Monday to Friday Man (27 page)

‘Careful! Car . . .’ I squeal.

‘I know. I can see it.’ He gestures to his rear-view mirror.

‘OK. Sorry.’

Guy successfully manoeuvres his van into the fast lane.

‘Watch your speed. Camera coming up.’

‘I’ve got to keep up with him, Gilly.’

‘Sorry. Back to your date.’

‘She dragged me round all these nightclubs until finally I said I needed to get home. I had to pretend I had an early breakfast meeting, and do you know what she said?’

‘Go on, tell me.’

‘What time shall I set the alarm clock for?’

I laugh.

‘Talk about presumptuous. I jumped into a cab and escaped. How about yours?’ he asks me.

I slam a foot onto an imaginary brake and Guy looks at me crossly.

‘Sorry.’

I tell Guy how I’d once gone out with a man who had talked about nothing but his Porsche. ‘When I went to the loo I had this idea. As interested as I was on the subject of Porsches, I opened the window, climbed through and never went back into the restaurant.’

‘Gilly, the poor man! You probably scarred him for life.’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What was Ed like by the way?’

‘Nothing like you,’ I reveal.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Quick!’ I suddenly shout. ‘He’s going left. This is our junction!’

We follow Jack off the M4.

We turn left, swing right, sweep around another corner. ‘GO!’ I screech, and we fly through a red light. I’m impressed. I didn’t think the old van had it in her.

We’re at a junction, right behind Jack’s car. I cower in my seat, convinced he’s going to see us. ‘Will you act cool?’ Guy snaps.

‘I’ve never acted cool in my entire life, Guy, so I’m hardly going to start now.’

‘We’re not doing anything wrong, you know,’ he states.

‘Yeah, right,’ I say dismissively. ‘We’re just out on an evening drive.’

Jack’s BMW ploughs up a steep hill and then finally parks outside a line of terraced houses.

Casually we drive past Jack’s car and take the first right into a dead-end road. ‘What now?’ I whisper.

‘We count to ten, go back and park on the opposite side.’

As we turn back into Jack’s street, Jack is closing the boot to his car. We park on the opposite side and I daren’t look over to him, just in case . . . Guy shakes my shoulder and I turn to see Jack standing with a woman in her sixties. She’s fair like Jack, slender in build, wearing a striped apron. She hugs him. ‘What’s she saying?’ I ask Guy.

‘He lives at home,’ Guy murmurs. ‘He lives at home with his mum.’

I shake my head. ‘He can’t. He doesn’t.’ Jack had told me she lived in Eastbourne.

Carefully Guy winds down the window. ‘Your dinner’s in the oven,’ we overhear her say. ‘I’ve made your favourite shepherd’s pie. How was your journey, dear?’

‘No wonder he didn’t want me to go home with him,’ I say in shock.

‘I always knew something was odd,’ whispers Guy.

‘But why would he still live at home? It doesn’t make sense. He told me he . . .’

‘Shush!’

We watch as a little girl in spotty pyjamas and pink slippers runs towards Jack. ‘Daddy!’ she cries out and he lifts her into his arms, strokes her hair and smothers her in kisses.

Guy and I turn to one another, and for the first time neither of us knows what to say.

Guy turns on the engine and Jack, sensing the noise, glances around the street, before stopping at our van. He stands on the edge of the pavement, looking at us, unsure at first, until we lock eyes. I stare at him and immediately he turns away. Jack’s mother takes his suitcase and Jack carries his daughter back inside without as much as a brief glance over his shoulder.

Driving home, Guy and I attempt to work out the mystery behind Jack’s daughter. Guy suspects Jack kept her a secret because he wanted to be Jack Baker in London, a producer, single and out to have a good time. However, at home in Bath, he was living with his mother and was either a single father or his daughter came to stay at weekends. Guy thinks Jack wanted to be black and white about the situation; there was no need for one life to overlap the other, no need to confuse the two, especially when he was only going to be living in London until Christmas. I was a distraction, a very pretty one, but after our few months together he would have brutally cut me out of his life and moved on to the next opportunity that arose.

‘I think he manipulated last night,’ I say, thinking out loud. ‘He reckoned I was becoming too much of a nuisance butting into his private life, so he made sure to invite me to this awful party that he knew I’d hate and, just to make sure I got the message, he’d kiss Nancy too. That would get rid of me and my questions.’

Guy tells me I’m probably right.

We talk about the mother of his child. Where is she? ‘Maybe this has something to do with what the brother said?’ Guy suggests.

‘All those lies he told me,’ I say in disbelief, ‘making out he was single and carefree and how he found the whole family thing boring. I don’t understand. Why didn’t Jack just tell me he had a daughter? Why keep her a secret?’

‘Would you have fancied him quite as much if you had known that he’d lived at home, with his mother cooking him shepherd’s pie, and that he had a child?’

I weigh this up. ‘Probably. If he’d been honest right from the start.’

‘Yeah, but would you have jumped into bed with him quite so quickly?’

‘No. Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think we know the full story. He could still be married or separated . . .’

‘He wanted to be Jack with no baggage . . .’

‘We all have baggage.’

‘Some worse than others.’

‘If Jack had just told me,’ I say again. ‘I wonder why he didn’t. The older we get, the more likely we are to meet people who’ve maybe been married or have children. So Jack has a child. So what! I still can’t believe he lied about her. I admire people who raise children on their own. My father did.’

I go on to tell Guy about how my mother had walked out on our family when we were thirteen. Dad raised us and I have more respect and love for him than for any other man. He never remarried, but I think deep down he had loved our mother; I saw that love when Megan was born.

I tell Guy that I understand now that Mum had a breakdown. I believe her when she said she couldn’t be our mother, that she had stopped functioning. She was like a car that had lost its engine. Nick hated her, couldn’t forgive what she’d done, but with hindsight sometimes I wonder if Dad could have helped her more in those months following Megan’s death. Instead he became increasingly irritated by her lack of direction. Dad wasn’t able to give Mum reassurance, give her love and unconditional support, or help her seek medical help when she needed it most. Guy listens patiently.

‘We did see Mum occasionally, but Dad sent us to boarding school at sixteen – it was easier for him to manage his work if we were away – then I went to university, so I hardly saw her. Each time I did, I found it harder and harder to talk to her. Then she moved to Australia when Nick’s first child was born, over seven years ago.’ A well of sadness overcomes me. ‘I didn’t tell Jack any of this,’ I reflect. ‘We never talked about anything, not properly anyway.’

‘Of course you didn’t. That would have been his goal, keep things light and simple. Easier to walk away from that.’

‘I almost feel sorry for him,’ I find myself saying. ‘I know he behaved like an idiot, but having a daughter? It can’t be easy for him.’

Guy parks outside No. 21. He turns off the engine and I unbuckle my belt.

‘Let’s face it, Gilly, he was just out to have a good time, wanted some freedom, time out from his domestic situation at home. I don’t blame him either, though he should have told you the truth.’ Guy turns to me. ‘I just wish,’ he takes my hand, ‘that of all people he hadn’t hurt you.’

I nod.

‘Are you all right?’

I shrug.

‘Come here,’ he says, pulling me towards him. He holds me in his arms, and strokes my hair tenderly. When we part, I look into his eyes and before I have a chance to thank him for being my friend again today, he takes my face in both his hands and kisses me. I kiss him back, no questions running through my mind about whether it’s right or wrong.

‘Gilly,’ he murmurs, ‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long.’

Nothing tells me to stop . . . until Guy’s mobile telephone rings.

I withdraw first, and reluctantly he answers it, without taking his eyes away from mine, a small smile surfacing on his lips. My heart is beating fast. I want to feel his arms around me again, his touch against my skin.

‘Flora, hi! Right . . .’

I turn away, reality hitting me.

‘Tomorrow?’ Pause. ‘No, of course I’m pleased.’ He listens. ‘No, that’s good. I’m surprised, that’s all.’ I reach for the lock, open the passenger door. ‘I’ll be there,’ he says, trying to wind up the call. ‘We’ll talk about it when you’re home.’

‘Good news?’ I ask, opening the boot to let Ruskin out. I reach for my overnight bag.

‘She’s coming home, flies in tomorrow night.’ He follows me to my front door. I struggle to unlock it, my hand shaking.

‘Tomorrow?’ I repeat. Inside No. 21 I drop my overnight bag on the chair, before numbly picking up my junk mail and flicking through it.

‘Gilly?’

‘That didn’t happen. I won’t say anything.’

‘We need to talk.’

‘You must be excited.’

‘Gilly . . .’

‘What did she say?’

‘Um . . .’

‘Tell me.’

‘She said she wanted to hug Trouble and . . .’ he pauses . . . ‘marry me.’

The thud of disappointment and humiliation I felt when I saw Jack and Nancy together, followed by the revelation that Jack had a child, is nothing compared to what I am feeling now.

I was never in love with Jack; my feelings for him barely scratched the surface. Guy is getting married. What’s the fucking point? I want to scream.

‘Right, I see.’ I make myself busy by drawing the sitting-room curtains and turning on some lights, aware that Guy is watching my every move. I pick up my Playboy costume, strewn across the floor, throw it towards the banisters.

‘Gilly, stop. Look at me.’

I can’t look at him.

‘Gilly . . .’

Guy follows me into the kitchen. I talk to Ruskin, let him out.

‘Please. We need to talk.’

‘Oh, Guy,’ I burst out. ‘We don’t! What’s the point? You’re getting married!’ I turn on the kettle, even though I don’t want a drink. I open a few cupboards aimlessly.

He pushes his way in front of me. He stands so close to me, looks into my eyes again. ‘I know we shouldn’t,’ he says calmly, ‘but we need to talk about what just happened.’

I long to kiss him again, but . . . I push him away from me.

‘We can’t pretend that there’s nothing going on between us,’ he claims.

‘We have to,’ I say, my voice trembling. I compose myself. ‘We had a moment, Guy. Flora’s coming home, and you still love her, don’t you?’

He’s quiet. ‘I don’t know. Maybe . . .’

‘You see. We have to forget it.’

‘I can’t. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was more and you know it.’

I turn to face him now. ‘You still love her and she’s coming home. Where does that leave me?’

‘All I know is I have feelings for you. Strong feelings.’

‘It leaves me nowhere, Guy.’ I move away from him, but he follows me.

‘Look at me,’ he’s saying, grabbing my hand. ‘Gilly, look at me!’ Next he’s holding me in his arms again, I let him, but . . . ‘I can’t get hurt again,’ I say, pulling away. ‘I can’t, Guy!’

‘Gilly, I’d never hurt you.’

I press my head into my hands. ‘I think you should go.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Guy.’ I raise my voice. ‘I can’t do this. I can’t. You need to leave me alone.’

‘Gilly . . .’

‘Please go!’ I cry out now.

In the hallway, alone and in the darkness, I hear him drive off into the night.

He’s gone. Tears run down my face.

I don’t want to be upstairs in bed alone tonight. Instead I curl up on the sofa and Ruskin joins me, but it’s hopeless. I can’t sleep. I pick up the phone and call Mum. Please pick up, I plead, desperately needing to hear her voice. The dialling tone clicks into the answer machine. It’s Patrick’s voice saying, ‘Elizabeth and Patrick can’t get to the phone right now.’ I slam the receiver back on its stand, without leaving a message. I daren’t call Nick because Nancy will pick up first. I want to talk to Mum. I can see her cradling me in her arms, rocking me to sleep like a child when Ed left me. I don’t think children ever grow out of needing their mums. I try her again, but still no answer.

‘Gilly,’ Gloria says, tying her dressing-gown cord around her as she lets Ruskin and me in. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’ Thank God she’s back.

I tell her about Jack first. Ruskin takes his usual spot by the fireplace.

‘What a lying, bleeding scoundrel,’ she says, handing me a second glass of brandy. ‘I’m so sorry, Gilly. It’s my fault. I encouraged you to see him, I was the one that . . .’

I glance at some estate agency brochures on her coffee table. ‘You’re not moving, are you?’ I say, cutting her off.

‘Gilly, I was only getting a valuation, I was curious to see what my house might sell for now.’ She moves from her armchair to sit next to me, sensing my sadness.

‘Gloria, don’t go . . .’

‘Gilly,’ she says, ‘if this is about Jack, he’s not worth it, my darling.’

‘I don’t care about him.’ I start to cry. ‘You’re all I’ve got,’ I say, clinging onto her like a child.

‘That’s not true, you’ve got so many friends.’

‘I miss my mum . . .’ I swallow hard, thinking of Guy. I can’t even begin to tell Gloria about Guy. Soon he’ll be gone. Married and gone. ‘You can’t go,’ I say, unable to let her go.

‘This perky pensioner is not going anywhere,’ she promises, stroking my hair, just as Mum used to do when I was little, until finally my sobbing subsides.

I feel a warm blanket being laid across me, and a glass of water is placed on my bedside table.

‘You’ll never get rid of me, Gilly,’ I hear Gloria whisper as she kisses me goodnight on the cheek. ‘Never.’

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