Monday to Friday Man (11 page)

‘How’s the foot?’ he asks, followed by, ‘I hope I didn’t wake you last night?’

‘No.’ I pretend, still thinking about him naked in my shower.

We need to hit this politeness thing hard on the head. I shift from one foot to the other until Jack says hesitantly. ‘Well, I’m off! Great to see you.’

‘You too,’ I reply with a dopey smile.

‘See you on Monday then.’

‘Absolutely!’

And he’s gone.

Surreptitiously I push open Jack’s bedroom door. It’s dark, the curtains are still drawn but already it has a different smell. I glance over to his unmade bed. On the bedside table is a crumpled packet of cigarettes and some loose change. The top shelf of his chest of drawers is open and I spy a pair of Calvin Klein pants lurking under his dressing chair, which makes me smile about the knickers left in the bathroom incident.

I walk over to the wardrobe, and like a police officer searching for evidence I swing open the doors and see a line of shirts and a leather jacket. Just clothes, things you’d expect to see in a wardrobe. What did I expect or want to see? Disgusted and shocked at myself I leave the room.

I make a coffee, despondent that I am no further on in discovering anything more about Jack Baker. I don’t even know where he lives. ‘Oh Ruskin, why does it matter, anyway?’ I ask him.

‘Hi again,’ Jack says, and I must jump so much because milk sloshes everywhere: onto the floor, under the table, down my brand-new black dress.

‘Oh, sorry!’ Jack grins. ‘I didn’t mean to give you such a shock.’

‘Not to worry!’ I turn to the sink to grab a dishcloth. Oh dear God, Gilly, stop talking with exclamation marks. I’m also mortified that he caught me out talking to my dog.

‘I hope that’s not a favourite dress?’

I point to it. ‘What? This old thing!’

Ruskin sniffs Jack’s jeans and looks up at him suspiciously, wondering who this person is invading his breakfast routine.

‘Did you forget something?’ I ask, composing myself.

‘My script.’ Jack pulls an ‘aren’t I stupid’ face before heading back upstairs to his room, his telephone ringing again. He’s turning my house into an office. ‘Hi, sweetie,’ I overhear him say.

I rush to mop the milk from under the table, wondering who his ‘sweetie’ is. I am on all-fours with Ruskin beside me, when he bends down and says, ‘That was the office. They don’t need me until later. How about some bacon and eggs? You got time?’

I nod, before forgetting where I am, and crash my head against the table. How am I ever going to relax around this man? Perhaps Roy chilling out in his trackie bums would have been a better and safer option.

As I watch Jack cook (even the way he fries the bacon and cracks the eggs into the bowl in one neat action is sexy), he fills me in on the
Stargazer
gossip. One of the contestants has threatened to pull out due to negative attention from the press. Jack reaches for his leather jacket, hung on the back of my chair, and in the process brushes my shoulder. From his jacket pocket he produces a pack of cigarettes and a flash silver lighter. I must frown without realizing because he says, ‘Sorry, I forgot your house was non-smoking, I’ll go outside.’

He opens the French doors leading out into the garden, taking his mug of black coffee with him.

As I watch him light up, for a split second I see my mother in a mouldy blue dressing gown standing in the kitchen. I see her flicking the ash into the sink as she stands gazing out of the window. ‘Dreadful habit,’ I tick him off, but Jack even looks sexy smoking. All he needs is his Martini, shaken not stirred, to go with it.

He rolls his eyes. ‘You sound like my mother.’

I smile, noticing a bundle of clothes in a bag by the kitchen door.

‘You’re welcome to use the machine here if you want.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll take it home.’

‘Where’s home again?’

‘Bath.’

‘Right.’ I don’t know why, but I’m surprised he lives in Bath. I think of Bath as a place to visit for the day by coach.

‘Do you live on your own?’

He nods. ‘I split up from my girlfriend . . .’

Hallelujah! In excitement I knock a knife onto the floor.

‘. . . about a year ago now. Christ, time flies.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, trying to look it.

‘Past history. What are you up to this weekend?’ he asks brightly.

‘Oh . . .’ I pause. ‘Um, a couple of parties . . .’

Ruskin barks, as if to say, ‘Liar, liar, pants on fire.’

‘Cool.’

‘Why don’t you live in London?’ I ask.

Jack stubs out his cigarette. ‘Sorry, Gilly, would love to chat but I need to make a move.’

‘Yes, right, me too,’ I say. ‘I need to take you for a walkies, don’t I? Don’t worry. Not you, Jack.’

He smiles. ‘Have a great weekend.’ He picks up his laundry bag and heads off.

Just as I am about to go upstairs to put on a new dress I spot his script on the sitting-room chair. I grab it and bolt out of the door. Jack is striding down the road, car keys in his hand, heading towards his BMW on the other side of the street.

‘You left this,’ I say breathlessly, as he zaps a button to unlock the front door.

He takes the script. ‘God, I’m an idiot. Thanks.’

‘You need a full-time assistant.’

‘Are you offering?’ He winks at me, a hint of mischief back in his voice. Now I didn’t like Roy winking at me (poor old Roy), but somehow Jack can be forgiven. I think I could forgive Jack for quite a lot of things, even for leaving the loo seat up.

‘Only if it’s well paid,’ I say back.

As Jack drives off, I walk home smiling to myself, already eager for Monday to come round. There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, except that all I know is I’m looking forward to getting to know Jack Baker.

18

My wild dream of Jack and I skipping off into the sunset like the Heron clan is interrupted with a ‘Hello’. Guy stands by my side with a coffee, modelling a different hat today, this one like a French beret, and he’s wearing black-checked trousers that make him look like a chef. Most men couldn’t get away with this outfit, but somehow it works on Guy. ‘Want to do a circuit?’ he suggests as if we were in the gym.

‘So how’s it going with Jack?’ Guy asks, sharing his coffee with me. ‘Have you seen him yet?’

This time I am glad to be able to report the news that I have seen him, this very morning, and I now know that he lives in Bath.

Guy looks surprised.

‘I know. I can’t picture him there either,’ I say.

‘Bath is a fabulous place,’ says Mari, catching us up. ‘One of my friends moved there. Beautiful architecture and I love the theatre.’ She peers more closely at Guy. ‘What are you wearing?’

‘Trousers,’ he says as his mobile rings.

When Guy disappears to take the call Mari huffs and puffs that his international phone bills must cost the earth. ‘By the way, Blaize is flying in from the States.’

‘Blake?’

‘Blaize,’ she corrects me, ‘Blaize Hunter King.’

Who the hell is he?

‘Come on, Gilly, I’ve told you about him. He’s one of the best-known interior design agents in the States, buys stuff for all his celebrity clients.’

‘Right, sounds great.’

‘It’s serious money. He’s dropping by tomorrow morning, called me late last night. Serious money, Gilly,’ she repeats. ‘We need to roll out the red carpet, OK?’ She peers more closely at Guy. ‘Why is Hatman dressed in his pyjamas?’

‘I love the way Flora asks after Trouble before me,’ Guy says, putting his mobile back into his pocket.

‘How is she?’

‘Fine. Have you ever had this urge to travel?’

‘No, not really. It would be great to be adventurous and backpack my way across Tibet, but . . . I love hotels,’ I admit.

‘I’d rather sleep outside under the stars,’ Guy says.

‘I’d rather look at the stars drinking champagne from my terrace.’

Guy is strangely quiet. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask. ‘Do you miss her?’

‘Yes . . . oh, Trouble, don’t eat that!’ he despairs when he sees her with what looks like half a Yorkshire pudding in her mouth. We liken the park to a buffet. ‘I do miss her, but I’ve got to get on with it,’ he says. ‘Flora funded me for three years while I did my horticultural course, so it’s my turn to support her.’

‘I see, so this travelling is her time.’

He nods. ‘Exactly. She’s only away for another couple of months.’

‘Listen, don’t shoot me down . . .’

Guy pretends to shoot me.

‘But why don’t you join her for a week? I could look after Trouble.’

He shakes his head. ‘Thanks, Gilly, that’s so nice of you, but she has to do this for herself.’

We reach the zebra crossing. ‘Right,’ he says before adjusting his cap. ‘I’d better go.’

‘See you Monday,’ I call over my shoulder as I head off to work.

Ruskin and I walk briskly towards the tube station when I hear ‘Gilly!’ I turn to see Guy catching me up. ‘I was just thinking . . .’ He hesitates. ‘What are you up to at the weekend?’

‘Um, just pottering,’ I tell him.

I know Guy well enough now not to care about sounding boring or lacking invitations on my mantelpiece. There’s no doubt my social life isn’t quite what it used to be. Things have slowed down. The wheels have stopped turning.

I smile. ‘How about you?’

‘I need to buy a suit for my sister’s wedding.’ He twists his hat round, something I’ve noticed he does when he’s thinking. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’

‘Um?’

‘Well, I’m a bad shopper and you’re pottering, whatever that means, so . . .’

‘You want me to help you?’

‘Yes.’ He laughs. ‘Yes, please.’

We exchange telephone numbers. Guy and I are getting to be serious friends. Our friendship has progressed to a whole new level, which is beginning to move beyond the world of Ravenscourt Park. We have moved from Grade Two piano to Grade Three. Chords are becoming a little more complicated now.

‘Great,’ we both say when numbers are tapped in. I tell him I’m working tomorrow morning, so why not meet me at Mari’s shop and we can take it from there?

We cross the zebra crossing, Guy turns left and I turn right, reassuring myself that it’s a sad world if a boy and girl can’t meet up at the weekend without any question marks hanging over their friendship.

‘How’s it going in the funny chandelier shop?’ Nick asks me that evening, after work. We’re eating out in a crowded Spanish tapas bar near to his office in the City.

‘It’s great,’ I reply, ‘giving me time to think about what I really want to do.’

‘Which is?’

‘I have
no
idea.’

We both laugh. ‘Don’t ask silly questions, Nicky,’ I add.

‘You should be doing something creative, you’ve got a great imagination. I remember you reading those stories to Megan.’ He orders another beer. ‘She loved them.’

I look at him, surprised. Nick never talks about her. Rarely does he even mention her name. ‘I enjoyed them too,’ he goes on. ‘Can’t remember what the hell they were about . . .’

‘Mickey the Magic Monkey,’ I remind him.

When I read to Megan, Nick would also sit at the end of the bed in his rocket pyjamas and listen attentively.

‘Or you should teach,’ he says, ‘you’re a natural with children.’ I nod, so happy that it’s just the two of us tonight, with no distractions.

His BlackBerry vibrates. ‘It’s Nancy,’ he says, looking at the screen.

I spoke too soon.

He picks up. ‘I’ll be home soon, Nance. I’m out with Gilly. No, I won’t be late.’ He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Don’t wait up.’

When he switches off, and the waiter clears our plates, I ask him if I can give him some advice.

‘Be kinder to her,’ I say.

He rubs his forehead hard.

‘Seriously, I know she’s difficult . . .’

‘Difficult?’ he interrupts me. ‘Try spoilt and demanding. Oh God, let’s not talk about it.’

Nick never wants to talk about his marriage, but during this last year I can’t help but notice how withdrawn he’s become. I don’t see Nancy and Nick working together as a team any more. I don’t like the atmosphere in their house either; it doesn’t feel like a happy home. Dad says the same too. I wish Nick would confide in our father, but Dad finds it hard talking about anything personal too. Between us all, we’re useless. We need our mother.

‘Nick,’ I say tentatively, ‘Nancy drives me mad sometimes.’ I pause. ‘But I think she’s lonely. Bored. You’re never there.’

‘I have to work, Gilly!’

‘I know, I know you do,’ I say, trying to calm him down, ‘all I’m saying is she probably misses you, and maybe if you could talk more . . .’

‘She’s changed,’ he says more quietly now. ‘I don’t know who she is any more.’

I reach out for his hand, rub it. ‘She’s your wife and you have two lovely daughters.’

‘Let’s change the subject,’ he says tightly, withdrawing his hand.

‘You get more like Dad every day, Nick. Be careful,’ I warn him.

19

1986

Nick and I return from school. I can’t wait to tell Mum that Anna, Nick and I raised seventeen pounds in the playground this week, selling chocolate butterfly cakes so that Megan can travel to Germany to be cured by sheep cells. We cooked the cakes last weekend. Anna and I laughed when Nick put on Mum’s flowery apron.