Be Careful What You Wish For (20 page)

‘. . . Roxy Music,
The Best of Spandau Ballet
 . . .’ James glances sideways at me, and I quickly fight down the lump in my throat. ‘OK, I’d better confess my guilty secret.’

James has a guilty secret?

‘I used to be a New Romantic. If you want to leave now and never see me again I’ll understand.’

‘What a coincidence. I was Duran Duran’s biggest fan.’ I grin.

He laughs and I feel a buzz of happiness. I’ve always wished I could meet a man who shared my taste in music but most of my old boyfriends liked completely different bands from me. There was John who loved punk, Marcus who was into jazz, and then there was Daniel. I have a flashback of us driving to Cornwall, arguing over whether we’d listen to his Snoop Dogg CD, or my Norah Jones.

‘What about Dido?’

‘Perfect.’ I beam.

James looks relieved.

He’s adorable when his face is all scrunched up with worry, and I resist the urge to go over and kiss him. It’s not easy.

He slides open the CD drive, opens the case and frowns. ‘Damn. After all that there’s a different CD in here.’

His expression is so hangdog I start to laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry, that happens to me all the time.’

‘Well, it doesn’t happen to me,’ he grumbles, staring at the disk in confusion.

‘Perhaps you put it back in the wrong case by accident,’ I suggest.

‘But that’s impossible,’ he protests. ‘I’d never do that.’

My smile fades. Surely one CD in the wrong case isn’t going to throw him into a bad mood? ‘Why don’t we listen to that CD anyway?’ I say. I’m fast regretting wishing he could be neat and tidy.

He glares accusingly at the silver disk in his hand as he puts it into the player. ‘This should be interesting . . .’

From concealed speakers swell the opening chords of a guitar, and a woman’s voice, soft and sexy. She’s singing in French. ‘Who’s this?’

James’s face is flooded with recognition. ‘Emmanuelle. She’s an old friend of mine – she used to play in clubs in Paris. Crikey, I’d forgotten I had this.’

‘You lived in Paris?’

‘For a couple of years after university.’ The memory seems to make him forget his annoyance and re-embrace our earlier flirtation. ‘A long time ago.’ Slipping his fingers through mine, he leads me over to the large suede sofa.

‘Wow, how exciting,’ I blurt, more out of nerves than anything else as now we’re sitting on the sofa and he’s slipping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me towards him. I inhale the scent of his faded aftershave, butter popcorn and underarm deodorant. It’s unbelievably erotic.

‘So do you speak French?’ I ask, trying to steer my thoughts away from X-rated ones.

James lifts my chin with a finger and gabbles something that I, at rusty O-level standard, can make no sense of whatsoever. ‘Do you want me to translate?’ he murmurs softly.

No, not really. I’m content to listen to his sexy French accent and not understand what he’s saying. I open my mouth to reply. But then, when I’m least expecting it, he kisses me full on the lips.

Wow.
Me likee this translation. Me want you to translate a bit more, I muse, kissing him back. It’s been so long since I’ve been kissed by someone I’ve forgotten how thrilling it is, and for the next few moments I don’t ever want this to stop.

Only my bladder’s got other ideas.

It twinges. I try to ignore it and not to think about the litre of Diet Pepsi I drank in the cinema. Instead I cross my legs and concentrate on James’s tongue, his hands, which are wandering round my ribcage and, hopefully, any time soon, up my T-shirt . . .

But it’s no good. My bladder feels as if it’s about to burst. ‘Where’s your bathroom?’ I ask, pulling away reluctantly.

‘On the right, through the bedroom – it’s
en suite
.’ He smiles up at me, untangling his hand from behind my neck as I stand up.

‘Won’t be a minute,’ I whisper, and attempt a flirtatious smile as I sashay across the living room.

Once out of sight in the hallway I make a mad dash for the bedroom. Like the rest of his flat, it’s immaculate. No overflowing drawers, no clothes or shoes strewn on the floor, which is sort of how I left my own. And then I notice the bed: with crisp cotton bed linen that looks suspiciously as if it might have been ironed, and pillows that have been plumped to an inch of their lives, it stares up at me from the middle of the room.

Despite my bladder, I stare back approvingly. In my limited experience single men and beds do not go together. More often than not it’s just a mattress on the floor, and as for the bed linen . . . it’s either something horribly frilly their mother bought for them or some tattered remnants from their student days. And they never change it. In fact, most single men have no idea that a bad bed can make or break a budding relationship. But then, James isn’t most men.

Feeling a tingle of excitement as I imagine us in his bed later, I hurry through to the bathroom and flick on the light. Aaaah, the relief. With my jeans round my ankles, I glance idly at the clawfoot bath, shiny round silver wash-basin, magazines stacked neatly in the rack next to me. I have a quick rifle through –
Investment Today,
a
Relais Châteaux
brochure,
Toilet Humour,
which is one of those cartoon books you always find in bathrooms – and then, satisfied that I haven’t found anything dodgy, like a dog-eared porno mag, I flush the loo and go to wash my hands.

As I turn on the taps, I check my reflection in the mirror of the bathroom cabinet.

Curiosity prickles. But I resist. I can’t possibly look inside his bathroom cabinet. That’s snooping. Who knows what I’ll find?

No sooner has that thought popped into my head than I remember Jess telling me about the time she ‘just-so-happened’ to look under the basin of a man she was dating and found a violet lace bra stuffed next to the spare bog rolls. She was devastated. Not because he was cheating on her with a pretentious wannabe novelist called Sabrina but because Sabrina was a pert little B cup.

And then I have another thought; only this time it’s me and I’m rummaging through Daniel’s glove compartment and finding the packet of condoms . . .

Actually, on second thoughts, maybe I should take a quick look – just as a safeguard.

Opening the door I glance inside. I’m relieved to see it’s all perfectly normal and innocent. Toothpaste, dental floss, Band-aids . . . Oh, hang on, what’s that? Spying a tube at the back I reach for it, and knock over a bottle of aspirin. It crashes into the basin. Oh, shit! I stuff it back on the shelf and glance at the tube in my hand – vitamin E cream.

Which is when I feel guilty. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be rifling through James’s toiletries. I wouldn’t want him looking through my bathroom cabinet, discovering my secret box of Jolen bleach, the emergency tube of Canesten, or the big, unsexy sanitary towels I wear to bed during my period. Shuddering, I shut the door and busily apply a fresh coat of lipgloss. Anyway, why am I bothering about what’s in his bathroom cabinet when he’s out there waiting for me? And blotting my lips with a tissue I hurriedly turn off the light.

I walk back into the living room with an empty bladder and a pair of lips all pink and glossy and ready to be kissed. The sofa is empty.

Oh.

Standing alone in the living room I feel a twang of disappointment, then notice a light in the small office at the end of the hallway. I wander in and find James bent over his laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard. He looks up. ‘Just dealing with a few emails.’ He extends a hand towards me. ‘I’ve got a client in Sydney, a very impatient client,’ he adds, interlacing his fingers with mine and pulling me towards him.

I plop on to his lap and curl an arm round his shoulders in no doubt that this impatient client is going to have to wait. In fact, my mind is already fast-forwarding and I’m debating whether or not I should stay with him tonight or if he’ll respect me more if I go home, when he says, ‘Darling, would you mind if we leave tonight to be continued?’ I’m obviously looking as confused as I feel because he adds, ‘Australia’s nine hours ahead. If I wait until tomorrow morning it will be too late – I’m afraid I really need to work on this tonight.’

Ha, ha, very funny. I search his eyes for a dart of humour, but all I see is his laptop screen reflected back at me. Which is when I know he’s not joking. I’m disappointed and frustrated all at once. ‘Yeah . . . of course,’ I say. ‘That’s fine.’ I force a smile and try not to think of how excited I was about tonight, about all the effort I’ve gone to: shaving my legs, waxing my bikini line, putting on my sexiest underwear
just in case.
But I can’t help it. I’m miffed. And bloody uncomfortable. Wriggling on James’s knee I try to free my lacy G-string, which has trapped itself up my bottom, but it remains wedged. ‘Actually, I could do with an early night anyway,’ I lie, pretending to yawn.

Brushing my hair out of my eyes, he smiles. ‘So, are you free tomorrow night?’

‘Sorry, I’m busy.’ I’m about to explain that Lionel and I are going to see a new art exhibition in Kensington then decide not to. Childish, I know, but I can’t help feeling a little indignant that James is sending me home and not even
trying
to persuade me to stay. Honestly, sometimes you can be too much of a perfect gentleman.

‘What about the night after?’

‘I have to work.’

He raises his eyebrows with interest.

‘A mock-Tudor wedding at Hampton Court,’ I elaborate, stiffly.

‘Oh, right,’ he nods seriously, his mouth twitching with amusement. ‘Well, unfortunately I have to go to Zürich on Wednesday for a couple of days.’ He’s looking at me as if he’s weighing up what my reaction will be when he says, ‘What about Friday?’

‘Maybe.’ I attempt to appear elusive.

‘In that case,
maybe
I’d like to cook you dinner.’

I look up at him. Into his dark irises with the tiny flecks of grey. And remember the months I’ve spent wishing he would notice me. Now here
I
am sitting on his knee, and here
he
is wanting to cook me a romantic candlelit dinner.

I grab hold of myself. Honestly, Heather, you really are an ungrateful old cow. ‘That would be lovely,’ I murmur, tilting my face to kiss him.

I mean, for goodness’ sake, what more could I possibly wish for?

 

A
rriving at the Serpentine Gallery in Hyde Park the following evening, I discover a hive of activity. Strobe lights illuminate the dusky sky overhead, a string quartet is playing a funky classical mix, and a large crowd has spilled outside on to the grass, filling the balmy evening air with a cacophony of chatter, laughter and air-kissing.

I’m early, thanks to the lucky heather, which I tucked into my new purse before I left the house (just as I thought, it’s cost me a small fortune to replace everything that was stolen). Usually I have to wait at the bus stop for ages, wishing for a bus to turn up, but tonight a number twenty-eight appeared immediately. Then, instead of sitting in traffic wishing the bus would hurry up, all the lights were green and I was whisked here in no time. It was amazing. Even Lionel hasn’t arrived yet, I muse happily, enjoying the novelty of being early by diving straight for the complimentary apple martinis and killing time by observing the crowd.

It’s an eclectic mix – tall, skinny model types wearing those shapeless vintage dresses that wouldn’t flatter anyone, distinguished grey-haired men smelling of aftershave and lots of older women in sequins. Nibbling on canapés and drinking cocktails they’re mingling around the artwork. Although from where I’m standing most people seem more interested in the free booze and spotting celebrities than they do in ‘Installation: Global Urbanisation and the Search for the Self’.

‘Good Lord, I never thought I’d see the day.’

Lionel is bearing down on me, a smile plastered across his bearded face. He’s wearing his favourite suit, which he had made for him in Morocco back in the early seventies. Aubergine velvet with brown leather elbow patches, that I remember mum sewing on for him, he refuses to throw it away although it is far too tight. As it strains across his belly, I swear I can almost hear the cotton on the seams creaking.

Heads turn at the sound of his thunderous baritone and I brace myself. ‘Hi, Lionel.’

‘My daughter?
On time?
’ He throws his arms round me in the customary bear hug and succeeds in spilling my drink all over my pink satin shoes.

‘When have I ever kept you waiting?’ I protest, lifting each foot and shaking it hastily.

‘When haven’t you?’ he roars good-naturedly. ‘You were over two weeks late when you were born.’ He releases me from his embrace and steps back to admire me as if I was one of his paintings. ‘My, my, don’t you look grand!’ he declares, somewhat loudly. Honestly, he can be so embarrassing.

I link my arm through his and steer him to the drinks. ‘Have a martini, they’re delicious,’ I coo, pointing at the waitress with her tray.

‘Haven’t they got any wine?’ He frowns as he’s handed a green cocktail. ‘A nice merlot or a pinot noir?’

‘And these smoked salmon thingies are yummy.’ I try to distract him with his other passion in life apart from art: food.

‘Mmm, yes, I see what you mean, darling,’ he says, through a mouthful of crumbs. ‘Rather smashing. I think I’ll have a couple more.’ He beams appreciatively at the waitress as he piles a few into a napkin. She giggles and a mild flirtation ensues, even though she’s only in her early twenties.

I watch with amused affection. It never ceases to amaze me how people love Lionel. For me it’s understandable – he’s my father – but he has this magical effect on everyone he meets. Over the years I’ve lost count of the number of my girlfriends who’ve had crushes on him, boyfriends who’ve wanted to be him, students who’ve idolised him. And I’m not just talking about those who know him but about shop assistants, traffic wardens and this waitress who’s now blushing and gazing at him adoringly.