Young Wives' Tales Part 35

'Oh, I'm sorry about that. Something came up.'

Connie glares at me and then seems to lose interest in arguing. All at once her body relaxes. I watch as she appears to melt. In the old days she was often rigid with tension, now she seems fluid.

'Not to worry. I was only half expecting you to show. It didn't matter. I still had a drink with my friend who manages the place. He thought it was funny that I'd been stood up.'

I'm stunned. I don't know how to take this. She's told a friend of hers about me and they joked about her being stood up. Clearly Connie did not see our agreement to meet as anything like a date. If she had believed that we were on a date and I'd stood her up, wild horses wouldn't have dragged that confession from her. She turns to look at the wood at our feet.

'I really am hopeless with any kind of woodwork. I only volunteer for these things so that the staff think highly of me. I wouldn't have had you down as a handy man either.'

'I'm not especially, but Craig was desperate,'I confess. Connie smiles. She seems genuinely friendly. I had been expecting anger, tension and accusations. I don't know how to behave in light of her reasonableness. She is being so level-headed that it's possible to mistake her att.i.tude for indifference. The thought chills me.

'Well, let's just get on with this then. We should be as professional as possible. Don't be overly friendly, OK?'she adds.

'OK.'

Connie lowers her voice, 'If I went home now people might think I was acting peculiarly.'

'They might.'

'And as you already have a reputation at the school gate, I don't want to fuel any gossip about us. Although, in retrospect, that thing you did with Diane, since it's not going anywhere, it's been quite a master stroke. At least it's not my name that they are linking with yours.'

'Would you have minded if I wanted it to go somewhere with Diane?'

'Only in so much as I didn't want to be a casualty of your pillow talk.'

She shoots me a cagey look and then picks up a large piece of wood. She waves it around elaborately, as though studying it, and then lays it on the floor and walks around it a couple of times. I realize this is for the benefit of the other mum-helpers, who may be watching. When she's satisfied that they aren't interested anyway, she sits down again and says, 'I really appreciate you opening up to me on the phone the other night. Telling me that stuff about your marriage helped me understand things a little more.'

'What things?'

'You. Why you are bothering with me again. It's been confusing. You turning up at the school gate all the time and then firework night, it forced me to think about things that I hadn't thought about for a long while. But now I get it.'

'Do you?'I'm not sure I do. I have no idea where she's going with this and I don't like the feeling that I'm at sea.

'I'm a grasp at the past, aren't I? This isn't really about me at all. You don't feel anything for me. You just want to be reminded of a time before your heart was broken.'

'What?'I must yell this. Because Connie shoots a fretful look at the other mums and urges me to keep my voice down. I stare at her, amazed that she could have got it so wrong. Because she is wrong. Isn't she?

'It's OK,'she whispers. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. You've been through a divorce, of course you're not thinking clearly. I'd have preferred it if I hadn't been the woman you alighted on to try to recapture something so elusive. You have no idea how difficult this has been for me, but in a way I accept that it had to be me and I'm sorry that I can't help you in any other way than by proving that what's gone is gone.'

Connie holds my gaze. She's searching my face for an acknowledgement and appreciation of her understanding, I'm searching hers for signs that she's been brainwashed. Is she saying that she thinks I'm on the rebound? Has she been talking to Craig? Impossible, but they said the same thing. Connie thinks I'm struggling to deal with Andrea and my divorce and all that and that's why I'm paying her attention. Connie doesn't think this is about her? That's a first.

'This is about you Connie. About us.'

'No, it's not,'she grins. 'Answer me this, John, before b.u.mping into me at the school gate, when did you last think of me?'

I don't answer. She nods and looks self-satisfied; my silence has proven her point.

'Plus, over the last few months I've been begging you to sit down and talk to me but you won't. If you were really interested in me you'd have the good grace to do that. What you are doing is avoiding a chat because you don't want to stumble around your subconscious. Don't worry, I get it. I get you.'

'You're just saying this because you're peeved that I didn't show up the other night. This is an honourable exit for you.'

She solemnly shakes her head.

'In that case you are just scared s.h.i.+tless about how you feel about me. You want me but you haven't got the nerve any more. You're trying to talk your way out of this.'

Connie looks sad. For me. Her pity is nauseating.

'You think I lack the nerve to s.h.a.g you again, John?'she whispers. 'Well, you're wrong. I dare do it. I dare do it now as I did then.'She pauses to great effect. 'I dare s.h.a.g you but I won't because I don't want to. I'm absolutely certain. I don't want to. I don't want to betray Luke and I don't want to risk hurting my family, not for a nanosecond, but most of all, I. Don't. Want. You. Have I said anything other? Even once, since we met up?'

For a moment I am too stunned to move. She sounds serious and convincing. But I don't believe her. I don't want to believe her.

'Well, why did you agree to meet up with me the other night?'

'I've been wondering if you've ever told Mr Walker about us.'

'He knows we had a thing.'

She gasps and snaps her neck around to stare at Craig, who is standing only a few metres away.

'How could you? He's my daughter's headmaster. You stupid '

Craig saves my skin because at that moment he b.u.t.ts in. He introduces us to Mrs Someone-or-Other who is director of the nativity and we all discuss the scenic needs. Connie says very little. She stares at the floor and refuses to meet anyone's eye. Even so, she's so scarlet she's giving off a light that could safely draw a s.h.i.+p into harbour. Matters are settled relatively quickly and Mrs Something-or-Other and Craig leave us to get on.

'You have let me down so often, John. Time, after time, after time. In fact, thinking about it, that's all you've ever done from the first moment I met you.'

Although Connie is clearly vexed, her calm has not vanished. I'm used to Connie the tempest and I don't know this Connie. She's not wild, pa.s.sionate or furious in the way that she used to be just before she agreed to brutish or fanatical s.e.x. She's frustrated, exasperated and maybe even disappointed. Her tone reminds me of my old schoolteachers.

'Don't you get it? This school isn't just a building with lots of Lego and sticky-back plastic. It's my daughter's life. And my daughter's life cannot be part of your game. Plus, I wanted to ask you, how long are you planning on hanging around for? Because, if it's much longer, I'm going to have to talk to Luke. I really didn't want to bring up your name to him, it's going to be difficult and painful, but if you are settling here then I don't think I have a choice. I'm so ashamed that my actions keep hurting him.'

This last sentence was said more to herself than to me, but it was the one I heard loud and clear.

I'm stunned. There is something about Connie's calm that is far more final than her rants or threats of yesteryear. She's ashamed. She's really sorry that she might hurt Luke again by just mentioning my name.

I consider the possibility that truly she didn't agree to meet me the other night because she wanted to rake over old coals and perhaps start up a new fire, as I'd imagined. I get it. Honestly, I get it. She really has changed. It's not just an act. It's not a complicated game of hard-to-get.

I run through all our conversations since September and consider that she really never had any intention of resuming her affair with me. Maybe I've heard what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. It is possible that all she wanted was rea.s.surances about protecting her family and her future.

I stare out of the hall window. It's still raining and the droplets of water that are clinging to the pane are illuminated by the street lamps. The thousands of tiny particles make up a picture that reminds me of once when I was at a meeting in the Chrysler Building, New York. The meeting was going badly. We couldn't solve the clients'issues and several of us had snarled at one another around a meeting table for hours on end. It was a cold wet February day and as time got on it drew dark outside. The client had just asked me a difficult question. To buy time I'd stood up and walked around the meeting table and then paused to look out of the window. It was a technique I was taught on some management training programme. The idea is you don't say the first thing that comes into your head.

I remember noting the view for the first time, although surely I'd glanced out of the window hundreds of times just that afternoon, let alone on previous visits. I didn't answer the client's question (because I couldn't) but said something like, 'Whenever I'm faced with views of cities I am stunned by a sense of opportunity. So many lives. So much possibility.'My comment resonated because of its incongruous nature and maybe because of its truth and simplicity. The client thought I'd said something profound about his business choices and he was delighted.

Afterwards my buddies and my boss congratulated me on my genius bulls.h.i.+tting but I hadn't been bulls.h.i.+tting. I had been struck by a sense of possibility as I looked out of that window, and if that happened to be what the client wanted to hear, then all well and good, but in fact what was important to me was that I'd said what I wanted to say. It was my truth of the moment.

The December raindrops on the school window glisten, putting me in mind of hosts of lit windows in skysc.r.a.pers. I am overcome with a sense of possibility once again.

Suddenly it's clear to me that Connie does know me well. She does have insight into my mind and we do have a brief section of time that is common to us and us alone. But that's all we have. Connie is slamming shut a door but it's a door in the past and, by doing so, she's unlocked all the portals to my future. I'm suddenly grateful.

'Craig knows that we were once an item but he thinks it was before you married. He likes you and your family a lot, by the way. You are making a good impression. I know that's important to you. And as it happens I'm pretty much finished up with my project here and I found out today that I'm about to be posted elsewhere. Perhaps Manchester.'

'Oh,'says Connie. What else is there to say?

As relief floods her face I am once again struck by her beauty. Connie is yummy. That's one thing I haven't been deceiving myself about. She is slim, with high enough t.i.ts and a.s.s; kid-bearing hasn't plundered her body as it does so many. Her eyes are clearer than I remembered less anguished. Her skin is, what's that word they use? It's an old-fas.h.i.+oned word. I know, radiant. That's it. She's luminous. Because she's happy.

I look at her and see possibility. But she's not my possibility. And Andrea is not my possibility. Not any more. But I know it's out there. Somewhere.

'I can manage this on my own if you want to take off,'I offer. There really is no point in her staying with me. 'The damage you might cause with the saw will only serve to ruin all the good work you've done with Craig, thus far,'I joke.

Connie understands, 'Oh, OK. If you think you can cope. Maybe I'll go and see how the others are getting on with making the crowns. Even I can glue glitter on to cardboard.'

I nod.

Connie walks away. She wanders back to the gaggle of mums at the far end of the hall. They are crouching around a roll of gold material and debating how best to get three wise men costumes out of the modest piece of cloth. Connie can't resist, she peeks over her shoulder to check if I'm watching her. I am. We catch one another's gaze and I smile. She beams at me. And I almost love her.

46.

Wednesday 6 December

Lucy

I am at my desk by 7.45 a.m. I check the Dow, the FTSE and the Nikkei. I linger on the Bloomberg site to get a measure of what the markets have been doing overnight. I keep wondering if I heard her correctly. She did say Joe, didn't she? A post-coital cigarette with Joe... Spurred traders to scale back bets on how far the Federal Reserve will raise interest rates this year...But how could she know? What possible connection could Joe and Rose have? I take a gulp of coffee. The advance sent the yield on the 10-year note down to its lowest this month. Speculation mounted in the US...b.l.o.o.d.y London, everyone knows everyone. It's a lousy village...central bank will not lift borrowing costs as far as... he has a mouth the size of Bush's arms programme ...

'Lucy, Lucy, are you OK?'

I look up and realize that Mick is leaning over my desk and is talking to me.

'Sorry, I was just reading about the markets.'

'You seemed miles away.'

'It's fascinating stuff.'

'Why, what's happened?'Mick, ever the professional, a.s.sumes something major has happened in the markets. Not unreasonably he thinks that would be the only thing to work me up into such a state.

'Nothing much, actually,'I sigh.

Mick looks confused. A crease appears above his nose.

'Are you OK, Lucy?'

'I'm 'I'm about to say I'm fine. I'm about to issue the statement of contentment that I use to ward off all personal questions and that I have used repeatedly to Mick in the past month. But at that moment a messenger pops on to my screen. It's from Joe.

Sweetheart, I don't want to appear stuffy but I'm watching you flirt with Mick Harrison and I don't like it. I'm your man.

x.x.x I slam my laptop closed and look across the floor to Joe's desk. Normally I avoid his gaze, although I can feel his eyes on me pretty much constantly. Joe issues what he probably considers a s.e.xy smile it's one hundred per cent creepy.

'Have you got time for a coffee?'

'For you Princess, I'll make time.'

There are about a thousand coffee houses within spitting distance of GWH but I lead Mick at least half a mile away from the office because I'm becoming paranoid about who knows who, who's listening in to my conversations and who they are going to repeat those conversations to. I'm beginning to get a hint of the fear that must have prevailed during the McCarthy era.

Mick waits until we are seated in the corner of the quietest, dingiest cafe I can find and then says, 'I'm glad you've agreed we need to talk.'

I start to empty sachets of sugar into my double espresso. When I've emptied a fourth packet Mick puts his hand on mine and says, 'You don't take sugar.'

We sit in silence for a few more moments. There's so much I want to say to Mick but at the same time I don't want to say anything at all. If I apologize for my clumsy attempt at seducing him at the party, we will have to discuss the fact that we've nurtured a low-grade flirtation for many months now a flirtation that I took seriously and he didn't.

If I tell him that Joe is stalking me and making my working life impossible I will have to confess to having had s.e.x with Joe. It's too horrible. Too demeaning. I can't imagine Mick ever calling me Princess again. Besides, do I trust him? He might run straight back to the office, take all the men out for lunch so he can spread the gossip and by close of play today my reputation around the City's financial markets will be in tatters.

If I tell him that my husband's ex-wife is threatening me, possibly about to blackmail me, I'll have to allude to the fact that my marriage is in trouble. Although arguably points one and two say that much, fairly clearly, anyway.

'Lucy, I would like to apologize for my behaviour at the office party. I was wondering if we could put it behind us. To be honest my recollections of the evening are fairly vague. I was quite drunk too. So if either of us said anything or did anything that either of us is embarra.s.sed about, we needn't be because I don't remember it.'

Mick has clearly practised that speech. The speed with which he delivered it suggests he is keen to plummet through his rehea.r.s.ed apology as efficiently as possible. It is very brave of him to deliver it in the first place. I'm sure he doesn't want to have to linger or repeat himself.

I smile at him with a true sense of grat.i.tude. Mick was not drunk at the party. He was as sober as a judge. His claim that he can't remember much is undermined by the fact that he can remember I was drunk. He said that he was drunk too. However, I can see that Mick has given our situation a lot of thought and decided that sweeping the incident under the s.h.a.gpile is the kindest option. I'm grateful. It shows that he is a genuine friend. I beam at him.

'Oh, Mick, we both know that it's not you who owes me an apology. It's the other way round. I was the one who was totally out of order. I'm sorry that I put you in an awkward position.'

Even though his apology has made me feel I'm slos.h.i.+ng about in the milk of human kindness, I struggle to be too much more explicit. It's degrading.

'I was very drunk and not thinking clearly. I am sorry that I '

'Tried to get me into the sack.'

'Mick!'I glance hastily around the cafe. He's grinning. I guess it's better if we can laugh about it.

'That's what I'm offended about, Lucy. You had to have your beer goggles on before you'd make a move on me.'

He's still grinning but we both know that there is an element of truth in what he's saying. I'd never have tried to seduce Mick if I hadn't gotten so blinding. My drunkenness is at once the get-out clause and the insult. It's a complicated situation. Luckily, Mick is a simple man and defuses the potential intricacies of hurt feelings, loose morals and tricky consequences by laughing at me.

'It's me who should be offended you turned me down,'I joke back.

'I like you too much to s.h.a.g you. I rarely s.h.a.g women I actually like.'