A Minor Indiscretion (18 page)

N
eil pulled up outside Jemma's shop and cut the engine on his motorbike. He'd thought about coming in the nacky old Citroën and decided it would do his image no good whatsoever. It was six o'clock and the traffic had ground to a standstill as the commuters started their nightly battle home, giving Neil a warm glow and a feeling of superiority about the sense of riding a bike in London.

Parking the bike on the vast expanse of pavement outside You Must Remember This…he checked his reflection in the window as he walked toward the door and tugged nervously at his neck scarf. He'd worn his best crash helmet and plain black leathers with red detail stitching that coordinated with the color of his motorbike. These things mattered to women, he knew that. He'd once had a red Honda FireBlade CBR900 RR with Andes Blue and Winning Red farings with a capacity of 929cc, upside-down front forks, computer-controlled fuel injection and a Variable Intake Exhaust. He had also had a state-of-the-art, safety supreme, green crash helmet with a blue hexagonal pattern on it, a purple-and-pink striped Kevlar overall, yellow gloves with orange knuckle protectors, funky silver-gray boots and a girlfriend who nagged him continuously about looking a mess. The fact that the bike could single-handedly blow anything else on the road into the weeds had not impressed her. Was it an icon of modern motor
cycle technology? Yes, it was. Was it faster than a Porsche Boxster? Yes, it was. Was it faster than a speeding bullet? Yes, it was. Did it matter one iota to Samantha? No, it did not. She'd never go on the back of it—or within fifty feet of it—so he sold it, bought a bike that would match his outfit and she'd left anyway. Women! Now he was the biker's version of
Color Me Beautiful.
The last thing he wanted was to turn up in seriously mismatched biker gear and give Jemma an excuse to phone the style police. He took his helmet off as he reached the door, just in case she mistook him for a well-turned-out armed robber.

As he entered the sophistication of the shop, Neil smoothed his hair, wishing his helmet didn't crush it to the point where he looked like a leftover punk rocker. Jemma glanced up when he walked in, and it was a second or two before recognition dawned.

“Come in, Neil,” she said with a bright smile. “I'll be with you in a few minutes. Have a look around.”

Neil shuffled a bit farther into the distinctly feminine emporium and started to sift aimlessly among the rails while Jemma attended to her customers. It all felt nice and silky, but he didn't have a clue what was what or why they warranted some of the seriously loaded price tags. Why should something forty years old and covered in
Come Dancing
sequins be worth more than four hundred quid? But then shopping wasn't a bloke thing, was it?

He watched Jemma from the corner of his eye. Two tiny Japanese women hugged each other with delight as she handed them two hefty carrier bags and an even heftier bill. The pair tottered out tittering gleefully under the weight of their packages.

“Two happy customers,” Neil observed.

Jemma shrugged. “Regulars. If you can call twice yearly visitors regular. They take bags of the stuff back to Japan. Retro couture goes down a storm over there.”

Neil let the hem of the silk evening gown he was fingering fall. “You've got some nice stuff,” he said, realizing there were probably more technical terms.

“Thanks.” They stood for a moment, smiling wordlessly. Jemma closed the till and frowned. “Can't you make dinner?”

Neil looked behind him. “Yes.”

“Oh.” Jemma twiddled her hair round her finger. “Shall we have a quick coffee in the flat?” she asked. “Or do you want to get changed in the back?” She flicked a glance to a curtained cubicle.

“Into what?”

“Well, you can't go to dinner dressed like that.”

Neil surveyed the outfit he considered the epitome of biker style. It all matched. He looked back at Jemma. “Can't I?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

It had never occurred to Neil that someone who spent their days selling retro couture would object to his taste in dress. But then Jemma should perhaps have appreciated that someone who spent their days shouting “Donkey Burgers” and “Cheesy Toenails” to entice five-year-olds to smile probably wouldn't have any taste. A suit and tie would have been wasted on Year Three. He was a chinos and polo shirt man—and at this moment he wished he'd thought to bring them.

Jemma folded her arms. “You've brought a change of clothes along, haven't you?”

Neil decided to try sheepish and bemused. “No.”

She tutted. “God, Neil, you're as bad as that dunderheaded brother of yours.” She pointed at his leathers. “They might look very nice and sexy, in a tight kind of way, but those are the sort of clothes you wear when you're having an early night in.”

Neil looked at himself again. “Are they?” His voice was higher than it should be. He lowered it. “Are they?”

“Or for riding a motorbike,” she added as a dismissive afterthought. “You're not taking me out looking like a part-time Hell's Angel. Let's go through to the back and see what I can do for you!”

Neil allowed himself a quiet smirk.

 

What she did was find him some men's retro couture. Or, as he himself would have put it, old clothes. Sometime later, Neil emerged from the cubicle minus his smirk and wearing a velvety, horribly 1940s yucky, pouffy jacket, some sensible trousers from an indeterminate period and some suede brogues two sizes too small. He stood clutching his motorbike helmet like a security blanket.

Jemma smiled contentedly. “That looks better,” she trilled.

Well, he certainly didn't look like a Hell's Angel anymore. “Wanker” was the first term that immediately came to mind.

She pointed at his motorbike helmet. “Leave that there.”

Neil reluctantly deposited his pride and joy on Jemma's glass
display counter next to some rather exclusive 1920s beaded Flapper cloche hats.

“Come on, let's go,” she instructed, grabbing her handbag and heading for the door.

And, feeling rather more like Noël Coward than he would have wished, Neil trailed in her wake to the restaurant across the street.

O
rla was coming to dinner. And Marks & Spencer were providing the fare. Ed was ripping bags open as if his life depended on it. He slugged down some wine and checked the clock. She'd be here any minute.

She'd had to come here because Tanya was going to a school disco and he didn't want to get a baby-sitter for the boys in case it got back to Ali that he couldn't even manage alone for one week.

Elliott looked up from the table and waved a picture of what appeared to be a short, fat purple man with a mustache. “I'm drawing Miss Jones,” he informed Ed.

His father studied the artwork. “And this was
before
her sex change?”

“What does that mean?” Elliott asked.

“Nothing,” Ed said, sticking his finger in a carton of red-currant sauce to taste it. St. Michael was also providing lamb noisettes, which were in the oven on their way to burning, and a variety of other pre-prepared delights. “It was a joke.”

“About what?”

“If I have to explain it, then it's not a joke anymore.”

“Do you like this lady more than you like Miss Jones?”

“Elliott, I do not want to have any more of your ‘erection'-type conversations. Orla is a colleague. Someone I work with. She is
coming to discuss business. I want you to be very, very good tonight. In fact, I want you to be more than good, I don't want you to say anything. Nothing at all.” Ed waved a red-curranty finger. “In fact, if you speak even once when you're not spoken to, I'll cut your tongue out and give it to the cat.”

“We haven't got a cat.”

“Next door's cat.”

“Which side?”

“Elliott, have I made myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

The doorbell rang and Ed whipped off Ali's ancient and thread-bare
Country Diary of an Edwardian Lady
apron and rushed to open it. Orla stood there smiling shyly and had clearly dressed for the occasion. Ed hadn't had time to change since he got home because there had been a ten-mile queue at the till in Marks & Sparks. She was wearing a cashmere dress and high-heeled boots and her hair fell loose to her shoulders. Ed brushed his own hair out of his eyes. “Wow!”

“Thank you,” she said, proffering a bottle of wine.

Ed took it from her. “Come in. Come in.”

Elliott was putting the finishing touches to Miss Jones. Red hobnail boots. “Orla, this is Elliott. Our youngest and most troublesome son.”

Orla tried to look winning. “Hi, Elliott.”

Elliott pressed his lips together. “Mmm, mmm.”

“Elliott. Say hello.”

Elliott picked his nose with his felt pen. “How am I supposed to say hello, when I'm not supposed to speak?”

“Cat. Elliott. Cat,” Ed warned.

“Hello,” his son muttered.

“Orla, can I get you a drink? Wine? Is red okay? Or white?”

Orla nodded. “Red's fine.”

Ed poured a glass and handed it to her. This was ridiculous—he felt as nervous as a kitten. Perhaps it was because he hadn't seen Orla in such intimate circumstances before. It was the first time he'd seen her out of work clothes and it was a strange experience. When Orla did casual she did it in a very glamorous way, but she somehow looked softer, gentler, almost nervous herself. It was disconcerting having her here in the kitchen, and yet it had seemed such a good idea at the time.

Orla held the glass to her lips. They were slicked with scarlet lipstick like an overripe cherry, full and pouty. “Cheers,” she said. “To us.”

“Are you in love with my daddy?” Elliott employed his felt pen in a nasal capacity again while scrutinizing their guest.

Orla spat the wine back into her glass with a cough.

“Elliott!”

“My schoolteacher is,” he informed her. “I've drawn her.” Elliott held up Miss Jones's questionable likeness for inspection.

Orla cast her eyes over the image. “I'm sure your daddy's very flattered.” She fixed Ed with a wry smile.

“It's time for bed, young man.”

“Oh, not yet,” Elliott pleaded. “I just have to do some more drawing.” He gathered his felt pens to him hastily, smearing the snot from the top of one onto his sweater, and whipped out a clean sheet of paper.

“It's late,” Ed said. “Bed.”

Thomas peered round the door frame. “Can I go to bed? I want to read.”

“Don't you want to have a small sip of wine with us?”

Thomas shook his head. His son had been unusually quiet all week, even for Thomas. Ed wanted to hold him and tell him that everything would turn out all right, but it felt like tempting fate.

“It's only early,” Ed said lightly.

“You said it was late!” Elliott protested.

“Elliott, shut up and go to bed.”

The small boy got down from the table and wagged his finger at Orla. “Be very careful what you say. Daddy's being very strange about pussies at the moment.”

Orla blinked.

“Good night,” Elliott said huffily and stalked to the door.

“'Night.” Thomas turned and ran after him.

Ed tried an apologetic laugh. “Sorry about that.”

Tanya appeared at the door. “I'm off.”

Ed blinked. “You're not going out like that?” His daughter was wearing next-to-nothing and a full face of makeup to match it.

“I am. Bye. Don't wait up.”

“Don't wait up!” Ed yelled.

The front door slammed.

When he laughed again, it sounded flat. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“I think I like this new, domesticated you,” Orla said. She slid herself onto one of the stools at the worktop.

“I'm not sure that I do,” he admitted.

They both lapsed into an extended silence.

“Fully recovered from the canal thing?” Ed inquired politely.

“I'm on antibiotics,” Orla said.

“Oh. Good. Right.” Ed topped her wineglass up, deciding not to point out that she shouldn't be mixing alcohol with antibiotics. If the tablets didn't kill the bugs, the booze might. The conversation sagged again. “I'll serve dinner if you don't mind,” he said, resisting the urge to put his apron back on. “Otherwise it might well be burnt offerings.”

He lifted the lamb out of the oven.

She was studying him closely. Too closely. He could feel her eyes following his every movement and it was making them all jerky.

“It smells divine.” Orla sniffed the air.

“It's lamb,” Ed said pointlessly.

“My favorite.”

“I didn't know if you ate meat.” Although most of the crew voiced the opinion that she probably ate it raw. For breakfast. “It's all bought. I take no credit for the preparation and accept no blame if it's not to Madam's liking.”

“I'm sure it will be fine,” she said.

Ed served the meal and took the plates to the kitchen table, sticking Miss Jones to the fridge lest she get red-currant sauce splashed on her orange triangular skirt and ruin the rest of Elliott's life. He hadn't bothered to put on a tablecloth, primarily because he wasn't sure where Ali kept them, and he thought candles might have given the wrong impression. He didn't want Orla to think he was making romantic overtures. Now he wished he'd made a bit more effort. It was hardly relaxing to be sitting at the kitchen table eating convenience food under halogen spotlights, trendy though they were. Candles would have been a good idea. Orla sat at the table, and Ed joined her with a heartfelt sigh.

“Sorry this is so rushed,” he said. “This week's been a nightmare.”

Orla held out her glass. “Shall we toast again?”

Ed clinked his to it. “Cheers.”

“To the future,” Orla suggested.

“Yes. The future,” Ed echoed. He cut into his lamb and was relieved to find that it wasn't like shoe leather and was, in fact, fashionably pink.

“So,” Orla said, tasting hers. “Want to tell me what's been going on?”

Ed sucked against his lip. “Alicia has left me.”

Orla sat back. “No.”

“She's gone off with a young, penniless artist.” Ed gestured the full extent of his hopelessness.

“Oh my God,” she said. “How romantic!”

It was Ed's turn to sit back. “No, Orla. Not romantic. Tragic.”

“Oh, of course. Tragic. Tragic.” She sipped her wine. “But in different circumstances and with a different woman, romantic.” Orla licked her lips, smacking them together thoughtfully. “
Very
romantic.”

Ed was tempted to glare at Orla. “Apparently he's a dish,” he continued miserably.

“Of what?”

“Dishy. Handsome. You know.”

Orla shrugged. “I guess he must be.”

“Would you be tempted to turn your back on seventeen years of marriage just to sleep with someone who looked younger than Leonardo Di Caprio?”

“You bet your sweet ass….” Orla looked up and stopped. “I wouldn't even consider it.”

“I don't know what's made her do it.” Ed shook his head, nonplussed. “I thought we were happy.”

“Did you?”

“Well, yes. Although sometimes it might have been a married-for-more-years-than-I-care-to-remember type of happy. We never had anything much to worry about. Very few people can say that, these days.”

Orla studied him. “From the first time I met you, I saw a man who was sacrificing himself for others.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You, Ed,” she said earnestly while helping herself to microwaved mange-tout. “You are a man trapped by duty.”

“Am I?” It was something he'd considered once or twice. Particularly after a few beers.

“Well, you were,” Orla observed.

“Yes.”

She slid her fingers across the table and reached for Ed's hand, holding it with a firm but comforting grip. “We have a lot to discuss, Ed. About the future. If Alicia was your only obstacle to accepting my job offer in the States, then that obstacle has just very conveniently removed itself.”

Ed wanted a glug of his wine but didn't dare extract his fingers from beneath Orla's touch. His mouth had gone very dry. This was an angle that he hadn't really thought about at all. His wife leaving him for someone else wasn't something he felt able to embrace with glee.

“You are now free to make your own decisions about your life,” she said.

It was a paralyzing, scary thought. Ali had walked away to pursue her own life without a backward glance. Could he possibly do the same thing?

Orla's eyes were soft and determined at the same time, seductive, sultry and strong. “Every cloud has a silver lining, Ed,” she said as she slid her finger slowly round the rim of her wineglass. “And I might just be yours.”

Ed licked his lips nervously. Perhaps candles wouldn't have been a good option after all.