Buch lesen: «Strictly Love»

Chapter One

‘Remind me what I'm doing here again?’ Emily stared into the mirror with a frown as she applied some lippy.

‘Emily Henderson, what are you like? Because there's free booze, we get to meet famous people and it's a laugh,’ Ffion assured her. ‘Come on, you know you'll enjoy it.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Emily, staring at herself critically. God, she was a mess. Her normally sleek dark bob was uncharacteristic ally unkempt, and she had dark circles under her pale blue eyes. She was looking gaunt. Even her mum had commented on it at Christmas. No wonder, with so many late nights since she'd been back at work. Working hard and playing hard. It was one way of not thinking about things, she supposed.

‘Besides,’ added Ffion, with characteristic thoughtlessness, ‘you've been as miserable as sin since Christmas. You need cheering up.’

And why would that be, I wonder? Emily thought to herself. She really had tried to keep her resolution of looking on the New Year as a new beginning, but the grey cold of January had sapped away all her resolve, and she felt more miserable then ever. And less clear than ever about Callum. Like an idiot, Emily had mistaken the tenderness Callum had shown her briefly as they shared brunch together on New Year's Day for something else. Then she'd further compounded the mistake by mentioning babies. Callum had been pretty elusive since.

Emily followed her friend reluctantly out to the trendy bar, jammed full of Z-listers and their acolytes eager to buy copies of Jasmine Symonds's autobiography, Jasmine: My Story So Far. All Ffion cared about, with her endless invites to celebrity functions, launch parties, tickets for the Brits and the like, was hanging out with famous people. As if some of that shiny stuff would rub off on her. It was only a matter of time before she appeared on some crap reality TV programme.

‘Hey, look.’ Ffion dug Emily in the ribs as they picked up their free glass of dubious chardonnay from a bored-looking waiter. Crackers was the trendy bar much beloved of the celebrity set (or zedlebrities, as she and Ffion had taken to calling them. Mind you, such sarcasm didn't stop Ffion from wanting to join their ranks), and the place was heaving.

‘What?’ Emily had a headache and was thinking longingly of a long, hot bath and the Margaret Atwood she'd been given for Christmas. The thought of Jasmine writing anything was risible, let alone such an impossibly thick volume for someone who was a mere twenty-two years old.

‘There's Twinkletoes Tone,’ said Ffion. ‘They must have made it up again.’

As Twinkletoes Tone went over to kiss Jasmine – a small, dumpy, rather cowlike creature – full on the mouth, the fact that they had indeed made up was plain for all to see.

‘Tony babe,’ Jasmine purred. ‘Get me another chardonnay, will you?’

‘Maybe they're just snogging for the cameras,’ said Emily, thinking, ‘like, do we care?’

‘Of course we care,’ Ffion scolded her.

Damn it. Emily's annoying habit of thinking aloud had snuck out again. One day it would get her into serious trouble. Luckily Ffion was too preoccupied with the various permutations of Jasmine's love life to take much notice.

‘But yes, you could be right, they could be just doing it for the PR.’ Ffion's beady little eyes lit up with excitement. How she got so titillated by all this stuff was beyond Emily. ‘Word on the street is that ever since Tony got ditched from his club, Jasmine's been looking for ways to get rid.’

‘That's a bit rich, isn't it?’ laughed Emily. ‘For someone whose sole claim to fame is being the first person in Love Shack ever to have performed live fellatio on TV, she's hardly famous for her own merits. At least Tony has talent.’

‘Hmm, tell that to his team mates,’ said Ffion. ‘Wasn't it his lack of talent that caused them to go crashing out of the FA Cup?’ Twinkletoes Tone had earned his moniker by scoring an own goal in last year's FA Cup final, thereby earning the never-to-be-forgotten Sun headline: ‘IT'S ALL GONE TITS UP FOR TWINKLETOES TONE!’

‘Well, I feel sorry for him,’ said Emily. ‘I mean, what has Jasmine got that is so wonderful?’

They watched as Jasmine scrawled her illegible signature across the front of an adoring fan's book.

‘Ooh, Jasmine, I want to be just like you,’ the girl, a spotty fifteen-year-old, gushed.

‘It's easy,’ said Jasmine with a lascivious wink, ‘all you need to do is get your tits out on TV and you can do anything.’

‘Jeez, there's an ambition,’ muttered Emily.

‘I dunno,’ said Ffion. ‘Jasmine's just signed a mega-deal with that cosmetic dental chain Smile, Please! ’ Ffion's PR firm, A-Listers, represented Jasmine so she knew these things. ‘Smile, Please! are going to be huge, you know. Everyone wants cosmetic surgery these days. And if that works out, who knows? According to OK! magazine, her aim is to be the face of L'Oréal.’

‘Jasmine?’ Emily snorted into her glass. ‘I didn't know they were planning to put heifers in their ads.’ ‘Okay,’ admitted Ffion, ‘her looks are more bovine then elfin. But you don't know how she'll look after Smile, Please! have finished with her. And you've got to admit, those teeth … now they do look fantastic.’

They watched as Jasmine flashed her brilliant smile at another sappy group of fans.

‘Well, I think without the smile she wouldn't be the face of anything,’ replied Emily. ‘God, the world's gone mad!’

‘Maybe so,’ said Ffion, ‘but it sure as hell beats going to work for a living. If I had a chance to appear on Love Shack, I'd bite your hand off.’

‘I'm sure you would,’ answered Emily. ‘Listen, I'm knackered, I think I'm going to call it a day.’

‘Don't you want to come to Macy's?’ Ffion looked disappointed. Up until relatively recently, a night like this would always end up with them visiting Macy's. But Emily was tiring of sitting bored in the roped-off VIP area, drinking tasteless cocktails for exorbitant prices. She'd blown Ffion out several times recently, and she had a feeling her friend was none too pleased with her.

‘Not tonight,’ said Emily, ‘I've got an early start tomorrow.’

Despite Ffion's efforts to make her change her mind, Emily refused to back down. Once, the thought of a night out on the tiles would have appealed, but recently, even as a means to drown her sorrows, it was losing its allure. Besides, Callum had hinted he might call. She hated being so in thrall to him, but sometimes she missed him with an intensity that was nearly physical.

Indeed, as she sat on the train, making the long journey home, watching London racing away from her in the dark, Emily realised that she had at least made progress in one area of her life. More and more, Thurfield was feeling like a refuge from the nightmarish world she seemed to be trapped in. Katie had been telling her for years she needed to get out of her job. Emily wished it were that simple. If only her mortgage wasn't so big, the cottage didn't need so much work, her mum didn't owe so much money, and her firm didn't pay quite so well. If only.

Her mobile bleeped and she saw a message from Callum.

Where r u babe? Hope yr hot & waiting fr me.

In yr dreams, she texted back, experiencing the familiar feelings of lust coupled with irritation that Callum always engendered in her. She hoped he wasn't drunk. Or high. Though he had a penthouse flat in town, he had grown up in the town next to Thurfield, and his best mates still lived nearby. There'd been a football match on this evening. No doubt he'd spent the evening tanked up with them, and was now looking for a bed for the night. She leaned against the window and stared into the dark as the countryside flitted past her. She should probably teach him a lesson and not let him into her bed. But knowing what she should do and actually doing it were two very different things. Two very different things indeed …

Rob checked the steps again as they were laid out on the website he'd brought up on his laptop. Then he went to stand in front of the full-length mirror in the lounge, secure in the knowledge that Mark wouldn't be home for at least an hour. He flicked the button on the CD remote and the sound of South American music filled the room.

‘One,’ Rob counted under his breath, ‘remember those snake-hips, two …’

He took a small step forward. What was it Isabella had said last week? Step forward on the ball of your foot, take the weight onto the flat foot, and swing your hips to the left. Easier said than done, of course, but he'd just about got the hang of it by the end of the lesson. And he had his silly little diagrams to refer to.

‘… three, right foot remains in place, transfer weight onto it,’ Rob muttered. ‘… four – then one, left foot to side, swing hips to left. Fuck this is difficult.’

He stopped, switched off the music and then peered myopic ally at the computer screen again. He really ought to get glasses, but Rob knew he was way too vain for them. And too lazy to keep changing contacts.

‘Okay, so it's forward, rest, side, back, rest, side. Swing those hips. Right, I get it … I think,’ Rob said. He switched the music back on and started again. This time it seemed to work, and before long he actually felt he was getting the hang of those ‘ssssnake-hips’ that Carlo, the hilariously camp Latin American dance teacher he'd found in an online dancing video, had talked about.

‘I am the man!’ Rob declared proudly as he pirouetted round the room. He even felt he'd got the hold right, left hand held high, holding the lady's hand, right hand (the bit that Rob particularly liked) snaked round the lady's back.

He had to crack the rumba. Since he'd started learning to dance, the tally on his bedpost had been the highest since his student days. He felt sure the rumba would only add to his allure.

‘John Travolta eat your heart out,’ he said, before spinning rather madly out of control and crashing headlong into Mark's oak dresser. Getting up, he rubbed his hip ruefully. ‘On the other hand, maybe not.’

‘I don't know how you do it,’ Mark Davies laughed at his flatmate later that evening, as Rob bustled into the kitchen to provide drinks for his latest conquest. ‘Here you are, thirty-five, plump, those famous curly locks receding faster than the tide, and still you pull them. I can't think what's sadder – the thought of you practising the waltz, or the stupidity of the women prepared to fall for your lines.’

Mark had been on his way to bed, but Rob couldn't resist showing off his prize, an over-made-up girl whom he had picked up at his ballroom dancing.

‘Well, you either have it or you don't, mate,’ Rob winked knowingly.

‘Mind you,’ continued Mark, loading the last of the dirty plates into the dishwasher – living with Rob was like revisiting their student days, only more depressing; at least they had a dishwasher now – ‘it's always been a mystery how you do it. I've never known what women see in you.’

‘Treat 'em mean, keep them keen,’ said Rob with a wink.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Mark. ‘That explains why they never last more than a week.’

‘Well, have you got a hot babe waiting next door for you?’

‘No,’ said Mark.

‘And, of course, there's my natural charm,’ continued Rob.

‘Of course,’ snorted Mark. Rob's mop of unruly curly hair and cute grin seemed to be what got the girls hooked, but his love 'em and leave 'em reputation should have been enough for them to run a mile. But somehow it never was. Presumably, each and every one of his hapless victims thought they would be the one to change him. And of course they never were.

‘You should watch and learn from the master,’ continued Rob.

‘You know there's only one woman for me,’ said Mark miserably.

‘Yes, but she's nobbing a lawyer,’ Rob reminded him.

Mark pulled a face.

‘I'm going to bed,’ he said. ‘Don't do anything I wouldn't.’

‘Now that I can guarantee,’ smirked Rob.

As Mark climbed into bed minutes later, he could hear the telltale sounds of Rob getting his rocks off. Great, that was all he needed. Mark sighed and put Whitesnake on his iPod and turned it up loud. Heavy metal always made him think of Sam, the most unlikely headbanger in the world. Mark lay in the dark, trying to drown out thoughts of Sam. Pictures of Sam. Wishing things had turned out differently.

What had happened to his life? One minute he was happily married to the woman of his dreams, with two beautiful children, and now here he was: thirty-five, a single dad, living in a grotty three-bed semi with his best friend from uni. While undoubtedly there were advantages in rediscovering a bachelor lifestyle after so many years of domestic bliss (not having anyone nagging about leaving the toilet seat up was a real plus), they didn't outweigh the disadvantages, or the vast gaping chasm that Sam had left behind when she had dumped him unceremoniously for Kevin.

And, to add to the ignominy, he'd been left for a lawyer. Mark had never been keen on lawyers. He'd encountered a fair few smarmy law students when he was at dental school, but his hatred for them had been cemented when he'd watched Spike Sutcliffe, a close friend from dental school, being crucified by a patient who claimed Spike had been inappropriate with her. He hadn't, and eventually he was cleared, but not before he'd been dragged through a bruising court case in which the lawyers had dragged up all sorts of insalubrious details about Spike's rather colourful past, or before Spike had spent vast sums of money on his own defence. The costs that he was awarded just about covered the legal expenses, but they didn't make up for the stress of it all. Sam falling for Kevin had just given Mark another excuse to hate lawyers, only now his hatred was so passionate he knew it wasn't entirely rational.

‘What the bloody hell does Kevin have that I don't?’ Mark spoke aloud into the darkness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and it wouldn't be the last.

‘You never listen to a word I say,’ had been Sam's constant refrain during their marriage.

‘That's not true,’ Mark had protested on more than one occasion. He had listened. Or tried to. He'd always been putty in Sam's hands. Ever since the first night he'd seen her, at his first-year dental ball: a tiny blonde vision in a red strapless dress, strutting her funky stuff to Motorhead of all things. He had been smitten in an instant and knew not just that he wanted to take her home with him, but after she'd amazingly said yes to his offer of a dance that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

And at first everything had been fine. More than fine, it had been brilliant. True, it hadn't been part of the game plan to have children so soon, but he wouldn't be without Gemma and Beth now. Sometimes he wondered guiltily if he'd supported Sam enough when the kids were small. Mark had found it difficult to adjust to fatherhood, especially when Sam appeared to be such a great and totally in-control mum. He'd often felt like a spare part in those days – maybe that was what he'd done wrong. Although she'd never actually said that he wasn't a good dad. Or that he'd failed her as a husband.

Mark had been so content; it had been a shock to hear that Sam wasn't. A year ago (had it only been a year?) she had turned to him clear-eyed and brittle and announced she was leaving him.

‘But why?’ Mark had asked, in a state of profound disbelief.

‘Isn't it obvious?’ Her bitterness had stunned him.

‘Not to me,’ said Mark. ‘If it's something I've done, let me put it right.’

But she had shaken her head, and said, rather sadly, he felt afterwards, though at the time he had been too blinded by fury to see it, ‘It's too late, Mark. I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to know.’

And now, here he was, sixteen years after he first set eyes on Sam, alone in bed in his bachelor pad. This wasn't how it was meant to be at all.

Emily walked down the little footpath that led to her country cottage. Despite the lack of street lighting, and the fact that the common was only a few moments away, she never felt frightened coming down here by herself. The dark comforted her. It hid her and made her feel safe. Although tonight the clear winter sky and the full moon lit her path quite well enough. She let herself in with a relieved sigh. It was gone midnight, she had an early start tomorrow, and with the way the trains had been lately she was going to need to be up at the crack of dawn. But she was home at last.

Ffion still didn't get why Emily had moved so far out ‘into the sticks’, as she put it.

‘I like it,’ Emily constantly said. ‘It's cheaper than London and I get to have fresh air.’

Fresh air was important to Emily, having spent her childhood climbing all the hills she could find in her home county of Pembrokeshire. Besides, Katie had moved here first and had then persuaded her it was worth leaving London for the sight of green fields every morning. Mind you, that was before Katie had gone all ‘desperate housewife’ on her. Now she frequently referred to Thurfield as a fishbowl, and Emily got the impression that her friend missed the bright city lights. Not that Katie ever said as much. Trying to prise a confidence out of her had become somewhat harder than prising an oyster from a clam. But of late, Emily had begun to wonder how happy Katie actually was.

There was laughter coming from the lounge. Loud, raucous laughter. Oh God. Callum had done it again. Decided to bring his mates back to hers. She only hoped they weren't shoving white stuff up their noses. He hadn't yet done it in her home, but she couldn't be sure he wouldn't. Callum liked to live dangerously.

Which, of course, had been part of the original appeal. She still had to pinch herself that someone as gorgeous as Callum was interested in her, the original wallflower. Emily's teenage years had been punctuated by watching her friends cop off with all the good-looking guys, while she, knowing her place as a plain Jane, was left with the geeks. So when Ffion had introduced her to Callum at a PR bash and he showed in interest in her – Emily Four Eyes (an epithet from youth which she could never quite shake off despite having worn contacts for years) Henderson – she was unable to resist. Even though she knew he was spinning lines. Even though he spelled trouble with every single one of them. There was something about Callum that was just – irresistible.

Which is how he had come into her life. And somehow remained there, never progressing beyond the Occasional Screw label Emily had given him from their early days of courtship. If courtship was what it could be called. Callum had never met her parents. Nor she his. They didn't always even see each other on a weekly basis. He had yet to remember a birthday or Valentine's, although he was always charmingly apologetic every time he forgot. And it was difficult not to respond to the dozen red roses that would appear like magic. And the sex. Well, the sex was dynamite.