Young Wives' Tales (13 page)

It gave me a jolt. I considered the possibility that it was just a coincidence that the photographer had the same name as my old mistress, but then hadn’t I heard she’d left Peterson Windlooper to retrain as a photographer? There was no pic of the artist in the leaflet but there were a couple of lines of biog that confirmed that the photographer and my Greenie were one and the same. Good for her, I thought. She’d gone and done it. She’d always said she wanted to be a photographer and, bloody hell, she’d gone and done it. Weirdly and irrationally I felt a huge surge of pride in what she’d achieved. Her work was good. I was glad for her. Even if she was a fucking nutter.

Arty types often are though, aren’t they?

I re-examined all the photos. There were about nine in total. Each one of them was moving, intimate and deeply, deeply sensual. One of them stood out as it was the filthiest. Not that this was the kind of exhibition where full frontals and open-leg shots were likely to be displayed, but on one of the photos there was a suggestion that the model was masturbating. Gently, not manically, but circling her vag under the sheet. You
couldn’t see her face or the upper part of her body. Just the outline of her legs and one foot was tangled in the sheet. Exhibit number 9 was entitled ‘Self-portrait’. Fuck. The intimacy sent shivers through my body. That was Connie. There, lying exposed for everyone to see. For me to enjoy, privately. Because irrational as it sounds, I believe I had something to do with those photos, in fact I think I can take quite a lot of the credit for Greenie finally becoming a photographer.

We used to talk about it, you see, her ambition to be a photographer, and I told her, way back then, that she could do it if she wanted. I believed in her, see. It ended messy and everything. But all endings are messy, aren’t they? It started magnificently. I looked at the self-portrait for about ten minutes, until my Mrs called me a perve and dragged me away for lunch at the local pub.

From time to time someone from Peterson Wind-looper mentions Greenie. They’ve seen her work used in an advert or read a review of some exhibition or other. But I don’t dwell. I’m not the type to dwell. Besides, I’ve had quite a bit going on in my life over the last half a dozen years. Married, divorced, promoted, new car, new home, travelled a bit, more notches on the bedpost. Life flies on.

Funny that she’s a mother, though. To someone big enough to go to school. Not a tiny cute baby that you can wear in a sling as a fashion accessory but the real deal, a person. Greenie’s all woman. The girl I knew has disappeared.

Girls keep doing that. It’s a boring habit.

I call Tom to ask if he wants to meet for a drink. He says he can’t. He and Jenny are going to brief their wedding photographer tonight. It’s not just the girls that are disappearing. I sigh and have a dig.

‘Mate, isn’t that woman’s work? You didn’t catch me doing all that wedding planning stuff.’

‘No mate, but you’re hardly a role model when it comes to the happily ever after, are you?’

‘S’pose not. But buddy, will you ever be allowed out for a drink again? A man can die of thirst, you know.’

There’s silence on the line for a moment or two. Tom knows he has a real laugh coming out with me on the lash. We don’t chase skirt together, we haven’t for some time. Tom is the faithful type, bless him, so since he got together with Jenny he’s simply been an innocent bystander to my antics, but Jenny doesn’t believe that. She pronounces him guilty by association and is sure that when we are together we do nothing but pull totty. The truth is we often just play darts, have a chat and a laugh. True, more often than not I go home with some lovely or other, but Tom limits his womanizing to the odd flirty wink. It’s harmless fun.

Tom is clearly weighing up the laugh he’d have with me versus the earache that he’d no doubt have to endure because he’s been out with me.

‘Craig could come along too. We’ll tell you what we’re planning for the stag,’I tempt him.

‘Well …’

‘Craig’s on the pull. He needs a date for your wedding. It’s our duty to help him out.’

‘OK. I’ll ask Jen if we can get together for a bevvy on Saturday,’he says finally.

‘Mate, don’t ask her, tell her.’

Where’s his self-respect?

Things are not great between Peter and me. It’s boring that so much of my time is taken up with this sort of nonsense. Surely if I have to bear the burden of wrinkles at least I ought not to have to worry about the status of my love life. I’m too old for it.

Peter and I never discussed my hasty exit from the restaurant or any aspect of the evening. On the one hand, I am disappointed that the incident was so thoroughly brushed under the carpet; after all, we both said some monumental things and I believe things said in anger, jest or when drunk are often the things that are true. Most of the conversation we make when we are our rational selves is self-preserving bullshit. On the other hand, I look back at the evening with an overwhelming sense of shame and think it’s best that we forget the whole messy business.

Bloody Rose.

Peter arrived home about forty minutes after I did. I feigned sleep. He feigned a belief in my pretence. The next morning we cautiously edged around one another.
We showered, dressed and ate breakfast as though we were opposing sides in the early part of a game of chess. We skirted, danced and carefully avoided any genuine interaction. I politely offered him coffee. He courteously accepted it, and civilly offered me the financial pages of his newspaper. I graciously declined, knowing that he doesn’t really like to split the paper. He went to the tube station by foot. I made an excuse to set off a little later, rather than walk with him. I said I needed to polish Auriol’s shoes, a transparent excuse, of course, as this is not the sort of thing I normally concern myself with. It’s Eva who sees to it that our daughter is well turned out for school. Peter civilly accepted my excuse. ‘That’s sweet,’he said as he kissed me on the forehead and scurried off with ill-disguised relief, keen to leave the omnipresent doom that filled the house.

And so on and so forth, for a week now. We are two polite strangers living together. We are using the same bathrooms, washing our dirty clothes in the same machine, sleeping in the same bed, eating from the same crockery, but the intimacy is fading, it’s all but disappeared.

Still, there is nothing better than lots of work, culminating in a Club Class flight to New York, to allow domestic issues to slip to the back of one’s mind. Mick and I have found ourselves working together on a pitch for some new business. A multinational, based in New York, looking to spread the risk with their employee pension fund. We’re talking big bucks but it’s a straightforward proposal. Frankly, I think we’re an
over-qualified team. Either one of us could have handled this with the aid of a decent new boy. Indeed, it was Mick’s business pitch initially and then Ralph discovered that the client had specified that they preferred ‘an ethical approach to business’.

‘Who doesn’t?’I quipped.

But I knew that this piece of information was only being brought to my attention because, roughly translated, ‘an ethical approach to business’means they want to see diversity within the European Team managers; this sort of thing often makes companies feel better about exploiting minorities in places which are further afield. Gordon Webster Handle does not have a disabled black lesbian on their staff (the preferred choice for an ethical approach), so the most diversity they could rustle up in the white male C. of E. environment was me. At least I have to sit down to pee.

‘We wouldn’t ask you, but that chink guy in Ed’s team is already working on something really big,’said Mick.

‘You mean Ral, he’s Malaysian,’I replied. I know the City isn’t a politically correct place; I’m shocked to discover it isn’t geographically correct either. ‘I’m busy,’I objected.

‘If you have to get something done, give it to a busy person. Isn’t that what they say? What can I do to persuade you to surrender four working days to this pitch, plus find the time for a trip to NY?’Mick beams at me, suggesting that he doesn’t think it will take much to persuade me. This disturbs me. Why would he
assume I want to spend time with him? Can it be simple arrogance? ‘Come on, Princess. You never know, you might have some fun.’

I agreed to help out. Long hours in the office or long silences at home. It’s not such a tough choice. Besides, Mick was right, it pains me to admit it, but it has been fun working on the pitch with him. The way I tell it is that Mick schmoozes the client and I crunch the numbers. As expected, the pitch gives me a valid excuse to avoid Auriol’s bathtime and Peter’s sulky silence (it’s extraordinary how many times one can run through the same set of numbers), and it is while I’m working late at night that I discover Mick is very amusing (which I knew) and reasonably thoughtful (a surprise). He always remembers to order me a veggie pizza because the local delivery place only offers three types of pizza and two of them have salami as the staple. I hate salami with a passion. And he is clever. He may not lead but he keeps up; many men I’ve met failed to do this much. Besides, he has the occasional flash of brilliance which is exciting. When we ran through the deck with Ralph, he beamed and commented, ‘You two make a good team, possibly the best team in Gordon Webster Handle. Therefore the client would be crazy not to give us the business.’

‘They are not crazy, Sir,’said Mick. He always calls Ralph ‘Sir’, which would be really creepy except that Ralph is American and in America waitresses call rednecks ‘Sir’, so it’s almost become cheeky. ‘This business is in the bag.’

‘We can’t afford to be cocky, Mick. The client is a deeply efficient, multinational blue chip and we need to give them the best show. We can’t let up,’I add.

Mick winked at me, and as soon as Ralph was out of earshot he added, ‘Admit it. This trip to NY is not much more than a courtesy call. We’re going to win the business, the fat bonus and the cred.’

‘Absolutely,’I grinned. ‘Not much more than a bit of handshaking.’

We both see it as a jolly. Mick is thinking strip bars. I’m thinking room service and Bloomingdales. And maybe the odd cocktail. Mick and I could nip to the W Hotel Whiskey bar and I’ve just been told about this amazing downtown eatery called Novel. Everyone goes. There’s a waiting list, obviously, but I’ve never had any trouble with waiting lists. And then we could go to Bar Seine, it’s just had a refit – I stop myself.

Where is this train of thought leading? I’m no innocent. I know which station this train pulls in at. First, one admires his suit. Next, his smile and then his humour. Then, his thoughtfulness and flashes of brilliance. Next thing, flies are unzipped and lacy underwear is hanging from the chandeliers. I take a deep breath. Things are moving too quickly and in a hazardous direction. Only a few weeks ago I considered Mick to be nothing more than the office Casanova: a cliché and not of any real interest. I steal a glance at Mick. He is tall, dark and handsome, in a very obvious sort of way. This is exactly the sort of way a chap ought to be handsome. I’m not a fan of quirky. But he is
not
Peter.
Not a patch on him. Not my husband. I need to keep that in mind.

Yes, we’re good together. We are a team. Colleagues. That’s it. The sparring, the banter, the late-night chats about politics, bars and cars are not significant. Mick has been openly enthusiastic about my being dragged on board his project, even though this will inevitably mean that his bonus is split, but that doesn’t mean anything. He’s a business guy at the final count and he knows half of something is better than all of nothing, which was the probable outcome of the pitch if Gordon Webster Handle hadn’t responded to the brief of a diverse team. So he saw the sense of having a woman on board. What were his exact words? ‘There’s always room for a pretty little lady.’This vaguely flirty remark is barely worth noticing, it’s just his way. Still, I am grateful that he didn’t resent my presence and try to make me feel uncomfortable, as so many of the traders do. He even went so far as to let Ralph know that I’d come up with an entirely new way of looking at the portfolio which is set to be a winner. He can be charming.
Stop
.

Peter. Peter. Peter. Just keep saying his name, I tell myself, as I buckle up and relax into the Club Class seat. Problem is, when I say his name I think of the hurried, dry and painful sex that we executed this morning. We’re both superstitious about flying without making up and so we made an effort. Effort being the operative word. I have to be very careful. Only minutes ago Mick and I were laughing like drains about the
cartoons in
Punch
. If I’m aware that we are becoming a little too familiar and pally, the odds are Mick has projected as far as simultaneous multiple orgasms. I mentioned he was confident. I used to do a great Ice Queen. I think I need to step back into that character.

‘Drink, Madame?’The smiley air steward proffers a tray with glasses of champagne and glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice, all neatly lined up like soldiers.

Mick reaches across me and takes two glasses of champagne. He offers one to me and the steward moves on.

‘I wanted orange juice,’I say stiffly.
Peter
.

‘Why? It’s free. And it’s champagne. Why would you drink orange juice?’he asks reasonably.

Peter
. ‘I’m at work. It’s office hours.’

Mick snorts his disgust and downs both glasses of champagne. I stare my amazement.

‘What? They are only tiny glasses. You didn’t want any. You said so.’

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that Mick is my age. He looks and acts much younger. I wonder if the casual observer would think we were the same age. I wish I could stop obsessing about ageing, it’s undignified. But recently I’ve been unable to ignore the fact that everything is sinking, slowing down or scrunching up. And yesterday’s incident at the hairstylist’s didn’t help. Three months ago, with no prior discussion or warning, my hairstylist of eight years announced he was emigrating. I am bereft. I suppose I ought to have been thrilled for him, as he had finally met the man of his dreams
(extremely rich, extremely beautiful and extremely dumb). Stephen and his lover plan to hop from beach to beach and follow the sun all year round. I often find myself feeling jealous of gay couples, who have no expectations foisted upon them regarding producing offspring. They can freely follow the hedonistic lifestyle that I grieve for.