Strictly Love (8 page)

‘You're really not going to tell her about the kids?’

‘You were the one who said I shouldn't,’ said Mark.

‘I know, but … it's going to be a bit hard to hide them from her if this
cosy DVD
thing becomes regular.’

‘You didn't hear her going on about children. If she thinks I've got some, she'll never look at me twice.’

‘So you do like her?’ Rob could barely contain his delight. ‘I knew it. I knew I could get you over Sam.’

‘I'm not, as you put it, necessarily over Sam,’ said Mark, ‘but let's just say that meeting Emily has made me see I can keep my options open.’

‘So long as you don't tell her you have children,’ added Rob.

‘There is that, of course,’ said Mark, suddenly spotting a pair of Gemma's shoes in the corner. Honestly. It wasn't even as if the kids were with him all the time. How on earth did they manage to leave all their junk behind? He grabbed the shoes and shoved them in the kids' bedroom, slamming the door firmly shut. He toyed with locking it and then thought, no, that's paranoid. He flitted quickly into the bathroom to check that it was devoid of teen paraphernalia, but luckily, as Gemma could never go anywhere without a complete grooming kit, she tended to carry everything she needed with her.

Mark felt vaguely guilty about the subterfuge. He loved his kids, and didn't want anyone to think he was ashamed of them. But Emily was the first woman he'd been attracted to since Sam. And she had been so adamant about disliking kids, he didn't want to scupper his chances before they'd even got going. There'd be time enough to tell her the truth later. Chances were she wasn't the slightest bit interested anyway …

Emily stood on Mark's doorstep feeling incredibly stupid. It had seemed natural to say earlier in the week that she would come and watch a TV programme with him, but now it seemed a little odd. She liked him, certainly, and he had occupied rather a lot of her thoughts in the last few days, but apart from the fact they
were both crap dancers and they liked
Green Wing
, what exactly did she know about him? He might be a serial killer or something.
Right.

Rob answered the door. Which reassured her. At least she wouldn't be alone with Mark. But as she followed him into the lounge, she had a sudden panicky thought. Oh God, suppose they were into threesomes or something. Had she just walked into the lion's den?

‘What did you just say?’

Shit. She'd done it again. This talking-out-loud thing was becoming a liability.

‘Um, nothing,’ said Emily, embarrassed.

‘Yes, you did,’ said Rob. ‘Mark, you've picked a right nutter here. She talks to herself.’

Emily squirmed.

‘Ignore him,’ shouted Mark from a room upstairs. His bedroom? The thought made Emily go tingly all over. ‘Anyway, I know.’

‘Know what?’

The thunder of footsteps down the stairs heralded Mark's arrival. He poked his head round the door and said, ‘I know Emily talks to herself. I find it endearing.’

Now Emily really wished the ground would swallow her up. She was less blushing and more completely puce.
But,
a little voice whispered in her head,
he thinks you're endearing
. Or mental.

‘Cup of tea?’ Rob asked.

‘Yes, lovely, thanks,’ Emily managed to squeak.

‘Got it,’ Mark said triumphantly, waving aloft a copy of the first series of
Green Wing
as he walked into the room. ‘I was having a last-minute panic as I'd put the DVD somewhere so safe I couldn't find it.’

Emily sat down with a thump on the sofa, spilling the tea Rob had just handed her. Something had to give and it was her knees. Mark, walking in with his casual air and his laidback look, was
utterly gorgeous, she realised. She almost forgot to breathe. Thank God his wife had left him.

‘Well I'm glad someone's pleased about it,’ said Mark, sitting next to her.

‘What?’ Oh God, please don't say she'd done it again? ‘I'm glad someone's pleased my wife left me.’

She had.

Emily gripped the mug of tea for support. If it wasn't for the fact that it would seem rude to leave she'd go right now.

‘And you?’

‘Me what?’

‘You're definitely single?’

Emily gripped the mug harder.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I most definitely am.’ If her heart beat any louder they'd hear it next door.

‘I was hoping you'd say that,’ said Mark.

Chapter Eight

 

‘So you've got a date with the gorgeous Mark?’ Katie teased Emily as they sat in the lounge watching
Dirty Dancing
, where Patrick Swayze was showing how the rumba should be done. Isabella had recommended it as useful background. So far, the combination of chasing children into bed, far too much wine and gossiping had led them to miss most of the film.

‘Well, it's not a date,’ said Emily. ‘I went round to watch
Green Wing
and he's coming round to mine to watch some more. I'm cooking. It's not a date.’

‘Nooooo, of course it isn't,’ teased Katie. ‘And he wants to come round for dinner with me too.’

‘Well, you're married,’ said Emily.

‘Oh right, because I'm married with fat thighs, no man will ever look at me again?’ said Katie.

‘What?’ said Emily.

‘Well, you make it sound as if I'm some old has-been that no sane man would look at in a million years. I know I'm married, but it would be nice to think I might still have an ounce of attractiveness left. Besides, he doesn't know I'm married, and he still chose you. It's my fat thighs, I tell you.’

‘Don't be daft,’ said Emily. ‘Of course it isn't.’

‘So Rob's not the only one who thinks I have fat thighs, then?’

‘Katie, will you stop going on about your fat thighs!’ said
Emily. ‘Anyway, why should you care about what Rob thinks? you've got it all. Charlie, the kids, the house. Your life's perfect.’

‘Yes, of course,’ muttered Katie. For a moment she was tempted to confide in Emily, but she had never been one for girly confidences, always feeling she should be able to sort her problems out by herself. No doubt something to do with having spent years growing up and not talking to anyone about the misery of her home life. Besides, Katie would rather have died than admit there was anything wrong with her marriage. Even to Emily. ‘It's just with Charlie away so much I end up feeling quite sorry for myself. Which is ridiculous. Now, where were we? Isn't this the bit where Patrick Swayze dances with Jennifer Grey in the lake?’

Rob sat in the Hookers, drinking his pint and doing the crossword. The pub hadn't been the same since the smoking ban. It was too cold to go out for a fag under the canopy Barry had erected outside.
Smokers: the most ostracised members of modern society. Discuss.

Rob had hoped Mark would be joining him, but Mark apparently had a date. Although the way Mark had put it was, ‘I'm going round to Emily's to watch the next episode of
Green Wing
,’ and then muttered something about her cooking him a meal. But it wasn't a date. Mark had been adamant on that point. Except that Rob evidently wasn't invited, so here he was, alone in the Hookers, trying to avoid the eye of Paranoid Pete, who needed no encouragement to leap in with, ‘They're watching us, you know.’ Rob knew of old that to answer ‘Who?’ would have Pete touching his nose briefly before muttering
sotto voce
, ‘The others,’ before proceeding to launch into a rant against aliens, New Labour and, bizarrely, scratch cards.

Oh God. And there was Dicey Derek, Thurfield's best used-car salesman. Rob had once made the mistake of buying a car from him. When he was hit from behind by a woman in a 4×4 on the school run, it more or less fell into two pieces. And yet
still, Derek would come to tempt him with more goodies. Rob's salary was so pathetic, and Derek's prices so suspiciously good, it was horribly tempting sometimes.

Rob buried himself in his paper again. Good, Derek had found some pals in a corner. He could relax.

He looked around the bar again. The Hookers. So much a part of his life, it was like a second home. He came here every night of the week apart from Thursday. He had been known to spend the whole of Saturday here. Though now some of his ex-pupils were showing up, that was becoming slightly less appealing. Maybe Mark had a point. Perhaps he should think about coming in here less, and concentrate more on learning to dance, which, after all, he was enjoying. Rob shook his head. Apart from going to the pub and sex, what other interests did a man need?

Although Mark was definitely right about one thing. The Hookers was the lousiest pick-up joint in the world.

Or maybe not.

The flirty blonde from dancing was sitting in the corner with a friend, he noticed. They were giggling over their text messages. She was the one Mark had been so keen to get away from.

‘Ding dong …’ Rob muttered to himself, knocking back the rest of his pint. He picked up his paper and wandered over to them.

‘I say, ladies, can I interest you in a drink?’

The flirty blonde looked at him provocatively.

‘Mine's a double vodka,’ she purred.

Cheeky cow, thought Rob. Still. It just goes to show you should always expect the unexpected. The evening was turning out promising after all.

‘So how many episodes can we get through tonight?’ Mark teased Emily as he came through the door.

The previous week, they had managed three. They had spent most of the evening in stitches.

‘Well, if we're going to eat, maybe two?’

Mark followed Emily into her tiny little kitchen. It looked out onto a small but pretty garden, which had a beautiful view of the common, with the edge of the downs in the background. The first green shoots were coming up. Maybe spring was on the way. ‘Nice view,’ he said.

‘Isn't it?’ Emily agreed. ‘It's the closest I'm going to get to the Hill.’

Mark laughed.

‘You're not missing much,’ he said. ‘My ex-wife always wanted to live on the Hill. I think it's full of pretentious wankers myself.’

The Hill was full of massive properties, and at the top a fabulous gated community where rock stars were rumoured to live. Those who aspired to such things but couldn't afford the gated community (namely Sam and her lawyer lover) lived halfway up it. Mark had always resisted Sam's demands that they move onto the rather bland estate where she now lived, much preferring the tumbledown old house that they had bought in the Valley – where the normal people lived.

Mark had loved the house. Sam had hated it. But thanks to the property boom, when they'd sold it, it had made enough for her to go and live in the soulless zone when they split up. It helped, of course, that she was shacked up with a lawyer who'd just made partner. Mark's share had just about stretched to the three-bedroom cottage he'd bought for him and the girls. With Rob being between flats, it had seemed sensible to make some extra cash, if only to have something to put aside for the girls’ futures. Sam and the lawyer were more of the 'spend today, think about tomorrow later’ kind to worry about things like that.

‘Say it like it is, why don't you?’ Emily said, as she fried mushrooms in a pan. She was planning a steak flambé. She hoped it wasn't over-ambitious.

Mark pulled a face.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sam always said I was very black and white.

It's just I can't stand pretentious people or snobs. And in my experience most of the people who live on the Hill are both.’

‘I'd agree with you there,’ said Emily. ‘Although I'm not sure I agree with you about lawyers. I thought you were a bit hard on them.’

‘I don't think I was,’ said Mark. ‘One of my best friends was sued by a patient once and, thanks to the lawyers, his life was hell.’

‘Well you can't hold that against the whole legal profession,’ said Emily as she carefully poured brandy onto a spoon.

‘Don't tell me you're one.’

‘Oh no, of course not. Laywers scum of the earth, that's what I always say.’

Emily waived the question away, as she tried to avoid singeing her eyebrows. What had she been thinking when she planned this meal? He seemed interested in her. She couldn't – mustn't

– blow it. She'd just have to make sure she never mentioned the small fact that she was a lawyer.

‘Mind you, I don't hate lawyers as much as I hate this crap.’ Mark picked up a copy of
Heat
which was lying on the side. He sighed as he spotted the headline:
Jasmine and Tony All Loved Up – we go behind the scenes of their very own Love Shack
. Idly he flicked through it. ‘I mean,
Pop Princess looks minging; Crap balding actor has fling
. It's not just vapid, it's downright nasty. Who actually cares? You don't really read this stuff, do you?’

‘No, no, of course not. I had nothing to read on the train and someone had left it so I picked it up. You're right, it's utter nonsense. What idiot would read drivel like this?’ Emily laughed a silly, high-pitched, slightly hysterical laugh. This was awful. The first really decent man she'd met in years and he hated everything she stood for. When he found out what she really did for a living he was never going to come anywhere near her.

‘Good,’ Mark said, leaning on the kitchen counter. ‘Sam loved all that stuff. It drove me insane.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Emily, feeling rather hot. And it wasn't just from the frying pan.

‘What about you?’ Mark seemed to have changed tack, which was a relief. ‘Anyone ever tempted you up the aisle?’

‘Not so far,’ said Emily. ‘I've been concentrating on my career.’

‘Which is?’ Mark said.

‘Um,’ said Emily. After his rant about celebrities and lawyers, she couldn't possibly admit the truth. Not if she wanted to see him again. Christ, what could she do instead? She frantically scrabbled around for an alternative …

‘I'm a teacher,’ she gabbled, suddenly thinking about her oldest sister, Mary, stuck in the same comprehensive in Swansea for years.

‘Oh, so's Rob,’ said Mark. ‘He teaches history. What about you?’

‘Does he?’ Emily's voice came out in a squeak. Trust her luck that Mark's flatmate was a sodding teacher. ‘Um. I teach – er –’ (think, Emily, think, favourite subject, best subject, only stupid subject you know anything about) ‘English. I teach English.’

‘Oh, that explains all the books.’ Mark had already clocked that the downstairs of the cottage seemed to contain more books than furniture.

‘Yes, books. Perfect thing for an English teacher,’ said Emily, gabbling rather frantically. ‘I love books, me.’

Mark pulled a face.

‘I'm a bit rubbish at reading,’ he confessed. ‘Apart from thrillers, I don't read a lot. And I never did get Shakespeare.’

Emily acted semi-shocked. Despite getting distracted by the law, her love of books had remained undiminished since A-level English, when a charismatic English teacher had opened her eyes to the possibilities offered by literature. Up until then, Shakespeare had been a closed book, but after a trip to Stratford to see
Macbeth
, Emily had never looked back. From that moment on she had read as voraciously and widely as possible, and her love of books remained undiminished.

‘You don't
get
Shakespeare?’ Emily said. ‘How can anyone not get Shakespeare? He's not only our greatest literary export, his plays are still hugely relevant today. The
Merchant of Venice
deals with racism,
Henry V
is about the horror of warfare.’

‘Perhaps if
you'd
taught me Shakespeare, I might have listened more,’ said Mark.

‘Maybe I should take you in hand,’ replied Emily laughingly.

‘Maybe,’ said Mark with a smile, as he expertly opened the bottle of Wolf Blass he'd brought round, ‘maybe you should.’

Charlie was back from Amsterdam, and he seemed far more cheerful than he had of late. He kept whistling, which was driving Katie insane as she loaded the washing machine for the third time that evening. Charlie, meanwhile, was sitting at the kitchen table with a can of beer, doing
The Times
crossword.

‘So, the meetings went well, I take it,’ Katie said between gritted teeth. Why the bloody hell couldn't he see she needed help.

‘Fine.’ Charlie's response was only half there. For something that had been making him really wound up before he left, he was displaying a remarkable insouciance about it now.

‘And the merger's gone ahead all right then?’ ‘Oh, there are a few teething problems,’ said Charlie, ‘but it should be okay.’

Normally Charlie was a bundle of nerves in the middle of an important deal. But he'd barely consulted his BlackBerry all evening.

‘Good,’ said Katie. ‘What about the move? Any more news about that?’

Charlie folded the paper and put it down. He stretched languorously.

‘I think you're right, Katie,’ he said. ‘We shouldn't rush things. It may not be necessary to move after all. Let's just play it by ear.’

Katie was dumbfounded. It was like she was talking to a different person.

‘Well, if you're sure …’

‘Absolutely,’ said Charlie. ‘The kids are the priority, we shouldn't uproot them. If I have to be in Amsterdam in the week, I can stay in the company flat.’

‘The prospect seems to be making you very cheerful,’ said Katie drily. Again, the thought briefly flitted through her head. Suppose he was having an affair? No. No. No. Not Charlie. Charlie wouldn't do that to her. Charlie would never do anything like that. Just picturing his mother's reaction would probably be enough to keep him on the straight and narrow for life. Wouldn't it?

‘Well, I'm off for a bath,’ said Charlie, putting the paper down.

‘I could come and join you.’ A little bit of harmless flirtation couldn't hurt. Maybe that was all their marriage needed. Some more excitement to spice it up.

‘No, it's okay, thanks,’ mumbled Charlie. ‘I'm a bit creamcrackered to tell you the truth. I just thought I'd have a soak and crash out.’

He got up and kissed her briefly on the top of her head, and walked away as if nothing in the world was wrong. Katie folded a pair of his boxer shorts, and then buried her face in them in despair.

Oh God. Maybe, just maybe, he would.