Wishful Thinking (35 page)

‘I have this terrible problem with women,' he informed me with a heart-shattering smile. ‘I simply can't say no.'

In view of his extreme physical beauty, I reflected, that really
would
be a problem. (I was only surprised he found time to write poetry.) However, I had no intention of putting it to the test. I waited till his notice was claimed by a gushing magazine editor, and moved away. I'd seen a familiar face.

‘Hi, Cal. What're you doing here?' Designers don't normally attend these affairs.

‘I came for the booze.' He raised his glass. ‘And the scenery.' His gaze travelled over the visible portions of my anatomy – both of them.

‘Georgie get you in?' His name would have had to be on the door for him to gain admission.

‘Mmm. Where is she?'

‘Don't know. She was with me a moment ago.' Scanning the room, I saw her standing a dozen yards away with Angus Dudgeon, who had evidently switched his leer to her bosom. She appeared her usual sparkling self, but in view of her comment earlier I guessed she was on autopilot.

‘Who's that git?' Cal demanded, following my gaze.

‘A very famous poet.'

‘I'm not much of a one for poetry,' he confessed, unnecessarily. ‘It all sounds silly to me. Like those poems in greetings cards.

‘That the sort of stuff he writes?'

I giggled. There's something irresistible about a total philistine on the literary scene. ‘Pretty much,' I said.

Seeing us, Georgie extricated herself gracefully from Angus' dudgeon and came over. ‘Are we talking,' she asked Cal, in a flippant tone, ‘or just arguing?'

‘Up to you.'

I left them to it, hoping that at last they would sort themselves out and normal service would be resumed. Heading towards Lin, I was waylaid by a broad Yorkshire accent who thrust a book of his verse into my unresisting hands – always a hazard at these events – and proceeded to tell me he saw himself as the Emily Brontë of the twenty-first century. Glancing through the book, I found it difficult to agree. He had a sobering effect on me, and I hastily grabbed some passing champagne. In the main, I was enjoying myself – anyone can be sought-after in Greece, but it takes rather more effort at an Awards ceremony in London. However, despite the feedback from the dress I didn't feel my success matched up to Cinderella's. It would have been fun if – say – Todd Jarman had been there . . .

No. Mustn't think like that. I had promised myself no further fantasies, erotic or otherwise. That way lay embarrassment and potential humiliation. After all, he was still with Helen Aucham – Helen the high-minded, Helen of the Inns of Court. Was this the face that launched a thousand briefs, And burned the topless towers of lawyerdom? Damn: all these poets were going to my head.

The New Brontë was holding forth on the need for a Romantic Revival and required little prompting from me, which was just as well, since I gave none. He was a large man with a sagging gut (unusual for a poet, since most of them tend to be worn thin from starving in garrets on inadequate Arts Council grants). A Brontësaurus, I thought. I let my gaze wander, and saw Lin in earnest conversation with the Publisher Who Contributed and Georgie and Cal separating abruptly. Georgie looked stormy, Cal merely bleak. He put down his glass and strode towards the exit. On an impulse I excused myself from Yorkshire Romanticism and ran after him.

(Well, not exactly
ran
. Not in that dress – plus the three-inch spike heels I had chosen to go with it. More like walked very quickly.)

‘Cal . . .'

He stopped, the bleak look softening a little when he saw me.

‘Please stay,' I said. ‘If you keep stalking out, and Georgie keeps storming off, you'll never make it up. Give it another go. You want to; she wants to. You just have to try.'

‘I'm not sure she does want to,' Cal said. ‘She resents my being married. I can't blame her for that; but she knew the deal when we got started. I've told her, I can't leave the kids. That's it. And now she wants to see other men . . .'

‘No she doesn't,' I said. ‘She just talks about it. I think – I think she's scared of what she feels.'

‘You're a nice girl, Cookie,' he said with a tired smile. ‘Kind. You say kind things. And you've got fabulous tits.'

‘Come and have another drink.'

We found more champagne and Cal produced a hip flask of brandy to make it more interesting. ‘Never enough booze at these affairs,' he said. ‘I always come prepared.' The brief flicker of sobriety induced by twenty-first-century Brontë had faded, and I advanced into second-stage inebriation, which is even mellower and more comfortable than the first stage, but without the disagreeable side effects of the third and fourth stages. Unfortunately, it does tend to cloud your thought processes, as I realised when it was too late. At one point, the Yorkshire brogue came over with the obvious intention of cornering me again, but Cal wrapped a possessive arm around me and gave him a fuck-off smile, which did the trick.

‘Thanks,' I said, unwrapping the arm. ‘This was supposed to be my evening to pull, but somehow, he wasn't my type.'

‘Don't give up yet,' said Cal. ‘Georgie said I should go back to shagging around. Perhaps I could start with you.' His tone was half teasing, half serious; but I turned it off as a joke.

‘One of the crowd, huh? Boy, you really know how to make a girl feel special!'

‘Sorry. I never was much of a smooth talker. But I mean it. You've got so gorgeous lately – I expect you always were, underneath, but you've really blossomed. That dress is sensational.'

‘Georgie helped me choose it,' I said. ‘Georgie did the whole transformation thing. She's incredibly generous – and not just with my credit card.'

‘Could we stop talking about Georgie?' He essayed another smile, but it went awry. ‘I'm trying to come on to you.'

‘Then don't,' I said. ‘Aside from the fact that Georgie's my friend, you're treating me like – like one of those temps you used to get off with. Or the estate agent. You only want a quickie. D'you think that's all I'm worth?'

‘'Course not. But you'd never take me seriously; you're too smart. Oh, I know Georgie's smart, but you're smarter. I'm just a dumb guy who can draw.' I noted the contents of his glass were now mostly brandy, with a cursory bubble or two floating on the top. He took a large gulp. ‘All you would want from me would be to – to use me for a night of lust, then toss me aside. That's okay. I could do with being used.'

‘You love Georgie,' I reminded him, a little sharply.

‘Leave it.'

‘You love
Georgie
,' I persisted.

‘Georgie's in my gut,' he said, through what sounded like gritted teeth. ‘She's in my blood – in my bones – in whatever part of the body women get into, when you can't get them out.'

‘Heart?' I suggested.

‘Balls,' he said. ‘She's in my
balls
. Damn her. I haven't had sex for weeks, and I need a shag. You look like . . . like a goddess in that dress. The Goddess of Lust. The Scarlet Woman. You should be surrounded by devil-cherubs with pointy horns and spiky tails.'

‘Sounds very artistic,' I said. ‘Positively Baroque.'

He grinned, gazing rather muzzily into my eyes, and then suddenly leaned forward and kissed me.

Somewhere, I could hear the Wyshing Well fairy, laughing and laughing, but this time it wasn't funny. It
really
wasn't funny . . .

‘What the hell's going on here?' Georgie. One look at her face told me she too had had far too much champagne – even without the addition of brandy. Behind her, Lin was making anguished faces at me.

‘I'm propositioning Cookie,' Cal said. Ouch. ‘She's being nice to me, and I'm taking advantage of her. Pretty low, isn't it? But there you are. I always was an arsehole.'

‘How nice is she being?' Georgie rounded on me. ‘
How nice
?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' I said. ‘You know I wouldn't—'

But Georgie wasn't listening. Nor was Cal. ‘Dog-in-the-manger,' he said to her. ‘Just 'cos you don't want me, doesn't mean – doesn't mean – well, maybe Cookie does.'

‘I
don't
!' I was yelling now, as if it would do any good. In our vicinity, people were staring. Nothing like a good row to liven things up. I
felt
like a scarlet woman – and it wasn't any fun at all. Georgie's face was ablaze with rage and pain.

‘You bastard!' she screamed, I'm not sure who to. ‘I thought you were my
friend
!' Me. Definitely me. ‘I
trusted
you, I
cared
for you – I made you buy that dress – and all the time you were planning to – scheming to – You have him. Go on. You want him, you have him. I wish you luck. He thinks he's got a big dick, but you know what? He
is
a big dick. You have him. You're welcome.'

She headed for the stairs like a small tempest, leftover poets scattering from her path. ‘I'd better go with her,' Lin said. ‘Cookie—'

‘It's all nonsense,' I said. ‘You know that, don't you?'

‘I hope so.' She threw me a last look, then followed Georgie.

‘Right,' said Cal. ‘Let's go and have sex.'

I removed the glass from his hand and set it down on a nearby table. Then I slapped him round the face. Hard.

For a moment he stood perfectly still. Then he took off his specs, straightened a bent ear-piece, and put them back on again. ‘Shit,' he said. ‘Sorry. Sorry . . .'

‘If you've lost me one of my best friends,' I said in a shaking voice, ‘I hope you burn in hell.'

‘I'll talk to her,' he said. ‘It wasn't your fault. It was me – all me. I'll fix it for you.'

‘You'd better. I wanted to help you – I wanted you and Georgie to get back together. She's my friend, and I thought you were my friend too. I never imagined you would come on to me. Even when you've flirted a little, I just thought you were kidding.'

‘I'm a man,' he said ruefully. ‘That's the problem with all of us at the blunt end of a prick. You want us to be caring and sensitive and wonderful, and we ain't. We always let you down. I
am
your friend, Cookie – at least, I hope so – but put me near an attractive woman and the good old hormones kick into action. That's how blokes work. Women are the superior sex: you girls have always known that.'

‘You do
want
to be with Georgie, don't you?' I said, suddenly scared.

‘God, yes. I want to be with her so much it's tearing my heart out. All I wanted from you was comfort. And the tits, of course.'

‘I encouraged you,' I said, smitten with a surge of remorse. ‘You thought I was coming on to you, didn't you? I was being all cosy, and – this dress. I should never have bought it. I just wasn't cut out to be sexy.'

‘Bollocks,' said Cal. ‘All women are sexy – or they should be. I didn't need encouragement. I'm a bloke: remember? I keep my brains in my dick.'

‘You said it.' But I was still feeling horribly guilty. I'd enjoyed his company, and his admiration. I'd been too pissed to think straight. How could I have been so
stupid
? And how on earth would I put things right with Georgie?

‘Don't worry,' Cal said, reading my face. ‘I'll speak to Georgie. It'll be okay – at least for you. She doesn't bear grudges.' And, after a pause: ‘Shall I take you home now, or do you want to pick up a poet?'

I managed a smile. ‘Just get me a cab.'

Outside, we stood on the pavement while Cal scanned the passing traffic for a ‘For Hire' light.

‘What will you do now?' I asked.

‘Go home. Crash out on the sofa in front of the late-night movie, probably.'

‘Do you still sleep with Christy?' I said.

‘Yes. Me on one side of the bed, she on the other. Clear blue water in between. We don't even touch.'

‘D'you mind?'

He shrugged. ‘Not any more. It's been over for a long time now.' An available taxi approached, and he summoned it for me. When he opened the door I hesitated, turning to say goodnight. ‘You should get yourself a decent guy,' he said, squeezing my hand.

‘According to you, there aren't any.'

‘Nah – the best ones are all like me. There are a few sensitive types, but they're all wimps. You'll just have to make do.'

‘I'll bear it in mind.'

I got into the cab and it drove off, leaving him alone at the curbside. Looking back, I thought he appeared solitary and rather forlorn, standing there in the lamplight, with the bleak look settling over his face again. So much for my night of triumph. I'd been hailed a sex goddess – I'd been seductive and sought-after – my wish had come true. And what good had it done me? I'd hurt someone I cared for, I'd let people down,
I'd lost my friend
. I'd lost friends in the past through what might be termed natural wastage – growing apart, moving away, taking divergent paths – but never through anger. Never like this. I knew a horrible squirming feeling inside of mingled shame and regret and self-loathing, and worst of all, the sneaking urge to justify my actions, to tell myself: ‘I didn't mean it. It wasn't my fault. Things just happen.' There I was, being beautiful and irresistible, and things just happened around me, the way they do around beautiful irresistible people. We don't mean to inflict pain on others, but we can't help it. Us
femmes fatales
 . . .