As Weekends Go (Choc Lit) (29 page)

‘Friday night at last,’ mumbled Rebecca to herself, tucking her bare feet beneath her on the sofa in front of the TV, a merited glass of chilled rosé in her left hand. She couldn’t have cherry-picked a better week to keep her mind off her muddled personal life than this past one. Well, during the daylight hours anyway.

Shirley next door had requested some help with flyers and posters advertising an Afternoon Tea event being held at her local bowls club, which had led to a daughter of one of the members asking if Rebecca could also produce some rough designs for her son’s twenty-first birthday party invitations. Rebecca had immersed herself in illustrating, playing around with the graphics on her PC, scanning, shading, fancy lettering, various layouts and backgrounds. She’d been looking to invest in a laptop or notebook too; something she could carry with her whilst ‘on the go’ with future freelance plans in mind, maximise her options, etc, but Greg had declared he’d source her one with a top processor and high resolution via his work.

How long ago had he promised her that though?

On Wednesday night, she’d whizzed in to see her parents. Her mum had baulked at the sight of her, pointing out the shadows under Rebecca’s eyes, her loose-fitting jeans, airing her discontent yet again about Greg cancelling the holiday to Cyprus.

It was only the thought of their stunned faces gawping back at her that had prevented Rebecca from telling them everything else.

She rubbed her chest, easing the burn of indigestion. All she’d eaten today was a boiled egg and a handful of almonds. She’d had the appetite of a sparrow all week. Greg hadn’t wanted dinner tonight. He’d told her on the phone earlier that he wouldn’t be home before ten o’clock.

She left her glass on the smallest of their nest of tables and walked over to the corner unit, removing the box set of photo albums from the second shelf down. She sat cross-legged on the floor, opening album number one before her – a selection of wedding snaps taken mainly at the evening reception by various guests who’d kindly printed off copies for them.

Nothing staged about any of these shots. People captured, arms aloft, mid-dance, mid-chorus, fillings on show, scoffing and quaffing at the buffet and bar in their best finery.

She stared at a photo of her and Greg, cheeks fused together, faces beaming at the camera. She ran her thumb over the glossy image. Despite their unconventional, slow burn romance, they looked so happy, so full of aspirations, so united. Rebecca had truly believed he loved her and valued their aims for the future, his confidence regained, pride restored, with Nina very much ancient history.

Now the fears she’d long-harboured for their marriage had trebled. They weren’t minor fractures, they were gaping great chasms. So many additional question marks over Greg and Nina. What, ultimately, did he expect from the woman? Respect? Admiration? Recognition? A grovelingly humble apology? Something else, entirely? How many chapters to their story had Rebecca missed?

She thought back to the previous weekend’s do in Manchester. Far from being a pair of warring ex-lovers who now tolerated each other for business reasons only, the two of them had appeared totally in synch with one another, physically, socially and intellectually.

They gelled.

Bit like she and Alex had in York.

Rebecca blocked the inevitable afterthoughts.

Where would she be a year from now? Who knew how rutted the ride ahead would be?

She glanced down at the photos again. What was it Dad had said to her on Wednesday evening, when Mum had nipped into the kitchen to fetch Bailey one of his doggie chews?
‘You’re not hiding anything from us, are you, Becky?’
He’d given her that fatherly look, the one balanced somewhere between respecting his adult daughter’s privacy, and wanting to quiz and protect his little girl.

Her silence had fed him his answer.

They’d met each other halfway across the lounge.
‘Dad, I’m fine,’
she’d fibbed, snuggling into his comforting hug; his navy blue and white striped cotton polo top absorbing any giveaway eye-watering.

She so loved her parents.

How disappointed would they be if exposed to the truth? Not just to the full extent of her woes with Greg, but about her involvement with Alex.

Involvement.

It sounded so improper. So open to scorn.

Deep down though, Rebecca knew the overriding concern of her parents would be her happiness.

She stared down at the smiling image of the man who’d hugged her so tightly on Wednesday night – proud father of the bride – and whispered, ‘Dad, I’m scared.’

Rebecca could see Greg’s reflection in the French doors as he walked across the conservatory towards her on Saturday morning. He was wearing a pair of black tracksuit bottoms and nothing else, apart from a big smile. His ‘I know things have been really rocky between us, but I want sex now!’ big smile.

She couldn’t bear the thought of another argument with him.

‘That’s where you’re hiding,’ he said, slipping his arms around her waist from behind, and shoving his hands in the side-pockets of her jeans. ‘Why are you up and dressed so early on a Saturday? Please tell me there isn’t some long-standing family engagement we’re required at.’

Typical of him to be so bloody normal.

‘Yes. Our youngest niece’s five-hour-long ballet competition,’ Rebecca teased, mentally growling at his apathetic delivery of the word ‘family’. ‘You’ve been nominated head judge.’

‘Oh, goodie!’ Greg’s hands burrowed further.

‘Er … like you’ve ever attended any of our nieces’ and nephews’ activities.’

‘All right, grumpy!’ Greg twanged Rebecca’s knicker elastic. ‘So, what are we really doing today? I still don’t know why you’re up so early. It’s only ten to seven. Come back to bed. We need to soothe away some of that stress of yours.’

Oh, dear!

‘The reason I’ve been pottering around down here since five o’clock,’ she said, stalling his ‘about to wander even further’ hands by covering them with her own, ‘is because a certain person who didn’t come home until gone midnight in the end, switched on the downstairs TV and nodded off, leaning against the remote control volume button.’

‘Who,
moi?
’

‘I thought I was dreaming. I could hear these voices going on about season ticket costs. I realised they were sports presenters.’ She felt him laugh into her hair. ‘It was that loud, Shirley next door must have heard it. I came downstairs at two o’clock to investigate, and nearly front-somersaulted over your flippin’ trolley case. You left it smack in the middle of the hallway. Honestly, you woke up, went to bed, and started snoring inside two minutes.’

‘Yes, well, forget all that. New footie season starts today. Not Palace and the rest of the big league, admittedly, that’s next weekend.’

Yes, with Alex’s team kicking off proceedings live on TV.

Rebecca had already swatted up on it.

She tensed as Greg’s unshaven chin lightly chafed the back of her neck.

‘Come upstairs for a cuddle,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been away all week. We need to kiss and make up.’

Rebecca felt too emotionally shot to enthuse. She’d been so upset when she’d gone to bed last night, brooding on the wedding photos, her future. Even the text Abi had sent through to her beforehand had failed to cheer her, although she couldn’t deny she’d grinned at some of the wording.

‘Hi, Bex. Fab time at Nick’s mum’s. Half a stone heavier. Me, not her. Ate enough pasta for five. Fancy meeting up for some tapas on Monday night? Straight from work. My treat. To say I’m desperate to hear all about this charity do is the understatement of the millennium. Let me know. Speak later. Love & Hugs, Moby Dick! Xxx’

Greg had previously told Rebecca that he’d be around during the early part of next week, working from his London office, and might try and grab a long overdue game of squash with his brother, quite probably on the Monday, which would fit in perfectly.

She swung round to face him, pressing the only conversational button capable of de-lusting his ardour. ‘So, how
was
Birmingham? Everything still on track with these big contracts?’

Greg stepped back, deserting her charms, as she’d known he would. ‘In the main,’ he said, fiddling with the drawstring on his waistband.

Rebecca trailed him through to the kitchen, doing her best to follow his business speak about this client’s needs, that client’s demands, telling her once again, whilst he delved in the breadbin for a couple of slices, how time-consuming yet potentially brilliant, this relationship with Torrison was proving to be.

‘And Nina?’ she asked, opening a fresh box of teabags. ‘Was she in Birmingham last week too?’ The question irked him, Rebecca could tell.

‘Only for a day,’ he said, without looking up, opening and closing every drawer in search of a knife, even though he’d been shown a thousand times which one they were in. ‘Have I shown you the proof copy of the inaugural Torrison/Rutland brochure?’

Oh, expert change of subject, Gregory.

He whipped it out of his briefcase, still propped on the corner of the breakfast bar along with his laptop and most of his other work stuff, explaining to her the whos, whys, whats and wherefores of every section of it, before drinking his tea and scoffing his toast and jam.

‘Right, I’m off for a shower,’ he said immediately afterwards, rising from his seat. ‘By the way, Steve Wolfe’s popping in a bit later to pick up a couple of manuals he needs to read ahead of covering me in Birmingham on Monday and Tuesday. Then I’m taking my wife out for lunch. Okay?’

Stop Press! An unexpected chance for discussions? More revelations?

Whatever, Rebecca would be ready.

Although after their last failed lunch date, she took nothing for granted.

‘Great!’ she said, watching him walk into the hall.

She used the time he was in the shower to acknowledge Abi’s text :
‘Hey, Moby, Monday night’s a date! Thanks a million. Can’t wait to see you. Love & Hugs, Beanpole. Xx’

She grinned to herself as she pressed ‘send’ and laid her phone on the side, anticipating the ping of Abi’s ‘three kisses and a smiley face’ comeback.

She grabbed a half-full carton of mango juice from the fridge and poured herself a tumblerful, leaning back against the work surface to drink it. The work surface that now sported an army of Greg’s stray toast crumbs, a lidless butter dish, and the knife he’d used to spread it with still embedded in the also-lidless pot of apricot jam.

Lazy so and so!

She tidied everything away, flicking on the radio as she did so, for a bit of background noise. The DJ was reeling off how to win music festival tickets via some phone-in competition they were running.

She walked into the conservatory, opened the doors and looked out into the garden. 10 a.m. and all she could hear, apart from the distant drone of an aeroplane, was birdsong. She hadn’t appreciated how quiet their cul-de-sac was before.

It really was a lovely location. She just hadn’t fully settled yet.

‘Probably because you’re rattling around the sodding place on your own so much!’
Abi had said to her, when the subject had recently arisen.

Rebecca jumped at the sound of the porch letterbox clattering.

‘I’ll get it!’ Greg hollered from above, bounding downstairs. He opened the front door. ‘Oh, look!’ he said, letting out a derisive laugh. ‘Yet another pizza delivery leaflet.’

He came back into the kitchen, shaking his head. ‘Damn rubbish we get shoved through this door is a joke.’ He chucked the leaflet on top of the breadbin and reached for his laptop. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ he said, in a Sean Connery accent, settling himself down, his pizza pamphlet pique replaced by boyish enthusiasm.

Rebecca moved towards him.

‘No! Stay there. I want to see your expression,’ Greg insisted, one hand raised, the other firing up the machine.

Rebecca stood there, sipping her drink, waiting to be dazzled.

Greg swivelled the laptop round.

Shit!

Rebecca missed her mouth with the glass.

A fierce blush swept up her neck and stained her cheeks as she stared at the laptop, aghast, rivulets of mango juice trickling onto her chin and down the front of her lilac T-shirt. There, in eighteen-inch colour was an image of her sandwiched between Greg and Alex at the charity bash, Nina and chums gurning either side of them.

She could see Greg laughing at her reaction, pointing at the ever-spreading mango juice stain, but she couldn’t speak as she had absolutely no idea what to say to him.

‘Great, isn’t it? Thought I might keep it as my screensaver for a while. Nina emailed it over to me yesterday along with three other photos. This one’s easily the best though.’ He turned the laptop back his way. ‘You only look mildly stunned here. In the others you look petrified.
See!
’ Rebecca hardly dared. ‘Hey, beetroot face, you can comment, you know.’ He beckoned her round his side of the breakfast bar.

It was as if someone had bound Rebecca’s legs together with heavy-duty masking tape. She could neither move nor process what he was saying, just saw him tap, tap, tapping away at the keyboard, enlarging and rotating the photos.
‘Alex Heath this … Alex Heath that …’
Her heart pounded so fast she was certain he’d hear it.

‘Close it down!’
she wanted to screech, wishing he’d stop eulogising. It was relentless.

‘Just imagine if we bag some of these big sporting clients,’ he said, scratching his upper arm. ‘Torrison already have their marketing fingers in one or two of the rugby clubs. Overseas ventures, too. If we could crack the football shell, it could be monumental. I could be supplying large-scale reprographics to Crystal Palace. I’d be in my element. These fundraisers are such a good way in. The more we attend, the bigger the networking opportunities, which is why it’s so crucial you get to know Sylvia’s circle of friends. The IWC, Brian calls them. Influential Wives’ Club.’

Rebecca nodded, still unable to speak, her eyes magnetically drawn to Alex, the bone-crushing guilt at having to view the photos with Greg almost smothering her.