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‘No.’
‘Nor shrunk-one-size-in-the-wash too tight.’
‘No.’
‘Which is a good point.’ Ali twisted the seam until the care instructions were in her grasp. Dry Clean Only. But, fingering the wool, she was sure she could hand-wash it carefully. ‘Do you think David will like it?’ Ali was contorting her chest in the mirror and tilting her upper body through ninety degrees, presumably in case she ever needed to wear cashmere to a gymnastics meet.
‘I’m sure he’ll love it.’
‘And it’s not too pink?’
Too pink? Ben was confused. It was pink, definitely pink, but too pink? He was out of his depth.
‘No.’ He was a little hesitant.
‘I think it’s a great pink. Not too pale, not pastel or insipid, but not puce either…’
Phew. He’d clearly said the right thing.
‘I’ll take it. Shall I get it in black too?’
‘Why not?’ Ben’s attention had been drawn back to the page.
‘You don’t think black’s too harsh?’
‘No…’
‘Good. That’s what I thought.’
‘It’s just a sweater.’ It was a mumbled afterthought. Ali didn’t appear to hear him. Which was a relief. But, slowly taking his eye off the page, he realised she hadn’t retreated to her cubicle either. This didn’t bode well.
‘What are you reading about?’
‘Um, nothing.’
‘Ben?’ Her hand was definitely on her hip. ‘You never do reading unless there is absolutely nothing else to do. And it isn’t even the hundred sexiest women in the galaxy issue.’
‘I do read.’
‘Since when? You skim.’
Much as he loved her, if there was one person who could wind him up instantaneously with a change in tone it was his sister.
‘Everyone reads on the subway.’
‘The tube.’ Ali corrected her brother, making sure to pronounce it in perfect English as ‘tyoob’ and not ‘toob’. ‘Although I don’t know how you’d know. You even bought a scooter because you hate public transport so much.’
Ben refused to rise to Ali’s goading and, with a shrug of his shoulders, returned to his extract—or at least he would have done if she hadn’t snatched the magazine. A few photocopied pages drifted lethargically to the floor.
Ali scanned a few lines as she fought Ben to gather them up, her gaze becoming stonier by the minute. ‘Whose is this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ben was suddenly sheepish, despite the fact he’d definitely been an adult in his own right for a good thirteen years. ‘I found it…well, I found the original…in a drawer in the room. This is just… I didn’t want it to get damaged… I’m going to hand it in when we get back. Or post it. There was a London address.’
‘There was?’ Ali had turned a different colour, and if he was honest the sweater was now clashing a bit with her skin tone. A sort of raspberry ripple effect. Maybe it was too pink.
‘Calm down. No harm done. It’s not like it’s yours or anything. And I’m just reading it, not auctioning the film rights.’
‘I’m confiscating it.’
‘You can’t. It’s not yours.’
‘And it’s not yours. Honestly, I thought you’d know better…’
‘It was lost. Now it’s not. I’m the good guy.’ Probably not a great time to mention the management search earlier, or the multiple programme ideas that had been bubbling under since he’d started reading it this morning.
‘Hardly. You’re the creep who went to the copy shop.’ Ali took the magazine and the pages and stuffed them into one of the bags he was guarding for her before taking it away.
‘You were having a manicure…and I didn’t want it to get thumbed.’ Ben could see that neither was a winning argument.
‘So, what? Now I have to check your pockets and I can’t leave you on your own? We’ll discuss this later.’ Ali re-entered the changing area.
‘How about I buy you the sweater?’ Ben shouted after her.
‘Jumper,’ Ali corrected him.
‘Just because you’ve got an English husband doesn’t mean you have to let go of your American roots completely.’
‘We’ve got an English father. And stop changing the subject. I’ll accept the bribe, but don’t think this is over yet. This is the only the beginning of that conversation.’
Somehow Ben had suspected that already. Plus, now he was bored.
Sam lay in the bath and watched the shadows flickering on the blue and green mosaic tiles. Her candles were failing to live up to their calming aromatherapy promise. Holding her breath, she allowed herself to slip under the hot water and, crossing her legs to remove her knees from the cold air of the bathroom, she cocooned herself in muted warmth. Bed beckoned. When the going got tough, the tough hibernated.
‘Next, please.’
Ben shuffled a little closer to the till, clutching a tower of CDs to his chest. Mid-season sale. Not that he was sure which season they were mid at the moment, but he wasn’t complaining. He needed coffee. He still had a good hour before he was due back uptown. And the more time Ali had to calm down the better. Women.
Leaving the store, he walked a couple of blocks east to Grand Central Station and ordered a coffee at Cipriani’s. Absorbed by the swirling crowds on the main concourse below, he let his mind wander back to the diary. Having drained his cup, and ignoring the waiter’s scowl at his failure to order a second, he found a pen and started scribbling on a napkin.
Chapter Four
Kicking the front door closed behind her, laden with shopping bags, Sam rustled her way along the corridor to the kitchen before her arms gave out. Her quads were smarting slightly after the intensity of her gym session, but thank God for endorphins. It was almost impossible to feel morose with your heart-rate at one hundred and sixty. Determined to keep her activity levels high, she switched the radio on for instant company and automatically re-boxed the CDs lying on the work-top while she searched for a station with a little less bass line and a few ‘classic’ tunes. Classic meaning old. Old enough for her to remember.
Having explored every possible plan of action on the running machine, she had come to the somewhat unsatisfactory, if definite conclusion that there was nothing she could do. According to calendar convention it was a new day, and so, for the time being, Captain Optimistic was back in town, having finally shaken off Assume-The-Worst Woman on the rowing machine.
As she restocked her cupboards Sam noticed a tell-tale slick of grease on the floor tiles. Obligingly, the Chinese take-away diva had left her foil containers out, and it appeared that the insatiable George had gone for self-service.
Roused from a warm corner of the flat by the crinkle of a supermarket carrier, he careered into the kitchen, anxious not to miss a potential feeding moment, and once in full view attempted to feign nonchalance but failed miserably thanks to the negative braking properties of claw and paw on terracotta. Having regained his composure, from the purr crescendo and surprisingly powerful shoves Sam was getting, he was claiming to be hungry. Not physiologically possible but he was one of the few who knew, contrary to popular myth, his owner had a slushy core.
Sam retched at the intense aroma burst of meat, offal and jelly as she opened a new can. Living on her own hadn’t been a problem, but living on her own with a kitten? Cliché-tastic. Now Gemma was around. That had been Sophie’s idea too. Breathing through her mouth, she put George’s dish on the floor and carefully washed up the fork. According to the clock on the oven door it was nearly eleven-thirty, and there was no evidence that the Queen of Peking had even surfaced to make herself a cup of tea.
Sam flicked the kettle switch and turned the radio up in an attempt to mask her enthusiastic, if somewhat atonal sing-a-long. No more tiptoeing around in her own flat. Today had started hours ago.
Gemma appeared in the doorway almost exactly as the kettle boiled, bleary-eyed, her unruly hair even wilder than normal. And she seemed to be wearing a strappy top and pyjama shorts. Obviously the latest in naughty-but-nice-girl-next-door sleepwear, and much more Sarah Jessica Parker in dishevelled sexiness, Sam noted, than it would have been on her. Gem was a natural. The sort of girl who’d never sat at the side of the school hall at the end-of-term disco. Who’d never had to pretend that she didn’t want to dance to ‘The Power of Love’ or the ‘Lady in Red’. Boys had always sidled up to her on the off chance. They still did.
‘Morning.’ Gemma started rubbing her eyes in an attempt to uncrust last night’s mascara and restore the individual lash look.
‘Only just… Look, do you think you could try not to leave food out? He’s a cat—he’s going to help himself. And he’s definitely not designed to eat spring onions drenched in plum sauce.’
Sam had her head in the fridge and was in the process of jettisoning most of the salad drawer, which had apparently liquidised itself in its bags since last week. This had never happened when Sophie had lived there. Mark was a lucky man. Sophie was a rare find in the twenty-first century—perfect wife material. And Sam was speaking from experience. Having a flatmate who’d enjoyed cooking, worked irregular hours and often from home might not have been great for the phone bill, but it had been fantastic for leftovers and getting her washing done.
As she replaced the old bags with new ones, freshly shopped, she knew it would be as good for her nutrition as buying them was for her conscience if she actually ate the stuff—but she never seemed to have time to eat at home at the moment.
‘Sorry. Chuck us the milk. I need tea.’ Gemma might not get up until late, but she was always incredibly perky when she did finally surface.
Sam handed her the plastic container, simultaneously liberating a shrivelled courgette from a dark corner of the second shelf, and did her best not to appear fazed by the similarly dishevelled young man now standing in her kitchen. From his slicked-back hair it looked as if he had at least managed a shower. In fact, he smelt familiarly citrusy.
‘Good shower?’ Her tone was mordacious.
The bastard reeked of her Jo Malone bodywash. And the whole point of paying a mortgage was so that you didn’t have to carry your towels and products in and out of the bathroom each morning.
‘Yes, thanks.’ His reply was hesitant. Small talk or sarcasm? His eyes darted to Gemma and back, hoping for a clue. Gemma, however, was concentrating on squeezing every last drip of caffeine into her cup.
‘Well, hi. I’m Sam.’ She faked a smile.
Now she’d sodding well have to change all the towels. She couldn’t risk drying her face in his pubes, even if Jo Malone had given them the once-over. She swapped neurotic for civil. At least for the short term. Giving her hands a quick rinse with antibacterial wash, she dried them on a teatowel, absent-mindedly polishing the fridge door with it before re-hanging it over the handle on the matching stainless steel oven.
Finally Gemma looked up. She must have sensed the tension because she was actually taking her teabag to the kitchen bin, albeit leaving a trail of drips in her wake, only to realise that she’d filled the bin to capacity before bed. Pushing the teabag down with the spoon, she did create enough space for the lid to spring back—even if it had now become slightly stained in the process.
Sam pretended not to notice.
‘Sorry—how rude of me.’ Gemma gestured with the hand holding the teaspoon and Sam watched more tea hit the tiles. ‘Toby, this is my landlady…’
Sam pulled a face. ‘Landlady’ sounded so curlers and pink nylon housecoat. Friend would have been better…or flatmate…
‘Sam, this is Toby, and he’s just going.’
Toby blushed, even more awkward than he had been moments earlier. Sam had to hand it to Gem. She was bucking every so-called trend and single-handedly proving that there were plenty of single men out there if only you weren’t too dismissive at first sight. She hadn’t even offered him any breakfast.
Sure enough, five minutes later Toby had been consigned to recent history and Gemma had set up camp by the toaster while Sam vigorously attacked the soon-to-be-much-whiter sink with a ‘new and improved’ product she had invested in less than an hour ago. They did have a cleaner, but she never really seemed to do very much. A bit of ironing, cushion-plumping, plant-overwatering and ornament-shuffling. Well worth the eight pounds an hour.
‘That’s looking great.’ Gem stretched and yawned, revealing a naturally toned tummy. Sam subconsciously clenched her abs and winced as a searing hit of lactic acid reminded her that they’d been crunched enough already. ‘Guess I better hit the shower in a minute…it’s about time I started my day before you finish yours… Just out of interest, what time did today start Washington time?’
Sam ignored her. ‘So, he was about twenty-four, was he?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. At least twenty-six.’ Gemma laughed.
Sam scrubbed resolutely. ‘And you met him where?’
‘Hey, Mum, what’s up with you this morning?’
‘Nothing.’ It was too dismissive to be totally true.
‘You just seem a bit—well, a bit on edge…’ Gemma took a contemplative slurp of her tea and Sam reminded herself that, all things considered, she was just fine. What was it with everyone? Now even her moods were public property. ‘You just don’t approve…’ Now Gemma was planting opinions.
‘Hey, I’m just your landlady. It’s none of my business who you see…’
Sam rinsed the scouring pad. It wasn’t that she was unequivocally anti the one-night stand. There were certainly times when she wanted someone to snuggle up to. Someone who didn’t purr or exhale meaty fish. But she’d also definitely been at her loneliest the morning after the night before. Gemma sipped her tea, safely staring into the middle distance, whilst the timer on the state-of-the-art toaster ticked like a time bomb behind her.
‘Sorry, Gem, I’ve just got a lot on my mind. So, do you think you’ll see him again?’
‘Doubt it.’ Gemma seemed relieved at Sam’s overture to normality. ‘Not bad in the sack, though…a huge improvement on Sean. He was an anticlimax—and I mean literally. Plus it saves me going to the gym later. All these women pumping iron when all they really need is a good shag…’
Sam felt herself redden and instinctively clenched her pelvic floor muscles, managing ten repetitions whilst wrestling the stuffed liner from the bin. It was one thing letting a room to a former classmate, but quite another when she had (a lot) more sex and telephone attention than you did. Plus, Gemma was only too quick to volunteer the details.
‘Anyway, Toby’s a Capricorn. Astrologically we couldn’t be more wrong for each other…’
As far as Sam could remember, birth dates were definitely a second or third date question in her book. Unless in these days of heightened security she was asking to see a driving licence or passport for ID purposes.
‘Then again, he saved me half a taxi fare home, he paid for the take-away, and—well, my granny always used to say you never know until you try…’
Sam was sure Gemma’s grandmother had meant foodstuffs, not fellatio.
‘Now, if he’d been a Sagittarius it could all have been very different…’ Gem trailed off mid-sentence as she observed Mr Muscle’s more glamorous sidekick hard at work. ‘Stop. Please stop. I swear I was going to give the kitchen a bit of a tidy when I got up, but I should’ve known your first thing and mine are about four hours apart. Sorry.’
Her good intentions pre-empted Sam’s well-worn washing-up mini-rant. While Sam would admit, if only to herself, that her intolerance of dirty dishes was possibly teetering on the brink of obsessive behaviour, she had to hand it to Gem. Unless she was a bloody award-winning actress, most things really didn’t bother her. As for bringing a bloke back to the flat—to Gemma, having sex was like Sam having a swim. Just about making the effort. And, judging from the Pisa-esque tower of toast and Marmite that Gemma had just made herself, it had a similar effect on her appetite.
Sam wiped the crumbs off the work surface without even realising what she was doing, before grabbing an apple and following Gemma into the sitting room.
‘How’s your job going?’ Anything. Sam would rather talk about anything than leave her mind to wander today. It kept trespassing into restricted areas. And Gemma was the perfect distraction. Just chatty enough to require concentration, just day-to-day enough to allow simultaneous magazine flick-through and general multi-tasking.
‘I could do this one standing on my head, but it pays pretty well considering I spend most of my day sending personal e-mails around the world and surfing the net. In fact, I was checking out the Friends Reunited website this week…’
‘You haven’t got into all that, have you?’
‘It’s brilliant. Most of our year have registered, and it’s great to see what they’re all up to. Loads of them are married.’
‘Mmm.’ Sam didn’t mind weddings. She just didn’t view marriage in the glorious Technicolor of many of her peers. She had trouble visualising the bit at the altar. Or maybe it was visualising the person waiting for her at the end of the aisle that was her main stumbling block.
‘Can’t believe it’ll be Sophie in a month… Anyway, between you and me I’m sort of hoping Dominic Pearson will get in touch. He was so damn sexy.’
‘He was pre-pubescent.’ Puffer Pearson had been smoking twenty-a-day in ten-packs from the age of fourteen and spent his early teens loitering behind his fringe at the bus stop, wearing a denim jacket over his blazer. Needless to say he and Gemma had often had to be prised apart at the bitter end of house parties. ‘And it’s all very well getting nostalgic, but life’s all about moving forward.’
‘But your schooldays are supposed to be the happiest of your life.’
‘Don’t believe the hype. I have no interest in re-establishing contact with people who spent their lives poking fun at me.’
Probably not the best time for Gemma to mention that she’d registered Sam on the site, then.
