A Minor Indiscretion (17 page)

C
hristian has very strange CDs. They are stacked up in a Pisa-esque tower on the floor by his bed. They include:
The Friends of Rachel Worth
by The Go Betweens,
Art & Life
by Beenie Man,
Tourist
by Saint Germain,
In the Mode,
Ronnie Size & Reprazent and
The Marshall Mathers LP
by Eminem. I have never heard of any of these except Eminem, and I've only heard of him because the
Daily Mail
said he should be banned—or was it hung, drawn and quartered? Anyway, I dutifully banned Tanya from buying any of his records. She told me I was pathetic and that all her friends had them anyway because her friends' parents weren't neurotic fascists. I'm going to stop buying that bloody newspaper.

I do hope that you haven't heard of any of them either—otherwise I will feel totally uncool and lacking in hip. The last CD I bought was
White Ladder
by David Gray. This is the CD that all thirty-something people have in their collections at the moment. Much like
Brothers in Arms
by Dire Straits was the 1980s must-have album, which was there to be displayed rather than played. We also possess, along with 99 percent of my age group, Nigel Kennedy's
The Four Seasons
and
Songs from the Blue Turtle
(which I always thought was a ridiculous title) by Sting. I'd never heard
White Ladder
when I bought it, but someone said I should get it. Probably the
Daily Mail.
So I did. I'm still not sure
if I like it. Tanya said it's sad, old gits' music. I think she might be right.

This is not the normal bedroom of a young man, I would suspect, apart from the cheese-fragrance sheets, which we've now removed for fumigation. The furniture is heavy, ornately carved mahogany, massive pieces that sit easily in the vast space of the room. The new duvet is best described as army combat camouflage in design—muted shades of khaki, beige and sludge green. It looks ill at ease on the four-poster bed, but then there is a commando bursting forth on the ceiling only marginally hampered by the Edwardian plaster ceiling rose, which doesn't look like a polystyrene replica from B&Q. You could say it picks it out quite nicely. There is a Sly Stallone–type figure lurking on the wall near the tallboy of sturdy drawers, bare-chested, bandanna-ed and brandishing a machete. I feel like I'm going to be stabbed every time I reach for a pair of knickers. The words
aaargh, eeeeow,
et cetera, drawn in bloodred, are plastered all over what looks to be ferociously expensive Farrow & Ball paints in traditional country house colors—magnolia with a hefty price tag. Despite being a designer, I imagine Kath Brown's corsets would ping at the sight of Christian's creation. I can feel my own stretching at their constraints. Only an artistic mind could see this “working.” I must make more attempts to quash Elliott's desire for drama or he'll be wanting to do this to his bedroom, and I'm happier for him to stick with his Bob the Builder motif just now. Despite the shock of it all and the fact it isn't the most relaxed color scheme I've ever seen in a bedroom, it's fantastically painted and it's clear that Christian truly does have talent—or is completely warped.

The most disconcerting thing about the room, though, is that there is a drawing of Rebecca hung above the bed. At least I think it's Rebecca—I daren't look too close and I haven't the nerve to ask Christian. She's nude, in the drawing. Not soft nude like Rubens's nudes, all round-bottomed and rosy pink, coyly smiling out from the canvas. No, this is a legs splayed, belly in, breasts thrusting, head thrown back sort of pose more commonly associated with magazines of the top-shelf variety. It's raunchy, rude and raucous, and I'm pretty sure it
is
Rebecca. This confirms my suspicion that she and Christian were more than just old friends, and I don't know if I'm happy about sleeping beneath it. I'll let you know.

I should have thought to bring the sketch that Christian did of me in my hastily packed suitcase, lest Ed should decide to pin it up and throw darts at it. I could have propped it up on the mantelpiece so that, at least, I have some sort of presence in this room. I might consider getting it framed so that Christian can hang it up next to Rebecca as a sort of mini-gallery of conquests—it would save him cutting notches in his bedpost, I suppose.

My new roommate has budged up all his stuff in his wardrobe and mine is hanging cozily next to it. God, even that feels weird. The only closet I've ever shared before has been Ed's, and it takes some getting used to opening a cupboard and seeing your blouses next to strange trousers.

I feel very uncomfortable here, generally. This morning I couldn't go down to start breakfast without my makeup on because I'd have looked about three hundred years older than anyone else. The boys both sat in nothing but boxer shorts while they ate their toast, and I tell you, when you've reached a certain age, that is a very unsettling way to start the day. Rebecca was, thankfully, fully clothed and came complete with a black cloud. I wonder if Tanya will grow up to be like her—she is definitely showing the potential. I had a terrible stomachache by the time I'd forced down two rounds of toast, and it's still growling like a demented wolf even now. I've no appetite and I feel like throwing up, but other than that I'm great.

Rebecca is something in advertising. I think it must be something pretty lowly, because she spends an awful lot of time saying how important she is. And important people don't do that, do they? Important people just bask in it. Robbie has gone off to his shift at an HMV record store, and he gets quite good staff discounts, so maybe that's why Christian has so many weird CDs. That leaves us here alone. I have a terrible confession to make—yes, another one. I phoned Kath Brown this morning…well, I phoned the studio before I knew she'd be in, and left a message on the answerphone saying I was sick and would be off work for a few days. This is the first time I've done this, ever, ever, ever. I feel absolutely dreadful, to the point of nausea, so perhaps I am sick after all. Life has a funny sense of humor sometimes.

Christian has arranged for an artist friend to take over his pitch in Covent Garden for the week so that we can spend some qual
ity time together. So here we are, doing just that. I'm lying on Christian's army combat bed and he is snuggled in behind me. We've been here for hours downloading each other's lives and backgrounds, and from this silly shaky start I can feel myself falling more deeply for him. He has such a verve for life and an enthusiasm for so many things that I'm sure I didn't when I was twenty-three. I'm not sure that I do now.

I've taken my wedding, engagement and eternity rings off, because it just didn't feel right wearing them while I'm in bed with another man. They're sitting in a little ceramic dish perched on the bedside table, staring accusingly at me.

Christian twirls my hair round his finger. “How were the kids when you phoned last night?”

“Not great,” I say. “Elliott's missing me desperately. Tanya's sulking and Thomas is hardly saying anything. He's the one that worries me most.”

“They'll survive,” Christian says reassuringly. “Kids are hardy little beggars.”

I nod, but I don't really agree with him. The only knocks Elliott has had to deal with are the ones where he constantly walks into things. “I'm seeing them on Saturday.”

“That's nice.”

I prop myself up on my elbow and turn to Christian. “Would you like to come with me?”

“Where?”

“To meet the kids. Would you like to come?”

Christian backs away from me slightly and holds up his hand. “Whoa!”

I laugh. “You don't have to! I thought it would be nice. But you're right, it's probably too soon anyway. They'd be happier with just me there. It was a silly suggestion.”

“No. No,” Christian protests. “You're right. I should meet them. I just hadn't thought this through. I mean, it stands to reason that if you're going to be part of my life, then they will be too.”

This sounds far too complicated and I wish I'd never started this discussion. I've been part of a family for so long that it never occurred to me that it would be a big deal for someone who hasn't.

“There's one thing I ought to tell you, Ali.” Christian grimaces. “I hate kids.”

“How can you hate kids?” I say. “You are one!”

Christian looks hurt. “That's not fair, Ali.”

“I'm sorry.” I kiss his lips. “You're a big kid!”

We have a tickle fight for ten minutes just to prove it, but he forgets I'm a mother of three children and can, therefore, tickle anyone under the table, and Christian eventually concedes defeat. We both lie spent and breathing heavily.

“My kids are different,” I say. “They're lovely. They're the best kids in the world.” And a lump the size of Birmingham lodges in my throat.

Christian holds me to him. “I'll come and see them.”

“You don't have to.”

He smiles that knee-trembling smile that can make you believe anything. “I want to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. There's just one condition.”

“Name it,” I say.

“On no account must we go near a McDonald's.”

“I can assure you, the last place on earth my children will want to go if there's a free meal on offer is McDonald's.”

Christian snuggles behind me again and starts to kiss my neck. I have a very good feeling about Saturday. Thousands of single-parent families do this every week, and it doesn't do them any harm. Does it? I shake any negative thoughts away. The sun will shine, the kids will be adorable, they'll
love
Christian and we'll all have a great time together. And there won't be a hamburger in sight.

O
rla was bossing everyone around as Ed jogged as fast as he could down the uneven towpath without falling into the Grand Union Canal. She was tapping her foot and pointing her pen at Trevor, who was looking very hangdog. The rest of the crew were lurking by the canal gates with polystyrene cups of coffee, cigarettes and cowed expressions. It looked as though they had all been troubled by what had become known in the company as Orla's Disease—fleas in the ear.

“Damndamndamndamn,” Ed muttered, banging his best aluminum briefcase against his knees as he ran.

Wavelength were making a video about safety for the British Waterways Authority, with the enthralling title
Walking the Inland Waterways in Safety
and he should have been here an hour ago. It was set just north of Watford, where the canal meandered through a landscape that was pleasantly rural rather than the grimy, grubby urban backdrop that London provided. It was a promotional feature that had taken a disproportionate amount of time to set up in comparison with their meager budget, and Ed wanted to get it finished as soon as possible and pack up. This was also due to the fact that for the past week his days had been governed by the need to get home in time to collect Elliott.

That he was late was also largely due to his son. Recently, El
liott had decided that he should make some sort of clothing statement about his personality every morning in the manner of Quentin Crisp and spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the bathroom mirror selecting which particular one of his seventeen Pokémon T-shirts he would wear to suit his mood. Ed's chosen color would have been black. Deep, dark, potentially homicidal black. No amount of cajoling could persuade Elliott to grab the first one that came to hand and just wear it whatever like real men did.

To top it all, when the clock had swallowed twenty minutes and Elliott was finally happy with his choice of dress for the day, Nicola Jones was invariably waiting for them at the school entrance as he deposited the fashion-conscious Elliott to her care. She seemed intent, presumably out of sympathy for Elliott's plight, on keeping Ed talking for ages. It had taken him ten minutes to edge away from her today and that was good going, because what with her fluffy hair, her breathy voice and her singsong laugh, she was quite a difficult person to leave. Subsequently, Ed had been late for work every day this week.

He was going to have to do something about it—the first thing being to sort out this silly mess with Ali. Orla looked up as he stumbled toward her, breathless. Her face was as dark as her suit, her lips pinched as if she'd been kissing a lemon. Correction, the first thing he needed to do was get back on track with Orla. Alicia and his marriage, at this moment, came a very close second.

His colleague, and newly acquired confidante, had been very busy this week, rushing in and out of the office at breakneck speed. They'd only managed to snatch snippets of conversation together, which had been restricted to purely work matters because there had always been other people around to overhear and he'd never found discussing his personal life in public very easy. Ed had apologized for standing Orla up, but he hadn't really had the chance to tell her the full story. And he'd been meaning to phone her every night, but somehow the evenings were eaten away by cooking, washing, ironing, homework and eventual exhaustion.

Orla pushed back her crisp, buttoned cuff and looked at her watch pointedly. “You don't mind that we've started without you? I thought we might lose the light.” It was ten-thirty in the morning. Orla might not have much of a sense of humor, but she gave great sarcasm.

“Sorry.” Ed puffed and tried to look pathetic and helpless in a masterful, in-control way. “I'll explain everything later.”

“Yes,” Orla said. “You will.” She turned back to continue hounding Trevor.

Ed dumped his briefcase on the ground. There was nothing remotely useful in it, unless you counted yesterday's copy of the
Independent,
but he thought it made a good impression and, in a week where the rest of his life was happily falling apart of its own volition, it suddenly was very important to him to make a good impression. He wanted Orla to know that her trust in him was not misplaced and that her judgment of his sublime, but so far concealed professional talents had been totally sound. And it wasn't just because he was frightened of her, as was everyone else, but now he had good reason to want to impress her. If his aim to get back to Harrison Ford territory was ever going to be achieved, Orla was the one shining light on the horizon who could illuminate the tiny crack in the door he so much needed.

The man from the British Waterways Authority was big, bellowing and bearded. Appropriately named Mr. Rivers, he was standing on the canal bank posturing and wringing his hands with pent-up impatience while Trevor was struggling to fit him with a radio mike. Ed's heart sank as he realized they were in for a long and painful morning trying to make a video with a man whose previous acting experience was probably restricted to small roles in his local amateur dramatics group. He also looked like the type who would be first in the queue to volunteer for pantomime dame come
Cinderella
time. Ed was always deeply suspicious of these butch, bristled types who whipped on women's clothing given the slightest excuse. He let a sigh escape into the fresh morning air. Come back, singing tomatoes—all is forgiven!

“I'd like to go through the Waterways Code part,” Orla said, and Mr. Rivers nodded forcibly in agreement, being pleasant, as they all were, at this stage in the day. Len the cameraman and Mike the sound technician shuffled reluctantly away from the sanctuary of the canal lock gate, where they had been quietly helping two Nike-clad boys to let a battered, but brightly painted narrowboat through, and took up position. Mr. Rivers straightened his tie. Ed hovered because there was nothing really for him to do now that Orla had taken charge and he wasn't really feeling
manly enough to wrest control from her. So he fidgeted about behind everyone and got in the way.

“From the top,” Orla suggested.

Mr. Rivers straightened his tie again.

“And—
action!
” Orla walked backward along the towpath, following the script on her clipboard and smiling widely in an attempt to make Mr. Rivers feel comfortable and relaxed as he launched into his speech about the joys of water. Mike and Len shuffled along next to Orla with the videocam rolling and the sound boom being buffeted by the wind, avoiding the outcrops of brambles and stinging nettles while simultaneously trying not to step in dog poo. Ed trailed behind her, trying to look usefully decorative.

Mr. Rivers went into David Bellamy overdrive. “Waterways are beautiful things.” Orla smiled widely. Mr. Rivers grimaced tightly back. Ed studied the green slime frothing delicately with what might be chemical waste that formed the Grand Union Canal. “But take care and watch out for hidden danger.” Orla grinned. Mr. Rivers, encouraged, pointed at an imaginary but potentially dangerous thing with a suitably serious expression. “Not all towpaths afford easy, carefree walking.”

Orla smiled sympathetically. Rivers was really getting into his stride now. Ed noticed that the narrowboat had cleared the lock and was chugging serenely toward them. On its side in yellow lettering he saw for the first time the words ESCAPE! CANAL HOLIDAYS FOR YOUNG OFFENDERS. Someone had painted out YOUNG OFFENDERS and graffitied-in, YOBBOS! On the roof of the narrowboat several young men, presumably the aforementioned offenders and certainly yobbos, had gathered. Most of them looked like they had very recently escaped. Ed's nostrils filled with the scent of trouble. Orla and Mr. Rivers carried on, oblivious.

“Keep noise to a minimum. Be courteous and considerate to all other canal-users,” advised Mr. Rivers earnestly.

At this moment, the young men on top of the narrowboat dropped their trousers and waved their bottoms in the air. “You're a bunch of fucking arseholes!” they shouted in unison to the tune of the conga. “A bunch of fucking arseholes! Da, da, da, da. Da, da, da,
da!
” A beer can was jettisoned from the barge, hitting Mr. Rivers squarely on the head and showering him with a sprinkling
of froth—not unlike that floating on his canal. Then the bared bottoms sailed on by, captured on film for the authorities by Mike.

“And—
cut!
” Orla said, showing one of her fingers to the jeering teenagers as they departed and shouting, “Assholes yourself!” after them.

She mopped the dazed and trembling Mr. Rivers down with a pristine white handkerchief and straightened his tie. “Let's start again from the top. Everyone ready?” Everyone nodded. “And—
action.
”

“Waterways are places of beauty…” he said with a tremulous voice.

“Cut, cut!” Orla waved her arms. “Let's skip that bit and pick it up further down. Take it from… ‘Watch out for…'”

Mr. Rivers composed himself and straightened his tie. He bared his teeth, jaw locked, at the camera. “Watch out for concealed mooring pins, ropes or other discarded objects that may lie dangerously across your path.”

Orla smiled and some of the tension sagged out of Mr. Rivers, the pain of being bombed with a beer can receding in the face of Orla's urgings. His voice grew stronger. “If a person accidentally falls in the water, don't automatically jump in after them. Lie down and try to reach them with a stick. Or throw them a rope.” Mr. Rivers demonstrated both maneuvers admirably to the back of the stalls. “Crouch down, so that you are not pulled in yourself, and find something inflatable to keep them afloat until help arrives.”

Orla was nodding and smiling.

Mr. Rivers smiled back. “In any emergency situation always stay calm. Think before you act.”

This was going well now. The sun was shining, the birds were tweeting, the yobbos had yobbed off. Ed stretched his neck with relief. A heron landed majestically on the far bank. Waterways were, indeed, places of beauty. Orla smiled benignly at Mr. Rivers again—just before she tripped over Ed's briefcase, which he had abandoned earlier right in the middle of the towpath.

“Orla!” he shouted in warning, scaring the heron away.

But before Ed could reach out to her, she had stumbled forward and cannoned into Mike and Len, knocking both them and their recording equipment into the murky depths of the canal. Orla followed shortly with a loud splash and an earsplitting scream.
Mr. Rivers rushed forward to help and she grabbed at his hand, pulling him in after her.

Trevor ran up and down the bank, tearing at his hair and screaming, “They're all going to drown! They're all going to drown!”

This was clearly a state of emergency. Ed, fixed rigid, deep in his state of shock, tried to keep calm and think before he acted. He crouched down and looked round him for a stick or a piece of rope. As he saw Orla struggling to the bank of the canal, coughing up green water and with slime plastering her hair to her head, he realized that he had nothing remotely inflatable about his person and that any help that was going to arrive had better be bloody quick.