nancy will jump at the chance to lend a hand should I need it. She adores children and really cannot wait to be a grandmother; she even asked me one time if Tom and I had chatted about all that yet. I didn’t have the heart to tell her we haven’t – that our time together is spent mostly in bed, or across my kitchen table or in the shower, or the hallway, and my sofa has certainly seen a lot of action too – and that I’m just not interested in having babies, to be honest. No wild urge to procreate. That biological thing I hear so much about hasn’t kicked in for me yet. Maybe it never will.

‘Well, that would be brilliant. I’ll chat to Nathan about it. It might put him off the nanny idea for a while longer.’

‘Are you really that against it, then?’

‘Hmm, I can’t help wondering – what if she tries it on with him and they end up having a steamy affair? I know it’s a cliché, but you hear about that kind of thing all the time, and the way I feel at the moment, I’m not entirely sure I’d have the energy to confront them, let alone slap her before chucking them both out,’ she laughs wryly.

‘Don’t be daft. Nathan adores you, so that would never happen. Besides, you could get a manny …’

‘A male nanny! Yes, now that’s a good idea. Like a fit pool boy … But with childcare qualifications obviously,’ Sam confirms, sounding a whole lot perkier, and more like her old self now.

‘Yes, something like that.’ I smile.

‘You could help me with interviews?’

‘Of course I could.’

‘Wonder if I could get away with issuing a uniform – tiny running shorts, perhaps? Perfectly reasonable, seeing as they would definitely be doing lots of running around, the twins will make sure of it.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, enough of this manny talk – more importantly, what are you wearing to the soirée? Indulge me with a few minutes of adult chat about frivolous things like dresses and shoes, instead of eco-friendly reusable nappies because, to be honest, I couldn’t give a shit … oops, no pun intended,’ we both snigger, ‘what little Luella wears on her backside.’

‘Who’s Luella?’

‘Oh, just another overheard conversation in the café – a group of eco-mummies were having a nappycino —’

‘A whaaaat?’ I yell, wondering if a bonkers barista somewhere has come up with yet another kind of hot beverage. Hmm, skinny soya nappycino to go – sure doesn’t sound very appetising.

‘Well, it’s not an actual coffee.’ Oh that’s a relief. ‘But from what I can gather, it’s some kind of get-together to chat about nappies. I didn’t join in or anything – was too busy working.’

‘Of course you were,’ I offer in solidarity.

‘Anyway, it got me all edgy about my seemingly indulgent use of disposables, but I can’t get my head around having buckets full of pooey nappies all over the place, waiting for the recycling van. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough!’ Sam laughs, but I’m sure I detect an edge in her voice. ‘Sooo, your outfit? I bet it’s gorge.’

‘It is,’ I confirm quickly, sensing she’s keen to change the subject. ‘I’m going with that new butterfly print silk maxi-dress that I bought in the Womenswear sale – beautiful, and such a bargain with my staff discount.’

‘Lovely. And shoes?’

‘I was thinking the silver strappy Laurent sandals.’

‘Oh yes! Divine and very super-yacht yah-yah,’ she says in an exaggerated plummy accent.

‘How about you?’

‘With a bit of luck, something baby-gunge free.’

‘Don’t be daft, you always look amazing.’

‘Aw, thanks, and you always cheer me up.’ A short silence follows. ‘Oh for crying out loud – Jeeeeeeesus. I don’t believe this … Nathaaaaaaan, where the hell are you?’ My stomach tightens. What on earth has happened? Something catastrophic, by the sounds of it. I hold my breath. ‘Gotta go – Ivy has just tipped raspberry yogurt over Holly’s head.’

And the line goes dead. I sigh with relief.

Stowing my mobile on the bathroom shelf above the mirror, I flick the shower on and select my favourite body wash – Soap & Glory Sugar Crush. Sam has always wanted a big family full of children, and I’m thrilled that she has the twins, and she really does do a fantastic job all round, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for all that just yet.

As the warm water saturates my hair and cascades down my back, I can’t help thinking how wonderful my life is right now, just the way it is – why change it? When I have a job that I adore – two, in fact, plus fab friends, money in the bank, and a cosy, secure home of my own. Dad is back in my life, with Nancy now too, and we’re getting on really well – the three of us are close, loving and supportive, like a proper family should be, and I have a brilliant boyfriend who loves me, and I love him. (I make a mental note to make sure we find the time for us to talk about living together; perhaps he could move in with me? Now there’s a thought … My flat may be small but it’s much more of a proper home than his sterile new-build apartment.) And I honestly can’t remember ever having all these wonderful things, together, at the same time … It’s perfect. And I truly hope it stays this way forever because it’s been a long time coming, but so very worth the wait.