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‘Whatever. So how did that happen?’
‘He phoned me.’
‘And?’
‘And asked if I was free tonight.’
‘And this was?’
‘This morning.’
‘And you’ve waited until now to tell me?’
‘I was building up to it.’
‘You were toying with me, is what you were.’
‘I admit to a certain amount of toyness,’ said Katie, with a laugh. ‘And now I’m going to spend the rest of the day getting ready. Should I have my legs waxed and my bikini line done?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Dee, horrified. ‘Go out with your legs like a plucked chicken and walking in a funny way?’
‘I don’t walk in a funny way after my bikini wax.’
‘Well, they aren’t doing it right, then.’
‘How can they do it in the wrong way?’
‘Not taking enough off.’
‘This is not,’ said Katie, ‘a top-trumps to see how much of a trim one gets. I refuse to have it bald, like some pre-pubescent schoolgirl. I’m an adult, with body hair. One doesn’t have to have an entire bush under which to shelter when it’s raining but one does need a little tidy-round from time to time.’
‘All right,’ said Dee. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist. Talking of which, do you have to wear awfully big pants to cover up the, er, hedgerow?’
Katie smiled. ‘Enough already. If I can’t wax, I’ll have to go out as a scary hairy Mary. Which means trousers or a skirt and boots.’
‘Well, while you spend many happy hours pondering your outfit, I’m going home to kip. Oliver and I are off to the cinema tonight.’
Oliver was a proctologist, and a great friend of Katie’s doctor brother Ben, who was now a consultant anaesthetist at a large London hospital.
‘Well, wish me luck, then,’ said Katie, putting on her coat and pushing the chair in towards the table.
‘Good luck–as if you need it.’
Katie was glowing. Her hair was shining, her green eyes glittering with anticipation.
‘How the bloody hell do you look so good, considering your vast age?’ asked Dee.
‘Oi. I’ll have you know that early forties is the new early thirties. And, in all seriousness, not getting up at sparrow’s fart every morning is one of the greatest aids to youth. I’m finally getting my beauty sleep. In fact, the only fly in my ointment is the lack of a job, and therefore a certain restriction on my spending.’
‘Oh, OK,’ said Dee, with exaggeratedly weary acceptance. ‘I’ll stump up for the tea.’ She made a slow move towards the till, shoulders slumped.
‘Cheers,’ said Katie, picking up her sports bag. She caught up with Dee, gave her a kiss on the cheek and left her. As she got to the door, she turned. ‘Give my love to Oliver,’ she called. ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow and give you a blow-by-blow account.’ She made a suggestive face.
‘You are disgusting,’ said Dee, without looking up from her purse.
Katie’s evening was everything she had hoped it would be–and more.
Adam was charming, witty, and very, very flirty. He and Nick had both fallen for the presenter of their show the first time they had seen her. But Nick was away supervising filming in France, and Adam had stolen a march on his rival. He had absolutely no intention of letting his business partner know that he was seeing Katie for dinner–or that she was single.
As soon as he had heard on the grapevine that Katie and Bob had split up, he had begun his campaign. He was enough of a hunter to let her think he knew nothing of the separation and was merely after a discussion of future projects in a ‘more comfortable environment than the glass box that is my office’.
It had been an unnecessary subterfuge.
Katie considered dinner with any man to be a prelude to intimacy. ‘They may say it’s about work,’ she bragged to her friend Kirsty, whom she’d phoned from the back of a cab on the way home from the gym, ‘but if it was, they’d do it where I couldn’t pounce on them.’
‘Aren’t you going to let him do the pouncing?’ asked Kirsty, who was pregnant with her second child and couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to pounce anywhere.
‘We may do a double pounce,’ Katie pronounced.
‘With a triple salchow?’
‘Absolutely. Followed by a…erm…’
‘Ha. Stumped, my little fat friend,’ said Kirsty, triumphantly.
‘I think you’ll find that you are going to be my little fat friend before too long,’ said Katie, sliding to the other side of the cab as the driver swung round a bend too fast. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Vomiting a lot, which isn’t great. Actually, I wouldn’t mind so much if I thought I could eat more without putting on too much weight. But I’m eating dry biscuits to keep it down, and I’m going through two packets a day. And then I’ve got this awful craving for pickled beetroot. I get up, throw up, eat biscuits, throw up, eat pickled beetroot, get heartburn, go to bed and start the cycle all over again. And I have the midwife saying I’ve got to hold off on the biscuits and not eat so much beetroot. At the moment I’ve got spots round my mouth from being sick, got red pee, red poo and Fred has left a deposit of something on one shoulder.’
‘You poor thing,’ said Katie, solicitously. ‘Nothing I can do, I assume?’
‘Take Fred off my hands occasionally?’
‘If you’re desperate enough to ask me to take him, you must be in a bad way. Of course I will. But you know I’m not that good when they’re little. In a couple of years’ time I’ll be taking him out and about all over the shop. Tea at the Ritz. A tour of the National Gallery. Whatever.’
‘He’ll be three in a couple of years’ time.’
‘Well, the Science Museum, then.’
‘He’ll be three.’
‘You see? I’m hopeless when they’re like overgrown foetuses. I mean, honestly, what do you do with a one-year-old?’
‘Play with him?’
‘He’d get bored.’
‘You mean you’d get bored. Enjoy your dinner. The idea of flirting with anyone in my current state makes me feel sick. You know, I always wondered why they called it morning sickness when it can strike at any time of the day or night. I’ve taken to chewing a nub of toothpaste to take away the taste.’
‘Do you spit or swallow?’ asked Katie with interest. As you know, one swallow doesn’t make a girlfriend.’
‘You are rude, crude and disgusting. I am now putting the phone down.’
‘Enjoy your beetroot,’ said Katie, pressing end call and putting the phone into her bag.
Back home, she had a shower and washed her hair, making sure that the conditioner was the nicest-smelling one she had. She let it dry naturally as she padded round the flat, slowly getting ready. With the towel wrapped round her waist, she opened her wardrobe doors and surveyed the contents. First things first, she thought, and took out her brand new, vertiginous, purple Gina shoes. They were not exactly practical. She could barely walk the length of the sitting room before she needed a rest–but they were beautiful. It wasn’t often you got such a jewel-like colour. As soon as she had slipped them on in the shop, her head had buzzed with the busy refrain, ‘Neeew shoooes.’
She put them on now and stood in front of the mirror, admiring the way they made her feet look so small and elegant. She dropped the towel. Hmm. Probably better with clothes.
She took out a little black dress with discreet fringing, which she had been thinking would be perfect. Had it always been so snug a fit, she wondered, as she tugged at the zip? She flicked back her hair from her now slightly sweaty face and stood up straight. Omigod, she thought. I look like a singed woodlouse.
Over the next hour, she became more frantic as she realized that virtually everything was too damned tight. Hot and bothered, she eventually chose a stretchy silk shirt, stretchy black skirt and large stretchy belt, all bought when she was going through a fat phase. Or, at least, she’d thought it was a fat phase. It was bloody annoying how, as you got older, the phases became more frequent and longer-lasting. And how you could put on three pounds in a day, but a month later, you were still struggling to take it off.
Life, she thought. A constant battle to keep everything in place. If only steamed vegetables and pineapple were enough to keep the soul alive. She applied the bare minimum of makeup and, having checked that she looked as good as she could under the circumstances, she left the flat.
She usually tried to be a smidge late for dinner, but a taxi pulled up immediately, so she was–as usual–bang on time.
Adam, who was used to his ex-girlfriend sometimes forgetting to turn up at all, was pleasantly surprised to find Katie sitting at the table when he arrived. She was drinking a glass of tap water. ‘I know. Not exactly racy, is it?’ she said, after kissing his cheek, rather self-consciously.
To kiss or not to kiss? Too late now, she thought, gulping water to cover her confusion. First dates–if this was a first date–were always a mixture of excitement and trepidation. Not unlike opening a packet of fig rolls…
The restaurant was expensive, with heavy white damask tablecloths and elegant wine glasses. She assumed it had been chosen because it shrieked neither seduction nor business deal, but rather the quiet confidence of a platinum card.
Adam had also chosen his outfit carefully. He had started with his tan Longines watch and worked outwards. He was wearing a navy Paul Smith suit with a lilac shirt. Katie could barely look at him, he was so handsome.
After an initially shaky start, when he had talked vaguely about some of the projects he was working on, there had been an unspoken agreement that they were not there to discuss what he could offer in the way of programmes, but more about what he could offer in the realm of a merger.
As the dinner progressed, and the wine bottle emptied, they covered the gamut. Katie heard herself telling Adam how to cook aubergines: ‘Slice in half, face down on a non-stick tray, bake for half an hour. Lovely with honey.’
And Adam was surprised to find himself telling Katie how he had always coveted a pair of X-ray spectacles he had seen in the Beano: ‘I wanted them originally to see through this ant-house I had, and then, latterly, women’s clothes.’
‘Of course.’ Katie had nodded understandingly.
At one point, she deliberately brought in Bob’s name, making it clear that she was no longer with him.
‘Oh, I wasn’t aware that was all over,’ he lied. ‘Sad,’ he lied again. ‘Not for me, I hasten to add,’ finally being truthful, ‘but I remember he came down to Dorset on that first evening of the chat show. On his motorbike, wasn’t he?’ he asked, knowing full well he had been. He and Nick had gone to look (and drool) over it. Not only did he know that Bob rode a motorbike, he knew what model and even the state of the tyres. The bastard obviously raced it.
‘Yes. But it’s definitely over,’ said Katie, making sure she hadn’t been misunderstood.
He got it. ‘Well it’s always horrible when it doesn’t work out,’ he said, his fist balled into a valedictory salute under the table.
The restaurant was warm and cosy, the candles were guttering, the glasses empty. It was time to get the bill. Katie was feeling as smooth and melting as the chocolates that had come with her coffee.
Outside, she shivered, despite her coat.
‘Cold?’ Adam asked, wrapped in his cashmere jacket.
‘A bit.’
‘Let’s see what I can do about that,’ he said, and enveloped her in a warm hug that turned into a tentative kiss. Her response was everything he had hoped it would be. She almost fizzed with electricity.
Katie was in heaven. In stumbling words, between kisses, she invited him back to her flat, where cloud nine was superseded by clouds ten and eleven and eventually every silver lining in the sky seemed to be lying in front of her.
A few months’ later when she had introduced him to her parents, they had been cautiously complimentary. They had driven up to Yorkshire in Adam’s Jaguar, a sleek car with a throaty purr that was incredibly sexy. Just the feel of her thighs on the leather seat made Katie feel in the mood. It had been a balmy evening, with the scent of grass cuttings wafting through the open window.
It had all gone well until Adam had left half of his pot au feu of braised pork belly, as though it had been a restaurant.
All attendant members of the Fisher family were horrified. Katie’s father, Jack, was an enthusiastic chef who spent hours poring over recipe books and watching television cookery shows. He didn’t approve of leaving food. You took what you wanted and ate it all. Unless you didn’t like it–in which case, you shouldn’t have taken so much in the first place.
Katie’s mother, Lynda, who was more than happy to let her husband do all the work in the kitchen, had been brought up by parents who had struggled to make ends meet, and she didn’t approve of waste. And Katie was a pig, who couldn’t understand why anyone wouldn’t eat every single mouthful of her father’s delicious food, then go back for more.
By the end of the weekend, Adam had partially overcome their distrust of a man who could leave food on a plate, and had charmed them. His major Brownie points had been accrued when he had praised a painting in the dining room, which he had correctly identified as a posy of peonies. It had been executed by Lynda during her artist phase, and derided by her family as reminiscent of the rear view of a family of baboons with their heads down a well.
‘Mum is what we call, a keen…erm…trier,’ Katie explained, as Adam admired a pottery vase in the kitchen while they were making coffee. ‘That was originally a milk jug but, as you can see, its handle melted in the kiln. If you look closely, you’ll also notice a small hole in the bottom where she failed to supply enough clay. Hence the dried flowers. It’s like living with an overgrown primary-school child.’
‘Oi,’ said her mother, coming up behind them as they considered her creation. ‘I’ll have you know that was modelled on one by a famous arts-and-crafts exponent.’
‘Called Slipshod,’ said Katie.
Her mother smiled. ‘I’ve left it to you in my will,’ she said.
‘Gee, thanks, Mum. Just what I’ve always wanted. Do hope you’ve left Baboon Anuses on a Summer’s Day to me as well. Or does anus become ami in the plural?’
‘You are a rude and ungrateful girl. If I were you, Adam, I’d have nothing more to do with her.’
He nodded. ‘You’re absolutely right. No one could ask for more than a beautiful painting of peonies and an homage vase,’ he said, rhyming homage with fromage.
‘Homage vase!’ puffed Katie. ‘What are you like? It’s a piece of clutter.’
‘My daughter, as I’m sure you’re aware by now, considers everything to be clutter,’ said Lynda. ‘She would probably live in a sterile lab, given the choice. Every home she’s had, you feel like you’re sitting in a show house. Can’t put your tea down without her tidying it away. And never anything in the fridge. Prisoners make their cells more homely.’
‘Hey, Mum,’ said Katie, a bit hurt by her mother’s comments. ‘I’m not that bad. Honestly. Just because I can’t be doing with all the dust. Do you know, we shed an entire outer layer of skin every two days? That’s a whole human. This vase has probably got one of Mum’s legs and Dad’s ears on it.’
Adam smiled. ‘Actually, I’m afraid I have to blot my copybook and confess that I, too, live a slightly minimalist life.’ He made a face of apology.
Lynda harrumphed and put the vase back on the windowsill. ‘Shall we have coffee in the garden since it’s such a nice day?’
They took the tray out to where lack was pinning back some of the trailing roses, which were threatening to swamp, rather than cascade over, a small wall near the greenhouse.
‘It looks lovely out here, Dad,’ said Katie, gazing about her and sniffing appreciatively. She loved coming home to the grey-stone house, even if her mother did sometimes make her feel unwelcome by using her old bedroom as a repository for the detritus from her discarded hobbies. ‘Incidentally, Mum,’ she said, pouring milk into her coffee, ‘I think Hercules may have rolled in some fox poo. He was smelling very ripe when I passed him.’
Hercules was their ageing Labrador.
‘Wretched dog,’ said her mother, without heat. She took her coffee, raised her voice and, without looking round, said, ‘lack. Your dog has been rolling in fox poo.’
He was lost in contemplation of a hollyhock and didn’t respond.
‘lack. Hercules smells,’ she said, louder this time.
