Barefoot in the Dark (15 page)

‘I just… well, I just don’t want to put myself in a position where… ’

‘Where what? Look, if you don’t want to see me again you only have to say so, you know. I’d just rather you told me. That’s all.’

‘It’s not that. I do. It’s just that I don’t want to put myself in a situation where – well, I just don’t want those sort of complications in my life right now. I’m not ready for it. I haven’t the energy for it.’

This seemed to strike a chord with him. He nodded immediately. ‘Neither do I,’ he agreed. ‘Believe me, the last thing I need right now is to get into a heavy relationship. I’ve done that to death just lately, thanks.’

‘So have I.’

‘So where’s the problem? We go out. We have fun. We see what happens. I’m not talking drawing up contracts here.’

‘Exactly!’

‘What do you mean “exactly”?’

‘I mean that’s exactly why I don’t feel comfortable about seeing you again. Not yet. Because it’s just all too complicated.’ Because it
wouldn’t
be fun.

‘But how is it complicated? You just agreed you didn’t want to get heavy – and I’m not getting heavy. God knows, I’m not. See this?’ He stuck his fist out, startling her. ‘See?’ he said again, tapping his jacket. ‘Sleeve. See what’s on it?’

‘Um.’

‘Red squashy thing. Pumps blood. A little worse for wear, you’ll note.’

She couldn’t help smiling, in spite of his exasperation. ‘Oh, I’ve got one of those. But I try to keep mine somewhere a little safer.’

Belatedly. Why hadn’t she thought about that before?

‘Evidently,’ he said slowly. He put his arm down again and took a step towards her. God, he wasn’t about to try and kiss her in reception, was he?

‘Look,’ he said, his expression softer. ‘All I’m saying is that I can’t be doing with you playing hard to get. Here I am. Take me or leave me.’

That was rich. Coming from someone who’d made love to her three times and then not phoned her for two days. ‘
I’m
not the one playing hard to get, here. I hardly qualify any more, do I? I’m just not playing easy to get, that’s all. In fact, what I’m playing is keep your head, don’t let your heart have unprotected sex with strangers, retain your dignity and don’t get hurt.’

‘Just the simple life, then.’

‘Exactly.’

He fell silent. She could tell he was thinking. She wondered what.

‘You reckon I’ll do that, then, do you? Hurt you?’

‘You might.’

‘Why exactly?’

‘Because you’ve been hurt yourself. Because –’

‘So I’m going to get my own back on womankind by hurting you? Well, that’s really nice of you.’

‘No!’ God. This was coming out all wrong. She spread her hands. ‘Because you’ve already told me you’re not ready to have a serious relationship yet.’

He looked affronted. ‘When?’

‘When I came over with Tom that time.’

He paused to digest this. She could see him thinking again. His face was so open. So easy to read. ‘Hang on,’ he said eventually, pointing his finger at her again. ‘So did you!’

‘Yes, but it’s different for you. You’re a man.’

‘So?’

‘Well, you’ve got a lot of lost time to make up. You told me. And there’s lots of other women out there.’

He stabbed a finger towards the door. ‘So? There’s lots of men out there too, and
you’re
the one who said –’

She put her hand up to silence him. ‘Yes, but I’m not interested, am I? I’m not a man.’ Or someone like Madeleine, however much she wished she was. And, boy, she did right now. If
only
he had phoned her on Sunday. But then again, perhaps it was much better that he hadn’t. She could get out of this before she was sucked further in.

His expression hardened again. Had he been thinking her thoughts? ‘I’m well aware of that. It’s probably why I don’t have a clue what you’re on about.’

‘It’s quite simple. I’m not a man, so I’m really not interested in casual sex, flings, one-night stands, whatever you want to call it. There’s only one type of relationship I’m ever going to be interested in having, and it’s not the kind I think you and I are able to have right now. That’s all.’

He rolled his eyes again. ‘Oh, and I am, of course. You see? You
are
being frosty.’

‘I’m not,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m just trying to be straight with you, Jack.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Hope. You’re being frosty.’

She opened her mouth to correct him, but closed it again immediately. Because of the way he had spoken her name. Because of the way the smile had left his face all of a sudden. As if a penny – no, an anvil – had dropped on his head. Whoosh. Just like that. So wholly and comprehensively it felt as if she’d been slapped. ‘Well,’ he said shortly. ‘When – no,
if
– you thaw out a bit, you know where to find me, don’t you?’

He turned around and stalked out of the building, the words hanging like icicles in his wake.

Chapter 16

There was a new Saturday afternoon football show in development at HTV, and Jack Valentine was going to present it. That was all there was to it. Nothing was going to come between him and getting this job. No more languishing in the dusty reaches of daytime local radio. This was prime time. This was television. This was the start of the rest of his professional life.

He had, he realised, a lot to thank Allegra for. Admittedly, principal among these tributes was the fact that she had the hots for him (and there was no knowing what sort of shelf life that circumstance had, which was something that perhaps he ought to address) but right now she was rooting for him and he was very, very grateful.

The meeting had been scheduled for four-fifteen, which had left Jack precious little time to get out to the TV studios, but he had made it, and could now enjoy a few minutes in the car while he went through his notes once again.

Not that he needed to. He knew everything a man could conceivably know about football. This wasn’t a conceit. It was a fact.

He knew less than nothing, however, about women.

Hope, damn her. What was all that about? All that just because he hadn’t phoned her? God, he’d tried, hadn’t he? It was incomprehensible.

More to the point, having failed to get hold of her, why had he not even had enough intelligence to see what was coming? He had gone to the Heartbeat offices that morning looking forward to seeing her, and had come away feeling angrier than he could remember feeling in a very long time. And not just angry. What had he done to deserve such a comprehensive character assassination? He felt manipulated. Self-righteous. Rejected.

Danny had been in the office when Jack returned to the studios, doing something to one of the printers. Jack’s anger had dissipated a little, though not much – at least twice on the journey from Roath over to Llandaff he had almost stopped the car and phoned her for a rant. But something had stopped him. Mainly the nagging feeling that what she’d been driving at added up to a great deal more than what she’d actually said. In that way women’s mad logic generally did. But mad logic wasn’t logic. Bloody women. Bloody
that
woman.

‘God,’ he said, throwing himself at the nearest swivel chair and flopping into it. ‘Why do women have to analyse so much all the time?’

Danny looked up from the machine and scratched his nose with a screwdriver. Then he nodded.

‘It’s evolution,’ he decided. ‘They can’t help it. They don’t have penises to direct operations.’ He put the screwdriver down and smiled. ‘You got a problem?’

‘Hope Shepherd.’

Danny’s smile grew wider.

Jack shook his head. ‘She’s barking. That’s the only word for it. You know, I show up and everything, all friendly and – well, I sort of thought I might ask her if she fancied an evening down the Bay or something – you know – and I all but get my face slapped!’

Danny smirked. ‘Perhaps you need to look at your chat-up technique, mate.’

‘Pah! I didn’t get that far! Listen. Sunday to Tuesday. Is that such a long time? Really? I mean, I tried, didn’t I? God, she could have called
me
, couldn’t she? I explained about not having her number at home, but it was like I’d driven over her cat or something –’

‘She has a cat? It figures. Never trust a woman with an over-attachment to a cat, Jack. Trust me on this. She’s –’

‘No! God, I don’t know. All I know is that I was subjected to a load of bloody bollocks about how she’d decided she didn’t want to see me again anyway because though she
did
want to see me again she’d decided that it probably wouldn’t be a good
idea
to see me again because I’ve only just got divorced, so I probably want to shag lots of other women before getting hooked up with someone like her –’

‘Which is true.’

‘Pah! And because – get this – I’m a
man
. Jesus! Am I up to here with that line! Oh, and how she really shouldn’t have gone to bed with me in the first place and that –’

‘Hang on! You’ve shagged her?’ Danny’s eyes widened. ‘Way to go, mate,’ he said heartily. He clapped Jack across the back.

Jack scowled. ‘Yes. I went to bed with her, OK? Big deal.’ What was he saying? It was a very big deal. Bigger than he’d ever imagined it would be.

‘Excellent,’ said Danny.

‘No, not excellent. Because she doesn’t do sleeping around, as she calls it, and is apparently far happier doing no sex at all until such time that she meets someone who’s already done all that stuff and isn’t interested in doing it any more and then she can go out with them instead. Or me. But not now. Just in case. I mean, what the hell’s all that about? Does that make any kind of sense to you? Can you believe anyone would get so much in their heads just because someone didn’t ring them for two days?’

Danny picked his screwdriver up again and sucked the end of it thoughtfully.

‘You’ve got to remember. Women sulk. And, hey, sounds like she’s got you sussed, mate.’ He scratched his head. ‘Anyway, like I said, if she’s got that much baggage – if she’s that needy
,
you’re well out of it. On to the next one, I say!’

Jack sprang up from the swivel chair and went to glare out of the window, not at all happy to realise that his original instincts had been proved so comprehensively right. Why hadn’t he trusted them in the first place? Like
before
he’d got bloody embroiled with her? Like before, it, hell, it
mattered
. He swung around. ‘But who goes around saying all that stuff? Even thinking that stuff? Did she read it in some tit-faced woman’s magazine? ‘Oh, yes, first principles, ladies. All men are utter bastards and divorced ones are even more dangerous than most. Cavort with them at your peril!’

‘She’s got a point.’

‘Well, thanks a lot, Dan. Cheers.’ He slumped against the wall heater. ‘I mean why can’t I just take her out and see what happens, for Christ’s sake? What’s with all the Nostradamus bullshit? I can’t see into the future, can I? How should I know how I’m going to feel six months down the line? I don’t know how I’m going to feel five minutes down the line! Christ! Why can’t life just happen?’

Danny chuckled. ‘Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without’em. It’s the wonderful world of birds, mate. Listen, the bottom line is that she’s right, isn’t she? Look, I know you like her –’

‘I
liked
her.’ He shook his head. ‘
Yes
. OK. I
like
her.’

‘Yeah, but do you like her enough? Do you like her in a “right that’s it, I’m sorted on the sex front till death us do part so no, no, hold me back from any gorgeous young women” kind of way?’

‘How should I know? I’ve only known her a couple of months! I’ve only been out with her a couple of times! Why should I even have to
think
about stuff like that?’

‘You don’t. You keep your options open. You hang loose. You hang out. You play the field. Face it. She’s not young enough, blonde enough or leggy enough for you, and she knows it. Like I said, you’re well out of there.’

Now, sitting in the car outside the TV studios, Jack wished he wasn’t divorced. He wished it as wholeheartedly and earnestly as he had ever wished for anything. It was the biggest failure of his life. He didn’t want to be married to Lydia any more – which was just as well – but he wished it had all never happened. That he could unravel time and do the whole thing again. Be more careful. More circumspect. More sure of what he wanted. Marry the right person in the first place. For the right reasons. Do whatever it was you needed to do to stay married instead of just blithely assuming it would happen by default. It didn’t really matter that it was Lydia who left him. The marriage broke down. It didn’t work. So he was as much to blame as she was. He thought about his father and his mother. Married so long and so happily. None of this to deal with. He almost wished they hadn’t been. Not really, of course, but if they hadn’t – if it hadn’t always seemed so effortless – perhaps he wouldn’t have taken it so much for granted.

It was almost four. He’d better get on and get in there. He pulled his case from the passenger seat and opened the car door. Danny had been right in the first place. He really wasn’t ready to do those sort of relationships again. Hope was right too. She was no different from him, really. Only difference was that she’d already thought about this stuff. Which made her much cleverer than him.

Too clever by half, damn her. And way too demanding. The last thing he needed in his life was another bloody woman flagging up his deficiencies and making him feel he wasn’t up to scratch. Too much of that and he’d begin to start believing it again. Wasn’t sure he didn’t believe it again already. He wasn’t having that. Danny talked sense. He
was
well out of it.

He straightened his tie and pushed thoughts of her away. So many women, so little time. He watched idly as a young girl, couldn’t be more than late teens or early twenties, half walked, half ran towards a waiting car. Her hair, long and corn-coloured, streamed out behind her in ribbons, and her legs, in brown boots, moved in sinewy rhythm. The automatic twitch from his loins reassured him. Nine out of ten. Now he’d go get that job.

‘Hey! The boy done good!’

Allegra had caught up with him on his way back across the car park, all dusky cheeks and lipstick and set-square-aligned teeth. She was dressed in a charcoal suit and a pair of outrageously pointed scarlet stilettos. Not foot shaped at all. Why did women wear shoes like that? Their click-clack across the car park was what had made him turn around. It put him in mind of the crocodile in Peter Pan.

Or, no, perhaps fangs. ‘I’m not counting any chickens,’ he said.

‘No,
really
,’ she purred, plucking a speck of something from the lapel of his jacket. ‘You made quite an impression. How d’you know all that stuff? I’ve never seen the Führer quite so animated. Did you know about his Portsmouth fetish or something?’

She hitched her handbag strap higher on her shoulder, and a flash of lilac coloured bra peeped out from the little gap that had appeared between the buttons of her blouse.

‘A happy coincidence,’ he said, trying not to look at it. ‘But like I say, let’s wait and see, shall we?’

Allegra turned and slipped her arm through the crook in his. ‘It’s in the bag,’ she said. ‘I just know it. Anyway.’ She smelled of coconut. ‘What are you up to now? Off to pen some sparkling copy for the
Echo
?’

‘I’m going home to get out of this suit,’ he said, as they reached the first line of cars. He checked his watch. ‘And catch the end of the ‘Simpsons’.’

‘Whoah! You’re making me giddy. You sure know how to party, don’t you? Look, d’you fancy a drink first, maybe? I’ve got a few ideas I wanted to run by you. I mean, I’d hate to come between you and Marge, but… ’

‘I don’t know –’ he began.

She pouted at him. ‘Spoilsport.’

‘Oh, go on,’ he decided. ‘What the hell. Why not.’

They went to the bar in a hotel nearby, Allegra travelling in his car to save them taking both. Jack had known Allegra for some time. They’d worked together back in pre-history, when the world was still flat and he still had a six-pack. And the breakfast slot on Red Dragon, while she was just a lowly researcher on ‘South Wales Today’. But she hadn’t been around long. She went off to pursue her acting ambitions (was there anyone there who didn’t have ‘acting ambitions’?) and managed to get a part in some soap or other. Then came back to Wales (all acted out, presumably) three years later, and somehow – Jack didn’t know quite how – here she was producing the very programme he wanted in on. Funny how tables got turned.

Back then he’d been married, of course, not that that would have stopped her. She was married too. But that was then, in the days when he thought fidelity was something married people did. Back before Lydia had re-written the rules. After a lengthy affair with the deputy controller of religious programming, Allegra had divorced her husband and hooked up with someone else. A string of someone elses. It hadn’t harmed her career one bit. Though Jack didn’t believe
all
the rumours about her prodigious talent for making men in powerful places curl up and pant for her, he wasn’t impervious to the potency of her charms. It was just that she’d always scared him. She was the kind of woman you wouldn’t want to find yourself in a broken lift with. Not if she decided she wanted to seduce you. Not if you wanted to come out alive.

He’d been divorced, what, five months now? – in his flat for longer – and he knew she was chipping away at his defences. An image of Hope’s face swam before him as he thought it. He blinked it away. Allegra, like Hope, was a demanding woman. But there were demanding women, and demanding women. Allegra’s brand of demanding didn’t involve commitment, or fidelity, or love. It just involved sex, pure and simple. On demand.

She insisted on buying the drinks, which addled him. He’d tried to stand his ground, but she was having none of it. That was the thing with women these days – come on too heavy about paying for things and they lobbed the equality card into the arena. Like you were the spokesman for a whole millennium’s worth of chauvinist bastards. Perhaps they had a point. He was feeling chopsy. He would very much have liked to have said ‘I’m buying the fucking drinks, OK?’ but instead he backed down and it made him feel emasculated. Crazy.
Crazy.
He stood beside her, breathing in her tropical-paradise aura while she extracted a stiff twenty pound note from her wallet. He didn’t for one moment believe she had any ‘ideas’ to run by him, unless you counted the one he could see simmering in her eyes now, as she passed him his gin and tonic.

‘
Sante,
’ she said silkily. ‘Here’s to us, eh? Here’s to you. May the good Lord grant us Des Lynam’s viewing figures, and may Portsmouth prevail in all things.’

He clinked glasses with her and smelled the sharp acid tang as he swallowed the top inch of his drink. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked for it. But he hadn’t felt like sinking a pint right now. And there was no way he’d ever ask for a half.

‘Shall we sit down?’ he asked, once she’d stashed the wallet away. ‘There’s a couple of tables free over there.’