Wild Oats (39 page)

The heavenly relief of emptying her guts of everything she had imbibed the night before was marred
by the feeling that someone had taken an axe to her head. Sweating, she looked up, wiping the last trickles of sour saliva from her mouth, to see a wide-eyed child gaze at her in disgust then hurry on.

She realized she didn’t even know what she was wearing. She looked down: still the dress from the night before, but it had a split in the side seam that reached the top of her thigh. She hurried back inside, found her bag and made her escape. She hadn’t a clue where she was. She asked a woman for directions to the nearest tube, feeling too ill to be embarrassed by her dishevelled appearance.

She had to get off the tube twice to be sick. She didn’t think she could possibly have anything left inside her, but she still managed putrid yellow bile. At one point she was tempted to lie down on a bench and hope for a speedy death, for she didn’t think she could go on living. She didn’t know which was worst: the nausea, the headache, the giddiness or the memories of the night before that were slowly coming back to her frame by frame.

At the second to last station she was reduced to dry retching, then managed to buy a Coke in an attempt to rehydrate, hoping that its syrupy sweetness would settle her stomach. She ran a tongue over her cracked lips, wondering how on earth a grown woman could voluntarily do herself so much damage in the name of fun. Eventually the ghastly journey came to an end and she struggled to the surface of Shepherd’s Bush station.

The day outside was irritatingly bright and cheerful. Zoe shrank back into the shadows and tried to summon up the strength for the two-hundred-yard walk back to Natalie’s. Feeling horribly self-conscious, she began her journey, praying she wouldn’t see someone she knew.

Her prayers weren’t answered. Heading straight for her was her old next-door-but-one neighbour, on his way, no doubt, for the Sunday papers, one child in each hand. She steeled herself for his greeting, but none came. Instead, he averted his gaze and firmly steered the children around her, hurrying on as quickly as he could. Zoe didn’t blame him for ignoring her, then realized he wasn’t – he hadn’t even recognized her. He’d obviously mistaken her for some raddled old tart on her way home from working the streets.

Eventually she got to Natalie’s house and rang the bell. Natalie opened the door and looked as if she’d seen a particularly terrifying apparition.

‘Zoe! My God – where have you been? I was going to give you another hour, then I was going to call the police.’

She stepped back as Zoe stumbled in over the doorstep. Behind Natalie appeared Marcella, looking bandbox fresh and as if butter wouldn’t melt.

‘Marcella said you went off with some real lowlifes. She said she couldn’t get you to come home.’ She lowered her voice and spoke in a vicious whisper. ‘For God’s sake, Zoe. You could have been raped.

Or gang-banged. Or anything. There’re some real weirdos about.’

Zoe realized with a sickening lurch that for all she knew she could have been. She couldn’t remember a bloody thing. She certainly felt as if an entire rugby team had had its wicked way with her. And she would have deserved it. She had a dim memory of dancing to ‘Lady Marmalade’, holding her arms above her head and thrusting her hips and her chest suggestively at anyone who would bother to look. She’d been asking for it all right.

Natalie was looking at her with distaste.

‘For God’s sake go and have a shower.’

‘Thanks,’ Zoe managed to croak, and stumbled past the two of them, not missing Marcella exchange a look of disdainful disapproval with Natalie. Hypocrite.

When she looked in the bathroom mirror, she recoiled in horror. Her eyes had almost vanished; they were puffy slits with huge bags slung underneath. Her skin was deathly pale and waxy; her lips cracked and blackened. Slowly, she took off her clothes. Her muscles ached unbearably, presumably from dancing all night. At least she hoped that was the case.

She thought about what Natalie had said. Had she had sex with Zak? Or one of his mates? Or worse, both? Willingly or unwillingly? Knowingly or unknowingly? Should she go to a police station – get herself checked out, have a forensic examination? Though she didn’t know if she wanted to know. And
she didn’t know how she’d be received. And if she had – what then? What would she do about it? She could hardly expect any sympathy.

She had the shakes now. She sat down on the loo, trying to assess her predicament and failing. She tried desperately to work out how long it would be before she would feel human again. If she’d stopped being sick, she might be able to manage first some tea, and then some toast.

She poured a liberal amount of Natalie’s bubble bath under the tap, then sank into the cleansing bubbles. She washed her hair and scrubbed her body, then when the last of the bath water had drained away she stood under the shower for ten minutes, wishing fervently that the memories – or rather lack of them – from the night before would disappear down the plughole as well.

She put her dress and her G-string into a spare carrier bag and tied a knot in it, then thrust it into the bin on the landing. She put on reassuringly clean underwear, her jeans and a T-shirt. She looked in the mirror again. She was still deathly pale, but her eyes had opened a fraction, now revealing bloodshot eyeballs underneath. She smothered her lips in Lypsyl and attempted repair with some Beauty Flash Balm.

She looked and felt like hell.

She edged herself gingerly down the stairs, sneaking past the playroom where Daisy and Millie were watching television. She was too ashamed to let them see
what a state she was in; a hideous contrast to the sparkling party girl they’d applauded last night.

When she finally made it into the kitchen, Natalie gave her a look that would turn milk sour.

‘I don’t suppose you can face breakfast. Not that it’s breakfast time any longer.’

Her voice was dripping acid. Zoe quailed.

‘Tea? Hot sweet tea? And have you got any Frosties?’ she asked meekly.

Natalie dumped a box of Frosties on the table and flicked the kettle on. Zoe sat down at the breakfast bar, feeling as if her legs were about to give way. She wasn’t sure if she’d reached the stage when she’d be able to eat, but all the hangover cures she’d ever read had urged some sort of carbohydrate intake to speed up the healing process.

Natalie crossed her arms, waiting for the kettle to boil, and glared at her balefully.

‘So, madam – what have you got to say for yourself?’

Zoe swallowed. She felt like a naughty little girl.

‘For God’s sake, Zoe. You’re thirty-four. Not nineteen. I still can’t believe the way you behaved last night.’

‘It was our girls’ night out. A bit of fun.’

‘Fun? You call dressing up like a slag, getting paralytically drunk, then going off and screwing half of West London –’

‘I didn’t!’ retorted Zoe, but rather lamely because she couldn’t be sure even now what she had and hadn’t
done. Natalie went about making the tea, slamming cupboard doors.

‘I don’t know what’s got into you, but I think you need to sort yourself out. You phone me up five times a week, pissed, usually, moaning about your terrible life. Then you come here and abuse my hospitality –’

Zoe looked up, shocked at this latest accusation.

‘Yes. You weren’t interested in my company last night. You weren’t interested in anything I had to say. You had your own bloody agenda. You made me feel as if I was cramping your style. Then you don’t come home, don’t ring to tell me where you are, leave me worried sick and about to phone the police –’

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Zoe. ‘I’m just having a bit of a shit time at the moment.’

‘So you keep telling me. But you know what I think? You’re the one making it shit. You’re not making an effort. You’re determined to hate your new life.’

Zoe wanted to clamp her hands over her ears to try and block out what Natalie was saying.

‘All of us here would give our eye-teeth to have a lovely house in the countryside. You’re living our dream for us, Zoe, and you’re ruining it. And not just for you, but for Christopher. If you want the honest truth, it’s him I feel sorry for.’

She slammed a cup of tea down in front of her. Zoe jumped.

‘Sorry, Zo, but you can always rely on me to tell it like it is. I was going to have a word with you anyway
this weekend, tell you to buck your ideas up. But I’d no idea you’d completely fucking lost it.’

Zoe was outraged. How dare Natalie lecture her as if she was her mother? Natalie, who’d been a notorious party animal herself not so long ago. She was a bloody hypocrite. A sanctimonious hypocrite who had absolutely no idea what she was going through. She opened her mouth to protest. But then, all of a sudden, a wave of desolation came over her and she wanted to weep.

‘I think Christopher’s in love with someone else,’ she wailed.

‘What?’

‘You met her. Jamie Wilding. She went to his birthday barbecue.’

‘The one that looks like a Barbour advert?’

‘Yes. Little Miss windswept, sparkly-eyed, don’t need make-up, butter wouldn’t melt…’ Zoe trailed off, unable to think of any more adjectives. ‘He thinks the world of her. I can tell. When he talks to her, it’s as if I don’t exist. He asks her advice. Not mine! And of course, she can cook. And she loves dogs. Those horrible stinking fucking dogs of his mother’s.’

Zoe went on to describe the disastrous evening when Jamie had come over for supper, and how threatened she had felt by the whole thing. Then she laid her head down in her arms and began to sob. Natalie waited until she’d cried herself out before giving her a thorough talking-to.

‘Zoe – you’re paranoid. You need to get things into
perspective here. Number one: Christopher married you. He’s known Jamie since year dot – if he loved her that much, surely he’d have married her years ago, but he didn’t. They’re just mates. And number two: Jamie’s doing all the things that you should be doing. Providing him with a sympathetic ear. Supporting him. For heaven’s sake, see things from Christopher’s point of view. He’s under serious pressure, and you’re not helping one bit. How do you think he feels, uprooted, his dad seriously ill, trying to keep the business together? And all he’s got is you bitching because they don’t sell Eve Lom in the local chemist.’

Natalie paused to draw breath. Zoe looked utterly shell-shocked, even though Natalie was saying things she already knew.

‘I’ve known you and Christopher long enough. He loves you, because you’re scatty, fun, lively, bright, sexy, sociable… You’ve given him two gorgeous boys. But for God’s sake, snap out of it, or you will lose him. And at the end of the day, it’s not as if you’ve been sent to bloody Siberia. If you could be arsed to make the effort, you’d make friends. Don’t be such a snotty, uptight cow, judging people by their appearances. It’s so superficial, and you’re not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be
my
friend.’

Natalie paused, thinking she’d probably said enough for the time being. Zoe just looked frozen with misery.

‘I’d better go and pack.’ A tear rolled down her
cheek and plopped into her Frosties. ‘Do you think Edwin would give me a lift to the station?’

Natalie softened, and came and gave her a hug.

‘I didn’t mean to be harsh. But I’m only telling you for your own good. You’re very lucky, Zoe. If only you could see that.’

As her friend rocked her in her arms, Zoe realized that everything Natalie said was right. And she knew exactly where she wanted to be right now. Sitting on the terrace at Lydbrook House with Christopher, reading the Sunday papers with a pot of coffee, while the boys swatted in vain at a shuttlecock on the lawn. Any minute now, she would go inside and start preparing Sunday lunch. Rosemary would come in with some freshly dug potatoes and she would thank her warmly, then pop out to the herb garden for mint to go with the lamb. She would happily scrape carrots and shell peas, then peel some of last autumn’s apples for a crumble.

How stupid she’d been, hankering after the bright lights and nightlife and cheap thrills, when everything that was truly important was right under her nose. If she didn’t die from alcohol poisoning – and judging by the way she was still feeling this was an acute possibility – she’d make it up to them as soon as she got back. She’d be the perfect country wife and mother. She’d make jam and learn to ride and do pony club with the boys. She’d pluck pheasants and gut trout unflinchingly.

She just hoped that she hadn’t left it too late.

*

Christopher woke up on Sunday morning and thought, perhaps, that he might be in heaven. He was in the softest, sweetest-smelling bed. It was like resting on a cloud. White sheets embroidered with tiny rosebuds and their scent as well; the soft crackle of goose down. Somewhere a church bell was ringing.

Tiona appeared in the doorway in a white lace-trimmed camisole and French knickers, her curls loose and falling on to her shoulders. Her gentle blue eyes shone with affection when she saw he was awake.

‘Breakfast,’ she murmured, and he breathed in her smell. Toothpaste and roses. She poured them each a glass of champagne and handed one to him. Without taking her eyes off his she undid the tiny buttons on her camisole, revealing her deliciously round breasts, white and perky as meringues. He dipped his finger into his glass and traced a ring of champagne around her nipple, watching it harden under his touch. He bent his head to lick it off and she gave a little whimper of contentment, tipping back her head, arching her back in delight. When he stopped, she took a mouthful of champagne, pulled his head to hers and kissed him. Their tongues danced amongst the bubbles, the liquid spilling from their mouths as they licked every last drop from each other. She put down her glass and pulled him to her, falling back on to the bed. Just as their tongues had entwined now so did their limbs.

It was like fucking a fairy princess. He was spell-bound.
Enchanted. Bewitched. There was nothing he could do now.

Jamie woke, momentarily perplexed by the huge bubble of happiness inside her that started at her toes and ran all the way to her fingertips. It was a long-forgotten feeling. Most mornings over the past couple of weeks she had woken with a lump of anxiety that she had battled to dispel. But this – this was utter bliss. It took her a few moments to locate the reason, and when she did, the bubble threatened to grow even larger, until she thought she would burst with joy.