Barefoot in the Dark (7 page)

Chapter 8

‘Well, well!’ Madeleine’s chuckle rang loudly down the phone line. ‘So you and Prince Charming have struck up a bit of a rapport, then?’

Oh God. She should have stopped and thought before yammering on so much. Madeleine was on the case, big time. Hope’s lack of a love-life was Maddie’s favourite project. Had been since the day Iain had left. Why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? More to the point, if the prospect of a love-life filled her with such a palpable fear, which it manifestly did, why was she letting it dominate her thoughts? Why not call a moratorium on love and be done with it? She really didn’t need all this angst.

‘He’s very nice,’ she said carefully.

‘You told me that already. We still on
nice
nice?’

‘Just nice, Maddie. Stop it.’

‘Babe, I haven’t even started. Besides, what’s the big deal?’

‘It isn’t a big deal.’

‘Yeah, and I’m a kipper.’

‘It isn’t. He’s just nice, OK? No more than that.’

‘Come on. Own up. You fancy him rotten.’

‘OK, then. I fancy him. Satisfied now?’

Saying it felt strange and unreal on her tongue. And filled her with trepidation. Maddie was right. There was a whole world of difference between a little light rapport and the something that was happening to her now. She had, she realised, been snatching up the phone every time it rang since she’d arrived at the office. ‘Anyway,’ said Maddie, ‘you can spill the beans later. I was really ringing to let you know I was going to be a little later than I’d planned. I’m at the chiropractors.’

‘Chiropractors?’ asked Hope, pleased to change the subject. ‘I didn’t know you had problems with your back.’

‘I don’t, stoo-pid. But, hey, I’m wearing my lucky thong, so perhaps I’ll get lucky today.’

‘What, get back ache?’

Madeleine guffawed.

‘Darling, get real!’ Her voice grew a little quieter. ‘A recommendation. A friend of mine said I really should go see him. He’s a bit of a sweetie, apparently. So I thought I’d come and check him out. Prophylactically, so to speak. Anyway, you can cope OK, can’t you? Just be sure to remind Kayleigh about the mailshot. I left it on her desk.’

‘No problem.’

‘Right. I’ll see you about twelve. You can fill me in then.’

‘On what?’

‘D’oh! Prince Charming, of course!’

Hope had been addressing the envelope when Madeleine called. The envelope for the card she’d sent Jack, to thank him for the dinner. And to reiterate, again, how thrilled they all were that he’d so kindly agreed to lend his support to the fun run. She’d signed the card Hope, with an X underneath it. Which she wasn’t sure she wasn’t now regretting. It felt so adolescent. And it wasn’t very businesslike. But it was already done. The kiss would have to stay.

As had the memory of his. Something big and important had happened to Hope, and she wasn’t sure quite what to do about it. She had, she realised, become possessed by a feeling she could not remember having felt for the last twenty years. It wasn’t quite lust and it wasn’t quite love; it wasn’t quite anything she could readily pin down, just a preoccupation and a chemical reaction every time she brought Jack to mind. It was, she decided, the single most distracting and disabling feeling she’d experienced in the whole of her life.

She had been floating when he’d left her. She’d floated across the pavement, up the path, through the door, and into the hall. Once inside (and while floating across the carpet) she’d become conscious of both a faint tang of popcorn and a sensation of ringing in her ears. Her mother had been dozing on the sofa in the living room, the television transmitting pictures but no sound. She’d glanced at herself then, in the hall mirror, on her way into the kitchen. Her face –
a
woman’s face, at any rate; it felt strangely unfamiliar – had a patina of sparkle. An end-of-evening glow, a not unattractive slight dishevelment. She’d run her tongue across her lips, then, to recapture the taste of him. God, that’s what it was, she’d thought. The ringing was the sound of her heart beating faster. Not a lot. Just a little.

She’d smiled as she’d passed by, rather charmed at the thought. And having woken her mother and fielded all her questions, she’d waved her off hurriedly and floated on up to bed.

She was glad that her mother had been there. Had she not been, and Hope’s feelings were somewhat mixed on this point, there was little doubt (there was the wine to consider, after all) that she would have invited him in. Little doubt she’d have encouraged him to kiss her some more. And then?

A wholly novel state of affairs. It was interesting, and not a little disquieting, to find that a pulse of sexual desire still actually beat in her. That it was possible that, buried beneath the layers of mistrust and denial, she wanted to be made love to again. That the sensation of arousal could be so profoundly physical. That this thing, this phenomenon, was actually happening to
her
. He liked her too. That much was evident. She closed the card and slipped it back into the envelope. He liked her. And as Madeleine was ever fond of commenting, a little light frisson never failed to help the cause.

She ran her tongue along the paper edge. But that was last night. However good it felt to have been courted by him, however delicious it was to feel sexy again, with morning had come the return of common sense. And with that, a reminder, as evidenced by her telephone frenzy, of the terrible nature of infatuations. He was dangerous territory. Not as cheesy, perhaps, as she’d originally decided. No. Not cheesy at all, in fact. Charming, just like Maddie had said. Too charming? Probably. Certainly a man used to female attention, and, no doubt, given his ex-marital status, used to capitalising on it without a second thought. Someone, as he’d been at pains to point out, who had a lot of lost time to make up.

‘Someone’s birthday?’ asked Simon, who had appeared at her desk, in the stealthy way he had that always made her feel slightly fretful. He was pointing at the lilac envelope. He was unsettlingly observant.

She sealed it, feeling scrutinised. ‘What? Oh… no, no. Just a card for the DJ man.’

‘Ah, the fun run.’

‘The fun run.’

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. ‘We really ought to get in training.’

‘Hmm?’

‘Training. You know. For the race. I mean we’ll want to run ourselves, won’t we? I was thinking, actually. We ought to form a little running group. You know. Get some sort of regimen organised. It’s only a few months off.’

‘It’s only five K.’

He nodded violently at her. ‘Absolutely. Chicken feed.’ He opened his mouth and emitted a sound that might well have been an attempt at a cluck. ‘But, you know. I was just thinking about working on our times and all that. Might be fun. Tell you what. How about I send a memo round? See if we can get a gang of us together. Be quite apposite to lead the pack, so to speak.’

Apposite (if he must) but unlikely. Hope had only that morning received confirmation from the North East Cardiff Harriers that yes, they’d love to be part of the publicity, and yes, they’d be there for the run. She was about to remind Simon that they had at least three county champions among their number, when he shifted his sheaf of papers from one arm to the other and said, ‘How about later this week? Are you free Thursday evening, say? Weather permitting, of course.’

Hope considered. He seemed awfully keen. ‘Um… yes, maybe. I normally don’t run on Thursdays. But the children will be at their dad’s, so I suppose I could.’

There would be no harm in running with Simon. It would be company. As long as she kept him at arm’s length.

‘That would be brilliant,’ he said, with worrisome sincerity. ‘Brilliant. I’ll get on to it now. Oh, by the way –’

‘What?’

‘Did Kayleigh give you the message about the press release?’

Hope scanned her desk. ‘What press release?’

‘They need a press release so they can write something to go with the photo. They called back half an hour ago. Kayleigh told them you’d do one for them.’

‘What photo?’

‘The photo for the paper.’

‘You’ve lost me, Simon.’

‘Oh, of course. You wouldn’t know. They’re all coming at three.’

‘Who are coming at three?’

‘The people from the
Echo
. To do a piece on the fun run. And take a photo.’

‘Of who?’

‘Of all of us. With Jack Valentine.’

The sensation was electric. ‘Jack’s coming
here
?’

Simon nodded.

‘What,
today
?’

‘Apparently so.’ He was, she noticed, looking rather irritated by this. ‘He said he’s going to pop along after his show.’

‘He is?’ She tried hard not to appear too excited. But Simon’s expression made her realise she’d failed.

It changed. Now he was smiling at her sweetly. ‘Yes, he is. Apparently. Only I just remembered. You’re not going to be in then, of course.’

Damn, damn,
damn
. She wasn’t. And there was no earthly way she could get out of her engagementt. Mr Babbage was expecting her at half past two and fulfilling Mr Babbage’s expectations was a non-negotiable commitment. Not only was he one of their most enduring patrons, he was also principal sponsor of the fun run. Damn.

She returned to the office having missed Jack Valentine by a scant ten minutes. She might have passed him on the road. She could have passed him on the pavement. She could, she was sure, still smell his aftershave in the air. Surely not. Now, that was just mad.

‘I’m impressed,’ said Madeleine. She was clearly energised by her brush with back manipulation because she was sitting cross-legged in the middle of her office floor, eating from a bowl of grapes, a beatific – or satisfied? – smile on her face. ‘That’s the wonderful thing about life. Doors open more doors. At this rate we’ll fetch up on the six o’clock news. How was Mr Babbage?’

Short, fat and balding. As opposed to tall, slim and gorgeous. Hope shrugged. ‘Oh, much the same as ever,’ she said. ‘He’s already sent a mailshot to all his clients to sponsor him to run it himself.’

Maddie paused, grape in hand. ‘Run it? Mr Babbage? You must dissuade him at all costs, Hope. It’ll kill him, for sure. And that’s just the sort of publicity we need right now, I don’t think.’

Hope nodded. Maddie knew all about exercise-induced cardiac problems. ‘I will. Er… it went well, then, did it? The thing with the
Echo
?’

‘Excellent. It’s a shame you weren’t here, though,’ mused Madeleine. ‘You would have lent a little class to the photo.’ She looked gleeful suddenly. ‘And your absence was noted. You were
missed
.’

Hope didn’t care if she was in the photo or not. Just that she’d missed him. But she didn’t dare probe. Maddie had the antennae of an Elephant Hawk Moth. And the nose of a tapir.

And a lucky thong. Perhaps Hope should go out and get one. ‘I’m in the photo,’ said Kayleigh, who had come in with a tray of tea and Garibaldis. She side-stepped Madeleine and put the tray on the desk. ‘Mum’ll be well made up.’

Hope took her tea and a compensatory three biscuits.

‘He’s ever so nice, isn’t he? I’ve never met a famous person before. Do you know, he’s actually met Tom Jones? I mean, how cool is that?’

Kayleigh reclaimed the biscuit packet and ambled out with the tray.

‘Oh, yeah, Hope,’ she said, as she negotiated the doorway. ‘I nearly forgot. He really liked your cushions, by the way. He told me to make sure I told you.’

‘A thank you card? Hmm. She’s keen, then.’ Danny peeled off his vest and stooped to disentangle his football shorts from his feet. ‘God, what a bastard of a fall. Look at that!’ He lifted his knee, the better to show Jack the oozing burgundy smear that was crusting on top of it. ‘Anyway, what’s she like?’

Jack threw his towel over his shoulder and headed off towards the showers.

‘Nice,’ he called back. ‘She’s, you know, well, nice.’ He knew that “nice” wasn’t the right word, but that was the word that, rather frustratingly, kept coming, unbidden, to mind. He wished it didn’t. It really bugged him that it did. He so wanted to stick with the fur.

Danny was padding along behind him.

‘Bit of a babe, then?’

‘Well, I doubt you’d think so. But, yes.
I
think so. Very attractive. But, oh, I don’t know –’

He stopped, and Danny caught him up. ‘But what? Go shag her, mate.’

Jack turned around. ‘I don’t know. I mean, yes, she’s certainly shaggable, but, I don’t know… ’

‘Don’t know what?’

‘You know. Whether I want to get involved with someone like her right now. I mean she’s thirty-nine, she’s divorced, she’s got kids, she’s got –’ He shrugged. ‘Look, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’m only in the market for vestal virgins.’

‘Just as well, mate. You’d have no chance.’

‘ – or girls who only want a good time.’

‘You sad man, you. But that still leaves pretty much everything else in between. So what’s the problem?’

‘Well, it’s just that, well… she’s got – well, she’s got –’

Danny rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tell me, mate. Baggage.’

‘Whatever you want to call it. Yes, I suppose. Yes. At any rate, all the kind of stuff you’d expect her to have. Like an ex-husband who’s been a bastard to her. And a big downer on men.’

‘Hmm. See your point. But not all men. Not you.’

Jack shook his head. No, he had already decided. Not from the way she’d reacted when he’d kissed her. She’d certainly been startled, but she hadn’t seemed to mind. He thought again what a fool he’d been not taking his car that night. If he had, the question might have been academic by now. There wouldn’t have been time to start pondering how nice she was. He’d have been too busy finding out how hot she was instead. He’d missed the moment and now he’d started thinking. Never a good thing to be doing.

‘No. Not me, I don’t think,’ he agreed, with some regret.

Danny spread his hands. ‘So. What’s the problem?’

‘She’s too nice.’

‘You what? How can she be too nice?’

Jack pulled his towel from his shoulder and hung it on a hook. ‘Because I don’t mean “nice”, Dan, I mean “
nice
”. A nice person. A caring, intelligent, principled person. Someone with whom you wouldn’t generally associate the word “shag”.’