Читать книгу Rumours - Freya North - Страница 15

Stella gave herself a stern talking-to as she raced to pick up Will from after-school club.

Lady Whatnot didn’t say you won’t be representing Longbridge.

She said you’re to come back tomorrow.

Money she may have – manners she has none.

She’s just an old dragon.

But Stella felt despondent – as if she’d failed a test and a carrot that had been dangled in front of her had been snatched away in a harsh peal of upper-class laughter; as if she’d been one of the balls hit around in a game of croquet. Why would she want to work for the old battleaxe anyway? She felt impotent – it seemed she didn’t have a choice. It appeared if Lady Up-Her-Bum wanted Stella, then Stella she would have.

‘Shall we go over and see the Twins? Aunty Ju said it’s fish and chips for supper.’

Will was delighted. Actually, Stella had food prepared at home for Will but her need for adult company – sane, sweet, adult company – overrode her usual timetable of homework, supper, telly, bath, bed and a long evening alone muttering at the telly. She’d phoned Juliet who was only too pleased to hear from her and to be able to help.

‘But it’s a school night, Mummy.’

‘I know!’ Stella said, as if it was the coolest, most daring concept ever.

With Will upstairs with Pauly and Tom, happy not to touch a thing, just to look at their stuff and be in their company as if hoping their cred was catching, Juliet had Stella to herself downstairs.

‘You all right, chook?’ Juliet asked nonchalantly while rooting around the cupboard for the ketchup.

‘Can I borrow a suit, do you think? One of yours?’

‘Well, I hardly thought you meant Alistair’s. Yes, of course.’ She looked at Stella, who looked glum and distracted. ‘But why? There’s not a funeral I don’t know about, is there? Uncle MacKenzie?’

‘No – Uncle Mac is still hanging on. I just need to look a bit more formal and estate-agenty tomorrow.’

‘Charming! Is that your sartorial judgement of me, then?’ Juliet gave her a long look, up and down, as if assessing which suit Stella would be entitled to. ‘You’re not wearing my Paul Smith then – I’ll dig out my old one from Wallis for that!’

Stella laughed. ‘You know what I mean – and I just need not to look like a waitress in a gastro pub.’

‘Firstly – you don’t, you look lovely. Secondly – why?’

‘Awkward client.’

‘Oh?’

‘Lady Up-Her-Bum Fortescue-Barbary OK-Yah Di-Fucking-Da.’

‘Oh,’ said Juliet. ‘Her.’ She paused. ‘Who?’

‘Lives in a Georgian pile over at Long Dansbury. It’s worth millions. She called for me – and then spent most of this morning being rude yet demanded I come back tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you send someone else from the office?’

‘She asked for me by name.’

‘Perhaps it’s just her manner.’

‘She may be a Lady – but she has no manners. She’s horrible.’

‘Yes, but blimey, Stella – have you calculated the commission?’

‘Exactly – it could be the solution to everything. That’s why I have to go. I’ll have to swallow my morals and sell my soul to the old devil – but hence the need for your suit.’

‘And you think she’ll be more polite if you dress the part?’

‘She said I was to see the grounds and art.’

‘Then you ought to go in wellies and a Puffa – with your own clothes underneath. Not your worky-waitressy garb – your off-duty clothes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because first and foremost you’re an art historian – and that’s who you are. Not a suity person. Dress as the real You.’

‘I’m an estate agent.’

‘In the interim.’ Juliet looked at her sternly. ‘Remember – that’s your game plan.’

Stella’s head dropped a little as she nodded. She fiddled with a frozen oven chip that had missed its place on the tray.

‘And my divorce came through.’

And then Juliet thought, sod the suit – that’s not why she’s here. ‘Good,’ Juliet said. She wiped her hands on her jeans and put her arms around Stella. ‘At long bloody last.’

‘I know.’ And Stella was shocked to feel tears scorch the back of her throat. She attempted to cough them away. ‘Actually, it came last week.’

‘Why didn’t you say?’ Juliet was upset.

‘I felt OK about it. Flat – but OK.’ Her throat still ached. A tear dropped. ‘Shit. I can’t believe I’m going to cry.’ She groaned at herself and stamped.

‘You haven’t heard from him, I suppose?’

Stella shook her head and then reached for some kitchen roll to blow her nose. ‘I’ve been fine – and I’m absolutely fine.’ She was frustrated – more at her tears and herself than at any number of the transgressions that could be pinned on Charlie. ‘Why am I crying now? I’m not really.’

‘I know you’re not. It’s just relief and closure and you’ve waited a long time for it. Welcome to the rest of your life. Come on, chook. Let’s go and raid my dressing-up box.’ Juliet led the way upstairs, pausing with Stella to watch, unseen, Will sitting on Pauly’s bed in utter heaven as one cousin strummed a few chords on his guitar and the other chewed gum and texted on his phone.

‘Try the Paul Smith,’ Juliet said, proffering it for Stella’s approval like a maître d’ presenting a Dover sole.

‘Is that because you feel sorry for me?’ Stella asked wryly, hauling herself back on form – a person who, once a good cry had been had, gathered herself together, dug deep for a smile and wore it until it worked independently.

‘Yes,’ said Juliet. ‘Of course not! Just try it on – the more it’s worn, the more the cost-per-wear goes down and the quicker I can justify the purchase.’

Stella undressed and, though she stood there in black socks and mismatched underwear, Juliet thought what a cracking figure she had. ‘Promise not to bite my head off?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Just – promise.’

‘I promise.’

‘Not to bite my head off.’

‘I promise not to bite your head off!’

‘Please let me sort out a date for you – please?’

‘When? To do what?’

‘No – a date, date.’

Stella wanted to bite Juliet’s head off but as a girl who’d never break a promise, she fell silent and just sent Juliet a black look instead.

‘Do you not feel ready, Stella – is that it?’

Stella didn’t answer, didn’t appear to have heard.

‘It’s been over three years, lovely.’

Stella shrugged. ‘I’m busy. I have Will. I’m fine. Actually, I’m just not interested.’

‘Then you ought to go to your GP and have your hormone levels assessed.’ Juliet thought that might have sounded a little sharp. ‘You’re bloody gorgeous – it’s a waste! And you’re denying yourself the chance to have someone really lovely in your life – not to fill a gap, just to enhance it.’

‘My life is good,’ Stella said and she really believed it.

‘Not all men are like Charlie,’ Juliet said quietly. ‘In fact, few of them are. You know that deep down. I know you know that.’

Stella turned for Juliet to zip up the skirt.

‘Look at your peachy bum, missus!’

Stella looked at herself in the mirror. ‘That’s the genius of Paul Smith tailoring,’ she said.

‘Rubbish!’ said Juliet. ‘It doesn’t look half as good on me, you cow.’ She held the jacket as Stella slipped it on. ‘Just look at you!’

Stella looked. And had to grin. ‘Blimey.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Juliet said. ‘It would be nice for you to have a little fun,’ she said softly. ‘You deserve it. It’ll be good for you – for your self-esteem.’

‘You sound just like Jo – different vocabulary. She witters on about my mojo.’

‘Go, Jo.’

Stella didn’t want to be drawn. ‘I just don’t think I’m that bothered any more.’

‘If that’s the case, you’ve let bloody Charlie define the rest of your life – and yet he’s now out of your life. You’re really good in a couple, even when the other half was a prize shit. Don’t let what you went through change something that naturally suits you.’

Stella hadn’t thought about it that way. ‘But – Will,’ she explained, as if Juliet (like Jo) had missed the point. ‘It’s too complicated.’

‘No,’ said Juliet strongly. ‘That’s an excuse. It needn’t be complicated – and there’s no reason for Will to be involved. You need to have you-time, doing grown-up stuff. You need to pep up your self-confidence. You think your divorce has diminished you – but actually, it gives you your life back. You’ve probably forgotten what that’s like.’

Stella sighed. She stroked the suit as if it was living. ‘If I say yes, will you stop lecturing me?’

‘Yes,’ said Juliet.

‘But no gynaes.’

‘Roger.’

‘And no one called Roger.’

‘Noted.’

‘And no one too much older or too much younger.’

‘No grandpas, no toyboys.’

‘No facial hair.’

‘No?’

‘No!’

Juliet counted off on her fingers. ‘Mid- to late thirties. Height and weight proportionate. Clean-shaven. Anything else?’

‘No addictions,’ Stella said quietly.

Juliet took her hand and gave it a little squeeze as if to say, you needn’t even think it, let alone say it out loud.

* * *

Siobhan was late, but there again, she’d never been on time. Xander thought about it while he waited – if she’d been a girlfriend, officially, it would be a bone of contention to grind between them; but keeping it casual meant the irritation he felt came also with a sense of relief that no tiresome confrontation was necessary. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of weeks, hadn’t had any contact. But she’d sent him a text which he’d received at lunch-time, alone in the office when Mrs Gregg was taking her hour. Mrs Gregg always took exactly fifty-five minutes so that she had sufficient time to sit back at her desk, pat her hair, wriggle her fingers, look around her desk and then say, ‘So!’ in a bright voice.

The text came through when Xander was thinking, not bloody tuna mayo again, and wondering whether to see what sandwiches Caffe Nero had instead.

Horny. SEx

Siobhan Elliot. Always signed herself SE, the strategically placed kiss turning the whole thing licentious.

I have a cure for that. X

It remained unclear to Siobhan whether that was X for Xander, or a kiss.

They always met at a pub in Standon that neither of them went to at any other time; they always had bar food and a glass of wine, Xander always paid. If they went back to Siobhan’s, Xander left after sex. If Siobhan came to his, she usually stayed the night but not for breakfast. Neither had met the other’s friends nor even knew much of their lives beyond their rendezvous. They’d been seeing each other a couple of times a month for the past six months and the arrangement suited them both.

Her customary lateness was premeditated as it presented her with the opportunity to sashay in, swish her way across to him, sit herself down sinuously. Everything about her was consciously feline. A performance, an act. Everything was about calculated seduction but Xander had done his sums and it all added up. He was therefore a little taken aback at a pair of cold hands covering his eyes when Siobhan came up behind him without him noticing. But there again, a gaggle of women had just come in and he hadn’t thought to look amongst them for her. He encircled her wrists and pulled her hands away from his eyes.

Only it wasn’t Siobhan.

It was Caroline.

At any other time, Xander would have been delighted to see Caroline. But not here, not tonight and not when Siobhan’s arrival was imminent.

‘Hullo, monkey,’ she said.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ said Xander.

‘Bloody charming!’ she laughed.

‘Sorry, Cazza, I meant—’

‘You can buy me a pint for that, tosser,’ and Caroline swept her patterned shawl over her shoulder, catching Xander across the cheek with the soft bobble fringing. ‘You’re lucky I don’t give you a slap. Pint, please!’ she said to the barman. ‘He’s paying.’

The landlord gave Xander an odd look as if to say, this isn’t a pick-up joint, you know. And Caroline gave Xander an odd look because she’d never seen him appear so awkward.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘Mums’ Night Out,’ Caroline said. ‘We’re bored of Dansbury pubs and your dad’s probably playing dominoes in Little Dee. Pet – are you feeling all right?’ Caroline placed the back of her hand across his brow before stroking his cheek. And that’s what Siobhan saw when she walked in. And that was the moment Caroline clocked the two glasses of wine in front of Xander. She grabbed her pint and look a long drink. ‘Bloody hell – you’re on a date!’

‘Xander?’ Siobhan was here.

Neither Siobhan nor Caroline had ever known Xander to redden nor heard him tongue-tied. Caroline thought it most amusing. Siobhan didn’t.

‘I’m Caroline,’ and she offered her hand, slightly wet with beer, to Siobhan.

‘Siobhan,’ Siobhan said, declining to take it.

‘Siobhan – Caroline, Caroline – Siobhan,’ Xander said, wearily. Caroline was beaming sunnily at Siobhan, as much as Siobhan was staring unimpressed at Xander. Caroline was just about to ask Siobhan a checklist of questions when one of the other mums called her to take her seat at the table and suddenly Xander didn’t know whether he’d rather she stayed rather than went. Or whether he’d rather he and Siobhan went rather than stayed. He drank his wine and couldn’t think what to say to either of them.

‘Right, well, I’ll be leaving you two lovebirds to enjoy your evening then,’ Caroline said and slipped off the bar stool, offering it theatrically to Siobhan who took the seat without acknowledgement. As Caroline backed away, she pointed from her eyes to Xander and then back again. She winked lasciviously and made a telephone gesture with her hand and, with a big grin, joined her party.

‘Old friend,’ said Xander, though Siobhan hadn’t asked. ‘Best friend, really.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Married, two kids, lives in the village.’

He’d never mentioned Caroline to Siobhan. He didn’t think he’d mentioned anyone in his life to Siobhan, not by name. And, just then, he thought perhaps that was disrespectful – not to Siobhan as much as to Caroline. And then he thought, I’m not here to think.

Siobhan had lasagne with garlic bread and Xander had cottage pie. He’d quite fancied a pudding but the innuendo of spotted dick put him off and he wasn’t keen on anything else. The two of them always arrived and left separately, which made the whole thing slightly detached and clinical but part of their dynamic. No banter in the car, no hand on leg, no sudden eye contact, or sensing the other person’s physical presence. Just a quick look, every now and then, in the rear-view mirror to check that they were still together. And, six months on, together they still were in this ever so liberal, coolly casual way.

They parked and then walked together to Xander’s house in separate silence, Siobhan behind while Xander unlocked the door. She could sense detachment in him – a physical detachment which was not what this whole game was about. The emotional detachment, yes – but hitherto that had enhanced the physical side. Tonight, though, something was different. Usually, they’d be all over each other before the door had closed behind them. Though they always made it into the bedroom, it was having romped and humped their way there from the sitting room, up against all the walls en route and usually a bit of doggy-style halfway up the stairs. But tonight, Xander walked ahead, going straight through to his kitchen, keeping his back to Siobhan, filling a pint glass with water and drinking it down in agitated gulps. He hadn’t let the tap run and the water was unpleasantly tepid. Siobhan stood self-consciously on the boundary of the sitting room and the open-plan kitchen, as if unsure of what came next in this change to the script. Was there to be dialogue? A scene change? There were no stage directions and she felt a little stuck. He was still standing there, his back to her. Did she want a glass of water, she asked herself? No, she didn’t think so. At that moment, it struck her how unnatural all of this was and, just then, she didn’t like the way it made her feel.

Still drinking, Xander turned and faced her and they looked at each other silently. He offered her the glass and she stepped forward to take it. She took a dainty sip and then, locking eyes with Xander, she trickled the rest down her neck where it reached her silk top and spread quickly like ink on blotting paper, turning the silvery tone into gunmetal grey and causing the fabric to cling to her body, her nipples to harden and stand proud. Xander knocked the glass out of her hands and onto the floor where it landed on the rug with a muffled thud. He nudged it away, where it rolled off onto the wooden floor and knocked against the skirting board. And then all was silent again and Siobhan had moved up close to Xander, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt as she reached for his mouth with hers. His hands moved across her body, feeling her flesh through the silk, wet or dry. She was rubbing at his groin where his erection was tantalizingly restricted. Falling onto her knees, she unbuckled his belt, hoicked down the zip and pulled sharply on his jeans and his boxers in one fell swoop. He could feel her breath hot above his cock and could sense how agonizingly close her mouth was, trying to stand steady while the sensation of her caressing his balls with one hand and tracing the crack between his buttocks with the other threatened his balance. And then he was between her lips, deeper into the sucking wet cavity of her mouth; it felt as if she was swallowing him whole.

She pulled away and looked up at him beseechingly. ‘Do you want to come in my mouth? Or my cunt?’

He pulled her to her feet and pressed his tongue into her mouth where it met hers. He grabbed at her skirt and delved his hands up her thighs, foraging through her knickers and into the slippery promise behind. And then he thought, she absolutely reeks of garlic. And then he thought, I don’t have any condoms. And then he thought, oh God, I’m losing my hard-on.

‘In your mouth,’ he whispered as they folded down onto the rug, clawed away the remaining clothing and settled head to toe, tonguing and sucking at each other until they were sated.

Don’t stay the night. Not this time.

‘I’m exhausted,’ Siobhan said. And she headed off to Xander’s bedroom before he could suggest otherwise.

He looked around the sitting room. Strewn clothes. A severely rucked rug. A discarded glass on the floor with a crack now visible. A woman’s shoes – one here, one there. His shirt, in a scrunch and flung onto the kitchen like a wiping-round rag. What had seemed such a good idea had left him with an odd taste in his mouth – akin to feeling nauseous but unable to pinpoint the offending food. Pulling his boxers back up from his ankles, he went to sit in his leather tub chair, taking the phone from his jeans pocket. Two texts. Both from Caroline.

So … you dark horse. Dish the dirt – who is she?

She’d sent another, about ten minutes ago.

Want to come to dinner Fri? With your lady friend?

How to reply? His closest friends – who’d always supported him, who wanted only the best for him and who’d been there for him when his relationship with Laura came to grief. Xander knew, quite categorically, that he didn’t want them to be part of this – this thing – with Siobhan. And that in itself made this thing with Siobhan not quite right.