Never Too Late (19 page)

footage of speeding Corvettes to last her a lifetime. She

shifted in her seat, moving closer to Simon. Her fingers

curled under the edges of his shirt, gently stroking the bare

skin.

Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt and her fingers slid

further up his chest to stroke him tenderly. Then she

gently moved her hands down over his torso, lingering

tantalisingly close to his nipples. Still Simon said nothing.

When she moved her face towards him to nuzzle his neck

and he didn’t make a single noise of appreciation, Evie

gave up. Pulling away, she looked up at his face with

vexation. He was gazing at the television raptly and

seemed unaware she was even there.

Evie dragged herself upright, snatched a newspaper from

the coffee table and sat away from him. Honestly, she

didn’t know why she bothered. They sat there without

talking for another half an hour when Simon decided he

wanted another cup of tea.

‘Do you want some, darling?’ he asked solicitously,

seemingly unaware of Evie’s temper, despite the glacial

expression on her face.

‘No,’ she said sulkily.

‘Yell if you change your mind,’ he said, heading for the

kitchen, blithely unaware of her mood. ‘I’m making a

quick cup before that new programme about killers on

death row starts. The trailers have been fascinating. There’s

this guy who’s been given a reprieve three times in the

past ten years and he’s still appealing …’

Evie would have choked on her tea if she’d been

drinking any. Killers on death row? Wonderful. Simon was

obsessed with American television. He had all the satellite

channels and was glued to any programme about true

crime. He’d never bothered with the movie channels or

the Gold TV station - which Evie would have adored

because of all the re-runs of romantic mini-series. She’d

never been able to afford them herself, even though Rosie

had begged long enough.

‘Everyone’s got the movie channels,’ her daughter had

moaned practically every day for a year.

In the end, Evie had nearly given in, because she didn’t

want her beloved daughter to miss out on anything her

friends had, even if it meant she wouldn’t be able to afford

to buy the new winter coat she needed. And then Rosie

had stopped asking for the movie channel.

‘We could get it,’ Evie had offered. ‘I can afford to now.’

Rosie shrugged. ‘There’s no need, Mum. It’s great for

kids, you know, but I’ll be going out in the evenings more

now.’

The ad break was over and Simon’s programme was

starting.

‘Hurry up,’ she roared in the direction of the kitchen, ‘or

you’ll miss it.’

It was nine o’clock. She might as well go home. She’d

planned to stay until ten but what was the point if he was going to be glued to death row? At least at home she could tidy up and get organised for the next day.

Simon placed a tray with two cups of tea and a packet of

her favourite biscuits on the coffee table in front of her.

Then he leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead.

‘I know you said you didn’t want any, but in case you’d

changed your mind, I made you a cup.’ He kissed her

again. ‘You need pampering and I like doing it.’

Speechless, Evie smiled up at him happily, plans to go

home immediately forgotten. He was so good to her.

They sat snuggled up on the couch, nibbling biscuits and

watching the grim stories of American criminals. When

Simon took off her shoes and made Evie put her feet up

on the couch, she leaned against him contentedly.

Ten minutes of careful rubbing with leather cleaner hadn’t

worked: neither had fifteen minutes’ scrubbing with cream

cleanser. Olivia was pretty sure that cream cleanser wasn’t

good for leather couches but at this point, she didn’t care.

She’d have put bleach on the couch if she thought it

would remove the bright pink squiggle, anything to avoid

the inevitable explosion that would occur when Stephen

saw it.

If only four-year-old Emily had managed to leave her

mark anywhere other than on the arm of the couch

Stephen liked to lounge on when he watched television. As

it was, the mark was quite noticeable and unless Olivia

draped herself over the arm of the couch all evening, not

getting up for anything, he was going to notice it. And then

all hell would break loose.

There was bound to be something especially for leather

furniture, some proprietary cleaner that would wipe off

bright pink marker in a flash. But there was no way Olivia

would be able to buy it this evening, which meant she had

to hide the offending pink bit until she had a chance to go

shopping the next day.

Emily’s mother, Carol, arrived mid-scrub, a fresh-faced

woman of forty. Her dark hair was in a ponytail and she

wore her usual outfit of jeans and a sweatshirt.

Finding Olivia’s cleaning equipment spread all over the

sitting-room floor, she immediately realised what had

happened and was contrite when she realised Emily’s

penmanship was responsible for desecrating several thousand

pounds’ worth of Scandinavian leather.

‘Olivia, I do apologise,’ she said, hands flying to her

mouth. “I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t worry, Carol,’ Olivia replied, as if she wasn’t in

the slightest bit concerned.

‘But your beautiful couch …’

‘Sasha’s daddy will be very cross,’ interrupted Emily,

beginning to cry noisily with the drama of the whole affair.

Snuffling precariously, Sasha nodded her head. ‘He will,’

she said, before she too started to cry. ‘He’ll be very cross

with Mummy and me.’

‘Don’t be silly, girls,’ Olivia said gaily, bending down and

hugging both children to her.

Carol looked curious. ‘Will he?’ she asked.

‘Gosh, no,’ Olivia said, hoping she wasn’t going to flush

puce with embarrassment. She couldn’t bear Carol to

think that Stephen was some sort of tyrant. ‘He’s totally

easygoing. I’m the one who goes mad about marks on

things,’ she lied blithely. ‘Stephen’s such a pussycat he

can’t get angry with Sasha about anything.’

‘Sounds just like my George,’ the other woman said. ‘I

was always trying that “wait until your father gets home”

trick until my lot realised it was complete rubbish. He

doesn’t really care if they ruin the place. Men, huh?’

‘Yes, George must be just like Stephen,’ Olivia said

faintly. Then don’t care too much about furniture, do they?’

‘You’d probably be as well off to leave that stain and get

a professional in to clean it,’ Carol advised. ‘I’ll pay

whatever it costs as it’s Emily’s handiwork.’ She ruffled her

daughter’s hair and Emily bawled louder.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Olivia said. “I shouldn’t have let

them out of the kitchen with those markers, it’s my fault.

Don’t worry about it.’

When Carol had gone, Olivia hunkered down beside

Sasha. ‘Daddy won’t be cross,’ she said gently. ‘I promise.’

Her daughter didn’t look too convinced.

‘Come on, let’s put on a video. How about The Little Mermaid?’

Cheering up, Sasha plonked herself down in front of the

TV with her favourite soft toy, a much-loved grey rabbit

called Muffy. As Sasha became engrossed in Ariel’s adventures,

Olivia tidied away her cleaning products with a

heavy heart. Nothing she had was going to remove the

stain, she might as well face facts.

Desperate for a solution, she hit upon the idea of

swopping the two couches around so that Stephen would

be sitting on the undamaged one and she could leave

something, her cardigan perhaps, on the marked one. That

was it.

Three hours later, he arrived home, tired and hungry.

He wasn’t in the mood for conversation and read the

paper throughout dinner.

‘Is it all right?’ Olivia asked, hovering around with the

saucepan containing mashed potato in case he wanted

more.

‘Fine,’ he said, tightlipped, and went back to the paper

Olivia, who’d given herself a tiny portion of dinner,

pushed her food around the plate. She didn’t want

Stephen to see her eating nothing because he’d be bound

to ask what was wrong.

Yet he appeared too engrossed in the paper to notice

anything. After ten more silent minutes, she quietly

dumped her untouched dinner in the bin. It was a pity

Stephen wouldn’t even consider getting the puppy Sasha

longed for: no animal would ever go hungry with all the

food she threw out.

She cleared Stephen’s plate and placed a bowl of his

favourite Apple Charlotte in front of him. It disappeared

behind the paper and reappeared five minutes later,

empty.

Olivia stacked the dishwasher and was about to ask

Stephen if he wanted coffee when she realised he’d left the

kitchen. She slammed the dishwasher shut and hurried

after him.

The cardigan she’d draped artfully across the marked

couch arm was still there. Stephen was draped less artfully

across the couch he favoured, the paper in a crumpled

heap on the floor, sports on the television.

‘Did you want coffee?’ Olivia asked.

‘No,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’ve drunk about ten cups

already today. I’m rattling with caffeine. Some bloody fool

in the office screwed up the Hong Kong deal and we spent

the whole day sorting it out. Not that it’s sorted out yet,’

he snorted. ‘I’ll be working till all hours tomorrow.’

And that was it. That was the extent of their marital

discussion for the evening. Stephen went back to the

television, restlessly changing channels to see what was on

the other channels.

Olivia picked up the paper he had discarded and sat

down on the other couch, careful not to dislodge the

cardigan. He didn’t speak again for another half an hour

and then it was only to ask her to get a bottle of wine.

“I need it,’ he said.

After two glasses, he switched the TV off.

‘Bed?’ he said.

Olivia checked on Sasha before switching on the bathroom

light and going into their bedroom. Stephen had

pulled the duvet back and had taken off his shirt. His bare

chest was muscular and covered with curling dark hairs

that matched the tight curls on his head. His soulful dark

eyes were black with desire.

He pulled her to him, kissing her deeply on the mouth

before moving down to her neck.

‘God, you’re so beautiful, Olivia,’ he murmured, hands

greedily sliding up her jumper to reveal small breasts

encased in the expensive cream silk lace bra he’d bought

her for Christmas. They sank to the bed. He caressed her

urgently, kissing and licking her through the lace before

eagerly unfastening the bra. He didn’t wait to take it or the

jumper off-he pushed them out of his way.

His mouth fastened on her nipple and he sucked hungrily.

Olivia always loved it when Stephen did that: she

adored the exquisite sensations it sent searing up and

down her body. Breasts were such erogenous zones, hers

anyhow.

But not tonight, not like this.

She lay on the bed like the doll she felt she resembled, a

lifeless marble creature to be displayed and played with.

Nothing more.

‘You’re so beautiful, I could look at you for hours,’ he

moaned, his voice thick with desire.

He rapidly took off the rest of his clothes and pulled off

Olivia’s jumper and bra.

She stood up to slide off her skirt and tights.

‘Stand there,’ he said, holding her waist as she stood,

semi-naked in front of him.

‘I could watch you all night,’ he said, eyes hungry for

her. Then he grinned and pulled her down on to the bed

under him. ‘But maybe not!’

He slept afterwards, worn out after his energetic

efforts. Olivia lay beside her sleeping husband in their

marital bed and gazed unseeing at the opposite wall.

When his breathing became heavy and deep, she slipped

out of the bed and peered into Sasha’s room. One fat

little thumb in her mouth, the child lay asleep, eyelids

flickering as she sailed through the world of dreams

where daddies never got cross and mummies never got

depressed. Olivia wished she could join her daughter in

dreamland.

CHAPTER SIX

The doorbell rang loudly. Cara, slumped in front of the

telly on the only armchair with springs worth talking

about, refused to move.

‘It’ll be for you, Phoebs.’ she roared in the direction of

the bathroom where her flatmate was frantically doing

things with body lotion and mascara in honour of the

gorgeous Bureau Dc Change man coming on his first visit

to Chateau Chaos.

‘Please answer the door, Cara,’ hissed Phoebe, opening

the door a fraction to let steamy, Eternity-scented air filter

out in an overpowering blast. ‘I’m still in my knickers.’

‘He’d love that,’ grumbled Cara, as she levered herself

out of the chair. She’d spent all of Eastenders adjusting