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It’s him. Jamie Westcote of Top Models. The man I came here to meet. This is it. My big opportunity. The woman who introduced me disappears.
‘I’m a model,’ I say, ‘with the Serendipity Agency. Let me give you my card.’
Hands trembling, I fumble in my handbag, pull it out and hand it to him. But he does not accept it. Instead, he leads me to the side of the room, away from the group.
‘I need to explain why I can’t accept your card.’ There is a pause. ‘I don’t put people on my books unsolicited,’ he announces. His eyes meander slowly up and down my body. ‘And I think it is only fair to tell you that your looks are too regular. Even if you approached me through the correct channels I wouldn’t be interested.’ He pauses. ‘We’re looking for something – a bit different.’ I feel hot, and know I am blushing. ‘You could try for catalogues, I suppose. But you need to be a standard size for that.’ Another glance. ‘And I guess your chest is too big.’ There is another pause. ‘In actual fact breasts are out of fashion, as are over-contrived looks.’ He smiles a half-smile, head on one side. ‘Sorry. I’m only being honest. At least you’ve had a free appraisal.’
Before I have time to pretend to thank him, he shrugs his shoulders, turns and walks away. Back to his group who lean towards him, sharing a joke, laughing. He puts his head back and joins in, leaving me standing at the edge of a room of noisy people with no one to talk to and no glass in my hand.
Feeling empty and low, I move past shoulders, across the drawing room into the hallway. I step into the cloakroom for privacy, and sit on the toilet seat, head in hands, trying to compose myself. Over-contrived looks. How stupid I have been. How naive. The thought of meeting this man has been keeping me buoyed up for weeks. I press speed dial on my mobile phone to try to get through to Phillip. He doesn’t pick up. Pity. Just hearing his voice would make me feel better, or would have made me feel better in the past. The words we spoke to each other a few nights ago reverberate in my head.
‘A client said I was too old for the job.’
‘You’re still beautiful, Faye, but that day was bound to arrive.’
I pull myself up from the toilet seat and splash cold water on my face. I freshen my make-up and step out of the cloakroom into the hallway. Time to get myself a stiff drink.
A man is walking towards me. Jonah. Phillip’s oldest friend from school and university. Not only Phillip’s close friend, but our architect as well. The man I suggested should supervise our loft conversion.
‘Faye, how lovely to see you.’ He pulls me towards him, irradiating me with an overdose of aftershave and kissing me on both cheeks. ‘A vision of beauty to liven up a boring party.’ He holds my eyes in his. ‘Is Phillip here? I haven’t seen him for ages. I’d love to have a chat with him.’
‘He’s away at a conference; you’ll have to chat to me instead.’
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Jonah (#ulink_3418853c-5504-5273-8c2c-b44fa22965b6)
‘Away at a conference,’ I say. ‘I see. I’ll have to catch him another time.’
You are looking more beautiful than ever, with your colt-like legs. Your tiny waist. Your ample breasts. I stand looking at you, imagining, as I have so many times before, their shape unfettered by the confines of a bra. Tip-tilted. Large alveoli. Bell-like. Your hair and your eyes shine. Like Elizabeth Taylor, you are exotic and colourful. The excitement that simmers whenever I see you rises inside me.
‘This Prosecco diluted with orange juice is a bit insipid,’ I say raising my almost empty glass. ‘Would you care to accompany me to the kitchen to find something proper to drink?’ I manage to ask, holding your violet blue eyes in mine. ‘What about it?’
You pause. You swallow. I watch your Adam’s apple move up and down your pretty throat. ‘Good idea,’ you reply.
Together we move away from the main party, out of the hallway and through the children’s sitting room – plain sofas, large TV and an Xbox with surround sound – into the kitchen.
The kitchen is a hive of activity. The catering company are buzzing around like flies, putting the finishing touches on trays of canapés, loading the dishwasher with used glasses. A tiny woman, wearing a blue uniform, with a face so delicate she looks like a flower ambles towards us. ‘Any chance of some whisky?’ I ask.
‘Of course, Sir, I’ll find you some. Ron has quite a collection. Any particular brand?’
‘Glenmorangie is my favourite.
‘What about you, Faye?’
‘Red wine please.’
The catering assistant reaches into a box stacked in the corner, pulls out a bottle of red wine, and opens it expertly with a flick of her wrist, pouring you a glass and leaving the bottle on the counter. Then she pads over to a cupboard in the corner and pulls out a black and orange bottle containing my favourite tipple. She pours a generous amount into a crystal glass.
‘Ice? Ginger?’
‘No thanks.’
I sweep the wine bottle from the counter, put a hand on your back to guide you, and carrying our drinks we step back into the children’s sitting room.
‘Let’s just stay here, away from the riff-raff,’ I suggest, sinking into a sofa to the right of the door.
You laugh, kick off your killer heels and sink gratefully next to me onto the sofa. It sags in the middle and my body has slipped to lean against yours. I want to bury myself in your scent.
‘You are so beautiful, Faye. But you know that, don’t you? People must always be telling you that.’
You lean more closely against me. My right hand hovers near the small of your back.
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Faye (#ulink_1c5a0a16-7657-527a-88c5-50f0b53768d8)
Sitting on a sofa with Jonah, feeling light-headed and floaty because I’ve had too much to drink. Jonah’s hand is massaging the base of my spine and I know I should be pushing him away, but he is making me feel relaxed. So relaxed. The image of Jamie Westcote’s eyes running over my body keeps rolling across my mind, alongside Phillip’s words. I am playing a game in my head, imagining Jamie Westcote is leaning towards me and speaking, his words contorting to say what I wanted to hear, Phillip standing beside him nodding his head.
‘I love regular looks,’ Jamie whispers. ‘Your breasts are magnificent.’ His whisper rises to a shout. Everyone at the party is listening. I see faces turning towards him. ‘Regular looks are where it’s all at now.’
But it isn’t Jamie Westcote who is speaking, it’s Jonah. Jonah is speaking, and massaging the base of my spine. He pulls me towards him and kisses me. When he has tried to do this on previous occasions I have pushed him away. But tonight, I find myself kissing him back. It is so long since anyone except Phillip has kissed me that the novelty of someone else’s touch burns my skin like fire. Jonah is looking at me admiringly, making me feel special. Admiration is incendiary tonight.
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Erica (#ulink_a78c4418-5892-50e8-97da-565f62dd6cfd)
The moon is high. An owl hoots from the trees in the park across the road. I yawn and tighten the top button of my duffel coat. People have been leaving in dribs and drabs, the host and hostess seeing them off.
The door opens. It is you at last, wrapped in a blond man’s arms.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll walk her home,’ the man is saying, smiling at the hostess.
The front door closes. You walk down the drive, stones crunching beneath your feet, holding on to the man for support. Loose-limbed. Face flushed. When you reach the end of the drive you turn left not right. Where are you going, Faye?
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Phillip (#ulink_a72ac7aa-80bd-5e0b-b544-e62220b06676)
At the Digital Marketing Conference in Harrogate. The hotel is large and Victorian and has seen better days. The dinner is held in a function room in the basement, with no windows. Dark red patterned carpet. Violent red walls. White linen tablecloths and solid silver cutlery add a touch of sophistication. The man sitting to my left has a pale face and stale breath. The woman to my right is punchy and interesting, so punchy and interesting she makes me feel tired. The food is as it always is at conferences. Acceptable. Unremarkable. But I am not a foodie, so it doesn’t matter to me. I wash it down with plenty of wine. The speeches aren’t too bad. One of them is quite amusing and makes me laugh.
And now dinner is over and we are free to proceed to the bar. The man on my left at dinner sticks to me like a leech. He buys me a large glass of wine and himself a double whisky, and slurs his words as he eulogises about Professor Torrington’s lecture on algorithms earlier.
I excuse myself by pretending I need to go to the toilet, and return to my room, where I drink two cups of peppermint tea in an attempt to sober up, and watch the Sky evening news. I text you twice. You don’t reply. I hope you’re having a good time. You were worried about going to the party alone. I want to touch base and speak to you. I never feel right when I can’t reach you. Tired but restless, I try to settle to sleep but my mind is too alert. I miss your warm body lying next to me. I think back to the day we met.
I was twenty-five. You were twenty-three. I was a digital marketing executive for a small company that had offices on Upper Ground, between Waterloo Station and the river, round the corner from The London Studios. You had just joined the company as PA to my boss. I got chatting to you as I waited to go into a meeting with him. Asking you to come for a drink tripped naturally off my tongue; the pretext for me to tell you about the company. You agreed readily, and a few evenings later we met on the pavement outside the office and hailed a taxi to Tattershall Castle, an old paddle steamer converted into a pub restaurant, moored on Victoria Embankment.
It was a soft summer evening, warm breeze from the river caressing our faces and arms. The grey Thames sparkling to silver and diamonds. You sat opposite me and leant forward. I was mesmerised by your violet eyes.
‘Tell me everything about Digital Services Limited. All the gossip. The full rundown,’ you demanded.
Before I could begin to hold forth, we were interrupted by a waiter asking us what we wanted to drink. I ordered pale ale. You ordered a white wine spritzer. Do you remember, Faye? And then I told you everything I knew. The services we provided. The names of our major clients. The personalities and foibles of our managers. Somewhere in the middle of my diatribe our drinks arrived, and a small dish of cashew nuts. I wolfed the nuts down; you didn’t touch one.
We ordered another drink each. The alcohol was beginning to relax me; soften my edges. You put your hand on my arm.
‘Phillip, you know so much.’
Desire rose inside me like an electric current. ‘What about you, Faye? Tell me about yourself. I’ve rabbited on for long enough.’
‘I want to be a full-time model. So far I’ve just had a few jobs.’
First and foremost, you’ve always wanted to be a model. You still want to be a model. However hard I work to give you a comfortable lifestyle with the girls, our life together isn’t enough to sustain you. You want others to admire your body. The more time goes on the more I question how comfortable I am with that. Sometimes I wish you were less good-looking and we didn’t have all this angst.
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Jonah (#ulink_e4dce26d-c8d2-5364-a91a-e48d84e3f1a8)
You are sitting on a sofa, in the middle of my drawing room. I’ve admired you for so long I can’t believe you are here in my home, visiting me alone. The first time I saw you was ten years ago, when I visited Phillip in London. You were, and still are, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, with your long dark hair, your chiselled cheekbones and violet eyes. It was your eyes that unnerved me most; the way they slipped into mine, like velvet.
I hadn’t met up with Phillip for a few years at that point and was surprised my computer geek friend had managed to attract such a glamorous girlfriend. He’d never been much of a ladies’ man. The three of us met up in a Pizza Express near Charing Cross – Phillip’s suggestion, not mine – I don’t usually frequent pizzerias or chain restaurants. I survived the ordeal by looking into your eyes as I choked on an overdose of basil and tomato.
Tonight, so many years on, still besotted, ‘Would you like a nightcap?’ I ask.
‘Just a small one thanks, nothing too strong.’
‘Gin and tonic OK?’
‘Lovely thanks.’
My hand slips as I pour the gin, so I give you quite a slug. We sit next to one another on the sofa sipping our drinks. Softly, gently, I put my arm around you. You lean in to my body. I hold you more tightly and take your hand in mine.
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Faye (#ulink_4e456109-ed62-59bb-9cff-15f64683587d)
I am standing in front of Jonah. I feel confused; sad and happy at the same time. I know I ran into him at the party and that I have gone back to his house. His sitting room is spinning around me. Slowly. Quickly. Slowly. Now I am holding on to him to keep standing.
‘Let me look at you, really look at you,’ he says.
His arms are behind my back and he is unzipping my dress. I work so hard toning my body, working on almost every muscle, or at least every muscle I know about, so I want to show him, really show him. I am not embarrassed. I am proud of my shape.
I feel my dress slip over my skin and fall to the floor. I am standing in front of him in my new red silk bra and panties, decorated with Chantilly lace. The room is slipping from side to side, making me feel as if I am on a boat. He is admiring my body. He is smiling. His eyes are caressing me, just like they have always done. I know he thinks I am beautiful. I need to be beautiful tonight.
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Jonah (#ulink_0d51092c-4dd2-5a15-b3b1-83eb8a450dcd)
You are moaning beneath me, neck stretched in ecstasy. So tight around me I can hardly breathe. I’ve never known a woman who wants me so much. And I cannot believe, after waiting so long, that woman is you. I try to close my mind to all sensation so that I don’t climax too quickly. I pretend I am back at school, standing behind my desk, reciting the alphabet backwards. Before I reach V, you are finished, spent. And I can relax again.
My crescendo starts gently, slowly, a sweet sensation that feels electric. I pump into you more deeply and it intensifies into a burning heat. Pain and pleasure merge. You are holding me so tight. Your legs and feet push into my back as if you want to force me more deeply inside. It is delicious. Too much. I am not sure how much longer I can bear it. It’s rising, it’s increasing. I am soaring. One last thrust so sweet I feel ready to die in your arms right now. And it’s over. Tangled in your arms I gasp for breath, and wait for my heart to calm.
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Faye (#ulink_394fbaab-6917-503f-9855-efc0cdbd31fb)
I wake up, Beethoven pounding in my ears. Mouth parched. Head throbbing. My hair is damp and I am naked, clamped in a stranger’s arms.
Heavy inside, I untangle myself from him and sit up. No. Not a stranger. Jonah, my husband’s old friend, our architect, who I ran into at the party last night. What have I done? I squint at my watch in the dark: 3:30 a.m. I pull myself up to standing, panic rising inside me.
My marriage. My children. The babysitter.
I snap the light on. I look down at Jonah, sleeping like a baby, penis withered into a small crinkled knot. He doesn’t stir. What happened? Jonah has never been my type. The first time I met him he said he thought footballers were overpaid wide boys. I asked him what he thought architects were then, and he gave me a supercilious grin that tightened the knots in my stomach. His long-vowelled voice smacks of superiority, even though he went to a local comprehensive, like me and Phillip. I had a drunken aberration last night, one I will regret for the rest of my life.
Heavy with remorse, I reach for my clothes. I find them scattered across the sitting room, and pull them on. My coat and handbag are in the hallway. I remember leaving them there. I wrap my coat around my shoulders; its familiarity comforts me a little, as I step outside into a bright moonlit night.
I pull my iPhone out of my bag. Fifteen missed calls. Thirteen from the babysitter. Two from Phillip. What am I going to say? I need to get used to making up lies. First I text our babysitter.
On the way home. Sorry. Party went on really late. Got carried away.
Then I check on Phillip. Only two missed calls, and not too late. Just didn’t hear those because of the noise of the party. Nothing to explain. I exhale with relief.
We live so close to Jonah it isn’t worth calling a taxi. My footsteps resound across the pavement, as I stride through the solidity of darkness towards home. At least it is so late no one I know will see me. Five minutes later I am walking up the steps to our front door, turning the key. I step straight into our living room and turn on the light. The familiarity of my living room surrounds me like a sanctuary. My behaviour is out of step. But nothing here has changed. My normal world is waiting for me.
Lucy, our babysitter, stretches her arms in the air from the sofa, and sits up. Her long brown hair is tangled and crumpled. Her eyes blink as she becomes accustomed to the light.
‘I was so worried. Are you OK?’ she asks.
I walk towards her and sit on the sofa next to her. I shake my head slowly, and raise my hands a little.
‘Sorry. So sorry. Had too much to drink. Stayed too late. Got carried away.’
‘Are you sure you’re OK? Has something happened?’ she asks, looking shocked at my dishevelled appearance.
‘Course not,’ I reply. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa at the end of the party, that’s all. A bit embarrassing but all OK.’
‘As long as you’re all right,’ Lucy says, slipping off the sofa and reaching for her bag and coat, which she’s placed on the floor beside her: obviously keen to get away as soon as possible.
I rummage hurriedly into my handbag and pull out £100 to give to her. I hand it across.
‘That’s far too much,’ she complains, trying to hand it back.
‘No. Let me give it to you. I want to. I’ve inconvenienced you.’
‘Not really,’ she says.
‘But I worried you,’ I splutter.
‘A bit. But you’re a grown woman. I know you can look after yourself,’ she says, leaving the notes on the coffee table. She smiles at me as she pulls her coat on. ‘Please don’t worry. I’m cool. Everything’s fine.’
