The Other Half (10 page)

“My pleasure. I look forward to working with you.” Then suddenly Vanessa smiled. “James was right. It’s a great idea, and your enthusiasm is infectious.”

“Thanks again,” said Chloë. Everything seemed to be going her way, and leaving the restaurant, bouncing on her lucky sandals, she felt as if she was walking on air.

*   *   *

Back at her desk, Chloë was checking a proof when the phone rang.

“Hello, Chloë?” It was Craig Spencer, one of her favorite freelance journalists. A warm, likeable man with a background in counseling, he wrote regular pieces for
Babe
and promised to be a pleasant antidote to the brittle Vanessa.

“I’ve got an idea for an article. Thought you might like it.”

“Hang on a tick.” Chloë folded the artwork and reached for a pen and notebook. “Right, go ahead.”

“Well, I’m a stepfather, if you weren’t aware, and for a long time I’ve been thinking about children after their parents’ divorce. Don’t get me wrong,” Craig must have detected Chloë’s scepticism down the line, “I’m not talking about focusing on young kids—I appreciate that’s been done before. I’m thinking of interviewing children who are now grown-up, asking them to consider in retrospect how the experience of their parents’ rows, affairs, separation, and so on has affected their adult relationships. I could talk to a range of people, maybe one who’s several times divorced, one who’s managed to maintain a happy marriage of their own despite a traumatic childhood, and one who’s perennially single, that kind of thing.”

“You could interview me, then,” said Chloë, not entirely joking.

Craig grabbed the opportunity to convey the pertinence of the idea. “Pity I can’t, but it shows it’s got universal relevance.”

“Hmm … It just doesn’t sound very
Babe
…”

“I’m convinced it could be, if we get the right sort of interviewees and tone.”

“That might be a shame. I’d hate to see you not do it justice because you were forced to make it too upbeat and simplistic.”

Craig obviously thought this was a polite way of giving him the brush-off. “If that’s how you feel.”

Just then Chloë had a brainstorm. She checked over her shoulder—Patsy was away from her desk. “Actually, I’m working on another project at the moment, but I’m afraid I’m not in a position to give you any details quite yet. This article could be suitable for that. Yes.” She grew more certain. “I think it’s the kind of subject we could put a spin on and make work.”

“Oh?”

“Do me a favor, Craig. Don’t tell anyone else about this idea. Don’t offer it to any other editors. Give me a week, and I’ll get back to you.”

“I’m on tenterhooks. So I’ll wait to hear from you?”

“Yes, do. And thanks for calling.” Chloë put the phone down. She could see it now. Engaging and emotionally provocative, touching rather than titillating, and written by a psychiatric professional with personal insight. It was exactly what she wanted for her new magazine.

*   *   *

That night Chloë decided to catch up on a few ongoing features she was editing for
Babe
. When she finally left the office it was past eight o’clock, but at least that meant the number nineteen would be quicker getting home. Propped up against the bus stop on Charing Cross Road, Chloë felt the high that had buoyed her all day ebb away, leaving her strangely deflated.

Shortly her bus arrived. Chloë mounted the steep spiral stairs to the upper deck, where she was pleased to find that the seat with a prime view at the front was free. It was muggy, so as the double-decker lurched around Trafalgar Square, she wound down the window, hoping the air might help clear her thoughts.

She flashed back to her conversation with Craig—momentarily this had brought up uncomfortable memories. Yet paradoxically this was what attracted her to the article—she knew it could push other people’s buttons, if it did hers.

Chloë had been an adolescent when her parents began not to get on, and as the eldest she’d taken it hard. Again she could hear Rob’s voice appraising:
“We’re two of a kind,”
he’d say, and it was true, they were both afraid of commitment—he thought it was because she’d spent years caught between an arguing couple.
“You’re always picking unsuitable partners,”
he’d observed only this last weekend.
“Your boyfriends are never good enough for you—either you go for men you can walk all over, or else you go for the challenge, hoping to win them over, and then you end up hurt. And I worry this James is another one. I know, I know”—
he’d held up his hand as she opened her mouth to protest
—“I’m a fine one to talk. Though I’m just saying to you what you’d say to me.”

It was true Chloë’s longest relationship had lasted only a year—and very off-and-on it had been too.

As the bus stop-started down Piccadilly, rounded Hyde Park Corner, and headed down Sloane Street, Chloë gnawed at her lip, thinking of her mum and dad. Before they’d retired, they’d both been actors and prone to bouts of melodrama; their relationship gave credence to the cliché: can’t live with each other; can’t live without each other.

God, I was relieved when Dad announced he was leaving mum for another woman, thought Chloë. It had been a mess for far too long.

Even now she didn’t feel warm toward the memory of her father’s girlfriend, Julia, a TV producer many years his junior. Still, Julia can’t be held responsible for the breakdown of their marriage, she thought. His meeting her merely precipitated some long-overdue decisions. Mum and Dad are so much happier these days, both settled with new partners—Julia probably did us all a favor.

She was forced to acknowledge, however, that Julia hadn’t come out of it well.
“Pah! I knew it was a transitional relationship. It was never going to last,”
Chloë’s mother had said after her father had dumped Julia because he needed time alone “to think.”

Chloë sighed. One never knows how things will turn out, she thought. Nevertheless, life seems to be going pretty well. Yes, she reminded herself as the bus picked up speed over Battersea Bridge and she rose to her feet ready for her stop, I’ve heaps to look forward to. Not least that on Thursday I’m seeing James again.

She recalled their intimate conversation, their steamy sex, his gentleness, the way he’d made her feel so wanted and wonderful.

I shall live for the moment, she vowed, and pushed her negative thoughts aside.

12

Chloë was filling the kettle when Rob staggered, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen.

“You’re up early,” she said.

“Tell me about it.” Rob scowled. “Seems the world and his wife are desperate to lose a few pounds before their bloody holidays so they’re all wanting extra personal training sessions. I’ve got the world’s longest day.”

“So, you’ll be out tonight?” Chloë acted disinterested as she reached for the coffee.

“Yes, blast it. It’s late opening at the gym—my last appointment’s not until nine.”

“You poor thing,” said Chloë, secretly thinking, Ooh goody! He won’t be back till after eleven.

“You look posh,” said Rob, his eyes now sufficiently open to take in her carefully assembled outfit—a flimsy skirt and a satin shirt she’d picked up on Portobello Road, both in shades of green, which she hoped offset her dark coloring rather well.

“Posh?” Chloë was disappointed. Ravishing was more what she’d had in mind.

“Yeah. But you look nice.”

“Good.” Chloë poured milk into her coffee. Rob was usually a fine judge.

He stood back for a full assessment. “Surprisingly sophisticated.”

“Not sexy?” asked Chloë hopefully.

He eyed her suspiciously. “Why is it so important to appear sexy on a Thursday?”

“Oh, no reason.” Chloë grabbed her mug and made a hasty exit.

“I hope you’re not seeing that man again today!” he called after her. “You know I think he’s bad news.”

*   *   *

When James phoned, Chloë suggested they meet for a drink in Clapham Junction.

“Good idea,” he said. “It’s easy for me to get the last train home from there.”

It sounds as if he’s planning on being out as late as possible, so maybe I can lure him back to mine, thought Chloë, living for the moment just as she’d vowed. It’s coming together nicely.

But when she arrived at the Slug and Lettuce, it was heaving. She bought herself a glass of red wine and tried to find a table. There wasn’t one. The music was blaring—they wouldn’t be able to hear themselves think. Perhaps it hadn’t been such a great choice of venue.

“Hi,” said James, coming up behind her and surprising her. He grabbed her around the waist and
smack!
gave her a firm kiss on the cheek. He was close enough for her to get a waft of his scent. That, and the sheer confidence of the gesture, brought heady recollections flooding back. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Chloë shook her head. “I’ve got one.”

She watched him make his way to the bar. He was undoubtedly a little older than most of the clientele, but had the kind of effortless ease that meant he seemed at home wherever he was. It’s odd, isn’t it, she contemplated, that some people get more attractive the better one knows them, while others become more ordinary? Mm, she concluded, in a well-fed-Heathcliff-meets-curvaceous-Cathy kind of way, perhaps we complement each other. I wonder if anyone else has noticed we make rather a good couple …

They soon agreed that it was too noisy and hot inside, so opted instead to join the crowd spilling onto the pavement, although the busy main road was far from the most romantic location.

“Did you get home all right last week?” asked Chloë, keen to avoid any pretense that nothing had happened.

“Yeah. A cab’s amazingly fast at five in the morning, and my wife and son were out for the night, so I was able to grab an hour’s nap before schlepping back into town.”

My wife
. Chloë flushed. She’d been avoiding contemplating the fact that he was married. Yet his choice of words also seemed a bit distant—made Chloë think of the kind of girl who referred to “my boyfriend” rather than calling him by his name, as if he was more important as an accessory than anything else. But she wasn’t in a position to comment, so she let it go.

That Chloë allowed more than a split second’s silence while she contemplated this was unusual, which obviously worried James.

“Chloë?” he said.

“Um?”

“I hope you don’t think I make a habit of this kind of thing.” A particularly loud truck thundered past, billowing exhaust and James coughed, whether from awkwardness or the fumes, Chloë wasn’t sure.

I don’t know what to think,” said Chloë truthfully. She could swear James was trying to assess her feelings.

His hazel eyes looked anxious. “I’ve never had an affair before.” God! He’d called it an affair. Already! “You haven’t?” Chloë was surprised, even doubtful. She found him so irresistible that she couldn’t imagine other women didn’t—she knew Patsy did. Though of course fidelity isn’t just a matter of being desired by others; it means reciprocating that desire and acting on it, she reminded herself.

“No, not really.” James appeared keen to explain himself. “To be honest, I haven’t been so attracted to anyone this much before. Not for years.”

Bullshit! Chloë could hear Rob’s voice. I bet he says that to all the girls. But instinctively she believed him. She said encouragingly, “You don’t need to justify yourself to me.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because—um…” Chloë paused. Should she risk being so open? She’d nothing to lose. “I’ve never done anything like this before either.”

“So you’re not like the woman who wrote that book in the papers?” James appeared relieved.

“The serial mistress? Never goes out with anyone other than married men?”

“Yes, her.”

“Hardly!” Chloë laughed. “I read about her too—I thought she seemed vile. Totally without scruples. And you’d never have known she was such a goer, would you? She looked so prim.”

“Not my type, certainly. Though I guess you know that.”

“In what way?” How she loved fishing for compliments from him. He always seemed to come up trumps.

“Well,
you’re
much more my cup of tea.”

“Cup of tea? How tame!”

“You’d prefer to be my margarita?” He laughed. “God! I had a dreadful hangover last Friday.”

“Me too.” Chloë shuddered at the memory.

“Took the whole weekend to get over it. I’m not as young as I was.”

“We didn’t drink that much.”

“No, but we didn’t have much sleep either.”

Chloë noted the reference to sex. It made her feel intimate with him, and excited at the thought of doing it again. “I slept in on Saturday,” she said.

“Not an option in my case. Nathan wakes up at eight. Bounce! Bounce! ‘Daddy’s day to get breakfast!’”

“Ah.” Chloë didn’t know what to say. For a moment she felt truly terrible. What was she doing fooling around with a married man who had a child?

Belatedly, James seemed to realize the tactlessness of talking about his family, and to make up for it said, “I love your outfit.” Chloë beamed. “You wear such great clothes. They really accentuate your figure.” He was blatantly gazing at her breasts.

“Thanks,” said Chloë, not minding.

He adjusted his focus to her face. “So, how was the meeting with Vanessa?”

“Weird.” Chloë was glad to have the conversation on more secure ground. “I think she liked the magazine concept, but she’s a strange woman.” Oops! She was talking about a close colleague of his. “I mean—she’s, um, a bit difficult to make out.”

“You didn’t like her?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” said Chloë hurriedly. That was a bit strong—Vanessa had given her the go-ahead, after all.

“Well, she told me she liked it,” James reassured her. “She even said she liked you.”

“Really?” Chloë was surprised and pleased. Recklessly she added, “Blimey, if that’s how she behaves when she likes someone, I’d hate to see when she doesn’t!”

“A total bitch, believe me.” James grinned.

Now a bus stopped at the lights, engine spluttering loudly.