Some Girls Do (27 page)

‘Can I ask you something?’ he said, his tone wary.

‘Yeah.’

‘This guy you’ve been writing about recently – the Artist. Is he real?’

‘Oh.’ Claire thought quickly. But she had no reason to lie. It
was almost a relief that there was something in her blog that was at least partly true, and it wasn’t as if Mark expected her to be celibate – quite the opposite. ‘Yes, he’s real,’ she said.

‘And he’s around at the moment?’

‘Um … yeah, that part is true. I’ve been … seeing him lately.’ She blushed.

‘Well … maybe you’ll end up with him.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said quickly. ‘He’s not boyfriend material.’

‘Right.’ Something like relief passed across Mark’s face. ‘Well, you could always meet someone new,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully.

‘Do you have anyone particular in mind?’

He smiled. ‘Call him Mr Right.’

‘And what would Mr Right be like?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Decent guy, likes cats. Makes a mean lemon drizzle cake, world-famous nachos …’

She laughed. ‘It would be a good way of wrapping up the blog, I guess. Because I wouldn’t want to tell everyone what Mr Right and I were doing. It’d be private.’

‘Do you plan to stop writing the blog?’

‘I think it’s run its course. I’m almost out of stuff to write about. Maybe it’s time to give NiceGirl her happy-ever-after and let her walk off into the sunset.’

‘Well, you might want to consider the timing of that. Publication is scheduled for next spring …’

Next spring sounded so far away. Claire wondered what her life would be like then. Would she be with Mark? Could he really be her Mr Right?

Claire had tried to sex up her wardrobe a bit for her visit, but she was glad she hadn’t strayed too far out of her comfort zone as she dressed for dinner that night. She was nervous enough as it was. She felt like she was going on a first date. But her little lace
shift dress was a happy compromise – sexy, but not so blatant that it made her uncomfortable.

The restaurant was a cosy little neighbourhood bistro, where Mark was obviously well known, and she relaxed as they chatted over the delicious food and wine. She wondered what date they were on now as she sipped coffee. This definitely felt like a date, but she wasn’t sure if last night counted – or did the whole weekend count as one? It was on the tip of her tongue to ask Mark, but then she remembered what Yvonne had said: ‘We have all the power.’ It was her rule, so it was up to her to decide what counted. She didn’t want things to move too fast – she still had a lot to learn.

‘Well, this definitely feels like a date,’ she said lightly. ‘But I don’t think I can count the cemetery – lovely as it was.’

Mark smiled. ‘What about last night?’

‘A night in?’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s what old married couples do, so I don’t think I can count it.’

‘Even a night in with world-famous nachos?’

‘Even then. Sorry.’

‘Damn,’ he said, but he didn’t seem put out.

Claire suddenly felt like she really did have all the power, and it felt nice.

Mark took her hand as they walked the short distance back to his flat.

‘Nightcap?’ he offered, when they were inside.

‘Yes, please.’

He poured them both some Amaretto and they sat side by side on the sofa.

‘Well, here’s to second dates,’ he said, clinking his glass with hers, but instead of drinking, he leaned in and kissed her.

At least kissing was something she knew how to do, so Claire put her free arm around his neck and kissed him back enthusiastically. His lips felt warm and soft, he was a good kisser. His eyes were dark as he pulled away. They both took a sip of
their drinks, then simultaneously placed their glasses on the coffee table and started kissing again, sweet, almond-flavoured kisses.

She recognised the almost imperceptible shift, like a gear change, when Mark’s breathing deepened and things became more heated. This was the point where Luca would start pulling at her clothes, when his hands would become urgent on her body, and she would get impatient for the feel of his skin against hers. Her hand reached out instinctively to unbutton Mark’s shirt, but she stopped herself, instead placing it firmly on his chest and moving away.

Mark sighed as he sat back and picked up his drink again. He smiled at her lazily, his eyes on her lips, then tossed back the rest of his Amaretto. ‘Time for bed, I think,’ he said ruefully, and just for a moment Claire wished she was going with him. But it was too soon. Instead, she went to bed alone, slightly frustrated and feeling guilty for wishing Luca was there to finish what Mark had started.

Chapter Eighteen

On Monday Claire was meeting Catherine for a drink after work. She was just arriving at the Temple Bar pub when Catherine came up the street pushing Paddington in yet another new buggy.

‘Hi.’ Catherine greeted her with a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Just let me get rid of this thing before we go in.’ She lifted Paddington out of the buggy and hunkered down to stuff him into a large holdall she had in the bottom, zipping it up.

‘Will he be all right in there?’ Claire asked.

‘Oh, he’ll be fine,’ Catherine said, as she straightened. ‘He’s used to it. I get funny looks if I bring him into a bar.’

‘Well, it’s handy you can stuff him into a bag without anyone calling Social Services.’

‘I know. I’m blessed,’ she said distractedly, as she struggled with the buggy, pulling levers and kicking it as she tried to get it to fold.

‘Oh, sod this,’ she said, lifting it and whacking it down on the pavement in frustration. She looked around them at the crowd milling through the busy street. Then her eyes lit on a woman slumped against the side of a building, sitting on a blanket, begging from passers-by.

‘Do you think she’d like a state-of-the-art pushchair?’ she asked Claire. Without waiting for an answer, she ran across to the woman, pushing it in front of her. Claire watched as they spoke. There was a lot of gesticulating, and it looked like they were having an argument. Finally, Catherine bent down and put something in the woman’s hand, then left the buggy with her and came back to Claire.

‘Well, it was a hard sell, but I managed to get rid of it,’ she
said. ‘She only wanted a fiver to take it off my hands.’ She picked up the holdall. ‘Right, shall we go?’

‘You gave her money as well?’ Claire asked. ‘That buggy must be worth a couple of hundred euro.’

‘Try five,’ Catherine said, opening the door of the bar. ‘I’m just glad to be rid of it. I never want to see another buggy as long as I live.’

They fought their way through the after-work crowd to the depths of the pub. There were no empty seats, but they found two stools at the bar and were served quickly by a young girl with an Australian accent.

‘I shouldn’t even be having this,’ Catherine said, as the girl put their gin and tonic in front of them.

‘Oh? Why not?’ Claire asked.

‘I have news,’ Catherine said, with a secretive smile. Then she placed a hand over her stomach.

The Australian girl threw her a dirty look before walking away.

‘Oh my God!’ Claire gasped. ‘You’re pregnant!’

‘Yup.’

‘How far along are you?’

‘Oh, only three or four weeks. I haven’t decided exactly yet, but very early days – too soon to announce it on my blog or anything. But I can tell you.’

‘Well, congratulations!’

‘Thanks!’

They clinked glasses.

‘So, tell all,’ Catherine said, leaning forward avidly. ‘How did your weekend with Mark go?’

‘It was really nice.’ Claire smiled. ‘I had such a good time. His place is lovely. He made me his world-famous nachos, took me to Highgate Cemetery and baked lemon drizzle cake. He’s so thoughtful. And I met his cat, Millie. We discussed ideas for the book. Oh, and he wants to read my novel as soon as it’s ready.’

‘That’s great! And was there more kissing?’

‘Yes.’ Claire smiled bashfully. ‘There was. Quite a lot of kissing.’ There had been more kissing on Sunday when he’d brought her to the airport. She couldn’t help smiling when she thought of it.

‘Anything else?’

‘No, just kissing. I’m not ready to go any further than that yet. So it’s great that I came up with the five-date rule. I can relax and just enjoy being with him for now.’

‘Yeah, that was a stroke of genius,’ Catherine said, poking her ice with a swizzle stick. ‘And you have the distance thing, so that slows things down a bit too.’

‘And five dates is just a minimum. It’s not a guarantee or anything.’

‘So are you two dates down now? Or is it three because you were with him two nights at the weekend?’

‘No, it’s two. I only counted Saturday night as a date.’

‘So, how’s it going with the other guy? Are you making progress?’

‘I’m starting to get the hang of the basics, but I still have a lot to learn.’

‘But isn’t it a bit …’

‘What?’

‘Well … awkward. Embarrassing. Having sex with him like that – in cold blood, as it were.’

‘I would have thought so, but it’s not really. It doesn’t feel like that – cold, I mean. Luca makes it easy. He’s really nice.’

‘Cute?’

‘Very. Gorgeous, actually.’

‘Well, that helps. And you like him?’

‘Yeah. He’s surprisingly sweet.’

‘Do you
like
like him?’

‘Oh, no!’ Claire frowned. ‘It’s not like that. I mean I love, you know … being with him.’

‘Shagging him?’

‘Yeah.’ Claire smiled. ‘To put it bluntly. And we’re having all
this …
sex
,’ she said, her mouth automatically widening in a grin at the thought of all that sex. ‘So I can’t help feeling close to him in a way. But Luca and I – we’re chalk and cheese.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s an artist – a painter. We have nothing in common, really. I mean, I don’t know if he reads, and I know nothing about art.’

‘I bet you know what you like.’

Claire laughed. ‘Yeah. And his paintings are amazing.’

‘Maybe you have more in common than you think.’

‘Well, let’s see.’ Claire tilted her head to the side. ‘We both eat food – and breathe air.’

‘You’re both creative.’

‘I suppose.’ Claire had never thought of it like that. But to her, Luca’s single-minded commitment to his art only made them seem more dissimilar. She admired his dedication, his willingness to make sacrifices to devote himself to his painting, but she didn’t really understand it. She didn’t think she could ever be like that. She liked her creature comforts too much.

‘Anyway, I don’t think it’s all that important to have stuff in common. I have bugger-all in common with Hazel, really. Look at the child thing, for instance. She doesn’t want any. I already have one phantom child and another on the way.’

‘Well, you’re both women. That’s quite big.’

‘There is that.’

‘I do like Luca, but I just don’t think of him that way. He’s far too wild for me. And it’s an artificial situation. We’d never have got together organically.’

In the normal course of events, her and Luca’s paths would never have crossed again after that one night in Ivan’s bar. They wouldn’t have gravitated towards each other. Even if she’d slept with him when she’d brought him back to her house, it would have been a one-off. If it hadn’t been for her bizarre proposition, they would never have got to know each other properly. She would have made assumptions about him that weren’t true. Maybe he’d have made assumptions of his own about her. The
thought that they would have remained strangers to each other seemed odd now, and made her feel sad. She liked Luca, and she was glad she had got to know him. But they still weren’t a natural fit. They didn’t belong together – not like her and Mark.

‘Anyway, like I told you, Luca isn’t interested in relationships. Total man-whore, remember? He likes to spread the love.’

When they had almost finished their drinks, Catherine asked Claire if she had time for another.

‘Better not,’ Claire said, glancing at her watch. ‘I want to pop in to see Mum, and then I’m going over to Luca’s for the night.’

‘Another lesson?’

‘Yep.’

‘Probably just as well.’ Catherine sighed. ‘I need to get this piece on buggies finished – the deadline’s the day after tomorrow.’ She drained her drink, and they stood to go. ‘A fantasist’s work is never done.’

Claire’s days followed the same routine for the rest of the week. She would visit her mother on the way home from work, then go straight to Luca’s, where they would have dinner together and chat about their days, then spend the rest of the night having sex. She usually spoke to Mark or emailed him at some stage in the day, and it was like having a boyfriend, only he was split in two: there was Mark, whom she talked to, flirted with and was slowly falling for, and Luca, who took care of her physical needs. It was a strange set-up, and it would be nice when she could be with Mark and have the whole package in one person. But in the meantime she was enjoying herself, happier and more satisfied with her life than she’d been in a long time. She loved having sex with Luca, and she loved the emotional connection she had with Mark and their long, chatty phone calls when they would talk about everything and nothing, from what they had for lunch to political and religious beliefs. Most often, the talk turned to books.

‘Favourite childhood book?’ he asked her one night.

‘Heidi
! No … maybe
The Secret Garden
. Or
Anne of Green Gables
…
Ballet Shoes
… Oh, God, this is hard. There are too many good ones.’

‘Well, you said
Heidi
first.’

‘Okay, I’ll go with
Heidi
.’

‘Favourite detective?’

‘That’s easy. Lord Peter Wimsey.’

‘Good choice!’

‘You?’

‘Hm … I’ll have to say Miss Marple. A virago in tweed.’

‘Edgy!’

‘I’m so uncool. Romantic hero?’

‘Mr Darcy. I’m such a cliché. Romantic heroine?’

‘I feel I should say Dorothea Brooke but—’

‘Too earnest. And completely deluded. She’d never have you – you’re far too suitable.’