All That Mullarkey (9 page)

Chapter Nine

Usually Gav liked the friendliness of his parents’ street, but the neighbours had driven him nuts with their constant demands for up-to-the-minute George-bulletins. And he’d been stuck with his mother’s claustrophobic half-a-car, little heap of shit.

Still, his dad seemed to be on the mend, that was the main thing. He was grateful.

And he was free to come back to work. He locked his Focus and glanced up at the endless windows of the Clyde, Rhode & Owen offices. Standing in the car park in the sweet unidentifiable smell of the CR&O flavourings plant, he shrugged into his jacket. But, instead of heading straight for the office, he wandered towards the brook that idled at the edge of the industrial estate past their building. Climbing over the two-bar fence, he pushed through the cool fronds of a willow tree and joined the dog-walking track beside the water.

The sun dappled through the elders and a lacy edging of cow parsley almost made the olive water pretty. He kicked stones into it as he walked. Birds, seemingly uncaring that their home was only an overgrown patch no one else wanted, sang liquid songs to the pale-blue sky. A cloud of gnats danced infuriatingly around his face and he swatted at them futilely.

He dropped sticks into the water to see how fast they left him, watched leaves dance with the sunlight, nodded at two dog walkers and let time go by.

What was he going to do about Cleo?

Her picture slid easily into his mind. Dark hair thick to her shoulders, a long and wispy fringe sweeping above her beautiful eyes, the generous mouth he’d possessed a million times. Her curvy body. The body he’d held, stroked and loved, been faithful to for so long. His playground.

Fear was a monster in his guts. Bad things were happening and, even whilst he hid them from her, Cleo’s apparent inability to see them was making him unreasonably angry with her.

Things were tense at home, but he didn’t want to go to work. Lillian would be back. With Lillian’s holiday and his hurriedly taken week in Yorkshire, he’d avoided her for a fortnight. But now she’d be back with her cocky one-upmanship. The fear monster stirred. Sometimes he hated Lillian and could envisage changing jobs to get away from her sharply styled hair of red and blonde streaks, her tight skirts.

But sometimes he fancied her absolutely dead rotten, despite loving Cleo. And that made him feel guilty. Which made him mad at Lillian. And, improbably, again at Cleo.

He turned for the office, feeling no better about his life for having taken ten minutes to reflect on it.

Crossing the marble foyer floor, he swiped his security pass to open the lift door, forcing encouraging and motivating phrases into his mind to reassure himself that Lillian was no better than him. ‘We’re the same grade, both tens.’ Ten. A junior management grade. Gav a 10A and there weren’t too many people who merited an A. And only one who merited an A (Special). ‘Bloody Lillian. Same grade, same sodding grade, I do my work just as well, she isn’t actually my senior. Only a “special”, not Superwoman. Lillian is
not
Superwoman. Lillian is dangerous.’

His section was at the far end of a floor so enormous that some of the young headcases brought micro scooters to whiz up and down on. Often, members of a section had no idea about the function of other sections. The flavourings industry was secretive about what it did and how it did it and the hierarchy of privileges and passwords would do MI5 proud.

His quadrants were sketchily separated from the others with wood-edged screens. His section had grey desks and blue trays; Lillian’s section black desktops and red trays. The section members got mid-backed chairs; section leaders high-backed chairs with arms. And larger computer monitors. The trappings of success.

Lillian filled her corner with a huge, frothing asparagus fern. Gav had a wooden tidy with little compartments for paper clips and staples.

Gav was on time; Lillian looked as if she’d been at her desk for hours. He nodded as he passed on to his own section of twelve women and four men, all with groovy names like Daryl, Rowan and Erin, scrolling through their call lists and unwinding headsets.

It took three passwords – the company’s, his section’s and his own – before he could access his emails. Last week’s figures waited at the top of his inbox and he scrolled through them. They were OK. Next section meeting he’d tell his team that OK was
not
OK. Outstanding was OK. And the first person to make excuses about the credit crunch would be put on a warning.

Lillian swayed up to his desk, tight little arse in her tight little skirt close to his arm, perfume cooking nicely on her pulse spot. ‘How’s your father?’

He thought about saying, ‘Nice offer, but do you think howsyerfather is appropriate to the office?’ But he was always a model of office courtesy. ‘On the mend, but he’s got to be careful for a while. Thanks.’

She nodded and began to wiggle away.

And then it just came out without warning, bleh, his voice working independently. ‘I need to speak to you.’

Her finely marked eyebrows lifted slightly over cool grey eyes. A fall of hair slid slowly, silkily from behind her ear, a curtain across her cheekbone.

‘Later,’ he added.

She nodded and swayed back to her seat. Gav made himself not watch. Wished he could take back his words. The less he had to do with Lillian, the better.

Definitely. Less, the better. He checked his BlackBerry for the time of his meeting with his line manager, Bob Chester, then set an alert to phone his mother later to see if his dad was home safely.

Hopefully, by the time Gav and Cleo paid a follow-up visit Dad would’ve got his stuffing back after the brutal conflict with his own body, and begun to care again whether his hair stood on end or his face was unwashed and unshaven. For now, Gav could forget the desperate prospect of his father’s death.

During the whole panic, Cleo had been great. Unflappable, helpful, thoughtful, seeing what had to be done and doing it. A better wife than he currently deserved.

Cleo. He conjured up an image of his wife. Things weren’t warm between them. Not since ... He tried to push the memory away but it came sneaking back. Maybe on Saturday they could go shopping for new wallpaper and, without the stripped patch above the bed reminding them both of the stupid words he’d scrawled there, they could forget the amazing rage that had frightened even him.

He tried to recall Cleo’s schedule. He thought she was taking a training day somewhere. He’d text her and she could read the message at her next break.

He began a new text message.
Inviting others 4 meal 2nite will cook spag bol love G
.

Then there was just time to visit the Gents before presenting himself in Bob’s office.

An hour later, when he emerged, Lillian was loitering in the corridor reading a noticeboard. He jumped.

She smiled slightly. ‘Well? What?’

He screwed up his face and rubbed his forehead. ‘What was it, now?’ A short, embarrassed laugh. ‘It’s gone. Completely slipped my mind. Sorry.’

He didn’t want to talk to her after all.

Gav’s text message made Cleo sigh. ‘Now, do I really feel like an evening passing the wine, listening to everyone complain about their kids and about each other? No, I don’t, actually.’ Gav was a pain, not bothering to consult her before he invited guests. What if she’d wanted a quiet night in or a loud night out? Maybe she should go out with Liza and send Gav a little message about that?
Sorry. Made other arrangements.

But when she texted her sister, Liza returned:
Soz. On a date 2nite.

So Cleo made herself available to Nathan for a planning meeting and encouraged him into discussing strategies for getting established staff with entrenched ideas to accept current trends, thus ensuring that she’d arrive in Middledip later than her guests.

‘Sorry,’ she breezed in, ‘heavy, heavy day.’ Dropping her jacket on the sofa, she flopped onto the only vacant dining chair, helped herself to white wine and beamed around at Dora looking cheerful, Keith’s dark brow knitting into his habitual slight frown, Ian’s hooded gaze and Rhianne’s full-face make-up. ‘Hello, everyone!

Gav glanced at the clock. ‘We thought you’d got lost.’

She took four swallows from her glass. The wine was a little fruity for her taste and yellower than white wine had a right to be. She turned the bottle to read the label. ‘I had a planning meeting.’

‘You never said.’

‘No. When are we eating?’

‘There’s just the pasta to drain.’ Gav stayed in his seat, twirling his wine glass on the pearl-grey tablecloth – the best linen one that was hell to launder.

Cleo finished her wine and poured another with a sigh of relish. ‘That’s better. Who needs a top-up? Rhianne, you’re looking healthy. Been soaking up the rays?’ She focused on Rhianne’s skin, as smooth and matte as a brown egg, as if genuinely unaware that Gav was waiting for her to execute a lightning clear-up in the kitchen, find the napkins, drain the pasta and serve the meal. ‘I’m starving.’

Several beats passed before Gav got to his feet. ‘How hot does the oven need to be for garlic bread?’

‘Whatever it says on the packet. How’s business, Keith? How are the kids, Dora? That shirt really suits you.’

Dora flushed. ‘I’m down to a size
fourteen
! I’ve been such a good girl!’

Rhianne raised her glass. ‘Give Ian the diet sheet, quick!’

Ian decided to take the joke. ‘My chest measurement’s already less than Dora’s.’

Cleo lit some candles and chose a bottle of red from the wine rack. Through the doorway she could see Gav struggling in the kitchen, tutting when he couldn’t find the oven gloves, turning the bread into rips and crumbs through using the wrong knife. How agreeable to loll back and await her meal. She must do it more often.

She let the conversation buzz round her. Dora really did look great. She seemed less clumsy and mumsy and what Gav had dubbed ‘A-Dora-ble’. Being a few pounds lighter suited her and the buttercup-coloured shirt brought brightness to her fair hair. Or maybe she’d had her hair highlighted.

Keith seemed quiet. But then Keith specialised in being saturnine and silent. He liked to give the impression that he knew things that others didn’t.

‘Grub’s up.’ Awkwardly, Gav carried in two big bowls. The spaghetti was watery and overcooked but nobody complained as they splashed the bolognese sauce over it. Cleo tried not to look at the red freckles appearing on the tablecloth.

Once the garlic bread and parmesan had made the rounds, Gav turned to Rhianne. ‘Got any more tips on tantric sex?’

The corners of Rhianne’s lips quirked, her thick lipstick magically unsullied by the act of eating. ‘Think I’ve told you all I know. It’s all to do with intensity, quality rather than quantity. Building up slowly, taking time to attune to each other’s bodies.’

Gav smiled down the table at Cleo. ‘Maybe we ought to try it?’ His hair looked amber in the candlelight and a little quiff curled up over his forehead.

Cleo felt her eyebrows lift. Since the make-up sex when she came home fresh from the time with Justin, she and Gav hadn’t made love. She hadn’t wanted to. Guilt must be interfering with her libido. Or maybe it was that, until the memory of Justin’s hands and lips had faded, she didn’t trust herself.

Not that Gav seemed to notice. George’s illness had upset normality, of course, with its rush, panic and fear. She rubbed her head above her ear where there was a small pain and wished her period would arrive to drain her tension headaches away. Maybe she’d stop feeling so perverse and in a constant state of mild aggravation, too.

Gav was still smiling at her through the yellow candlelight. ‘How about coffee, now?’

She stretched and yawned. ‘Lovely, bring lots or I’ll fall asleep.’

A hesitation, then he climbed to his feet. ‘How much do I put in the machine?’

‘It’s on the
packet
.’

‘Let’s try it.’

Cleo collapsed slowly into the welcoming bedclothes like a deflating balloon; avoiding all the chores that evening had been almost as wearing as doing them and she was exhausted. She’d had to field a whole list of peevish questions: ‘Can this go in the dishwasher? God, look at the state of the tablecloth, will that wash out? This dish won’t come clean. Well, I didn’t know it ought to have been soaking all evening!’

Cleo had let him do the lot. After all, he’d issued the invitations. She’d flopped down on the sofa and offered advice until the jobs were done and they could come to bed.

Bed. Bliss. She closed her eyes, let her lungs gently empty, then took a deep, calming breath. ‘Try what?’

‘Tantric sex. Or something like it.’ He landed heavily on his side of the bed and her eyes reopened.

Gav was wearing summer pyjamas, matching shorts and T-shirt. New. Unaccountably, he held a pair of her pyjamas, shell pink and shiny. His eyes were bright. He let the pyjamas unfold and ran them up Cleo’s arm. ‘But I have my own interpretation. How about covering up for a while to whet our appetites? Then, after a week or two, sex will be really intense.’

Since when had Gav needed his appetite whetting? Cleo groaned and shut her eyes again. ‘I can’t be bothered with pyjamas. I’m
tired
.’