“Typical,” everyone had said, watching them whirl round the dance floor, two tall lean figures moving in time to the music as if they were alone and just about to fall into bed. “Jay always found the best-looking girls.”
And Abby had consoled herself that
she’d
been one of Jay’s girls, once, and that everyone knew he moved on and the trick was not to be bothered by it. To show Jay exactly how not bothered she was by his not even coming over to say hello, Abby had flounced round the floor with her current boyfriend—the one before Tom—and got terribly drunk on pineapple daiquiris.
“Abby,” he said now, “I can’t believe it’s you. It’s so wonderful to see you—you don’t know how thrilled I am. You’ve made my day!”
Abby melted. It wasn’t just seeing him that made her feel twenty years younger, but the way he said her name. His voice had always been bewitching, low, husky. He never spoke loudly. Linda, her flat-mate at college, who had never liked Jay, said he spoke softly simply to get women to lean closer to him, so he could pounce. But Abby disagreed. She could remember Jay talking to her as if she was the only person on the planet, his misty grey eyes locked with hers, passion smouldering.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone in the world,” he’d said. She’d felt the same. Of course, it couldn’t have lasted; they both knew that. Holiday romances didn’t.
“It’s so wonderful to see you.” Jay pulled her to her feet, and his arms were around her, and in that instant, Abby hugged him back tightly. He’d barely changed. The strong profile and the chiselled jawline were the same, the jaw only softened by the unexpectedly full lower lip that was now curved up into a delighted smile. He still looked fit enough to play a ferociously aggressive game of rugby and his hair was the same dappled chestnut, although shorter than it had been in college. He certainly didn’t look forty-two, which was what he had to be—Abby’s own age.
He held her at arm’s length and stared appreciatively at her. “You look fabulous, Abby. Do you have time for a quick drink and a catch-up?”
They sat in the bar of the hotel across the street and reminisced. Abby had kept in touch with some of the college gang, and, jittery with a strange excitement whenever he accidentally brushed against her, she kept up a stream of conversation about them, discussing how Peter and Fiona had got married after all and now lived in Stockholm, and how Denessa had lived near Abby in Cork until a few years ago.
Jay, who was in Cork on business, lived in Dublin and ran the sales division of a successful office supply company there. He was married to a woman named Lottie and somehow, Abby wasn’t sure how, he gave a resigned impression that all wasn’t well in the mar-riage. Abby’s soft heart was moved at the way he shrugged and said wryly that even the best marriages went through difficult patches, didn’t they?
“The boys are five and seven, and they’re great,” he said. “How about yours? You’ve got a daughter, haven’t you?”
With relief, Abby talked about Jess and Tom, giving Jay the in-terview version of her life: how thrilled she was with the fame but that her family life was more important than anything else.
Jay told her about his two young sons, saying he’d married late and that the boys were keeping him young.
“I’m afraid I must go,” he said finally, when they’d talked for over an hour. “I’ve another meeting.”
“Of course,” said Abby. “Me too. Another meeting, I mean.”
His fingers brushed against hers as they both reached for the bill and Abby again felt the strangest sensation electrify her body. For a moment, she just sat and stared at Jay’s outstretched hand.
“Let me pay,” he insisted. “If you can’t let an old friend buy you a drink, who can? And I’m a very old friend,” he added, laughing. “Look at the grey hairs.”
Abby laughed easily. “Not so old,” she said. “You don’t look a day over thirty-seven. I can only assume you have a portrait in the attic like Dorian Gray.”
“Look who’s talking.” There was a relaxed, teasing quality to his voice and Abby smiled back as he leaned over and touched her hair. “You look fabulous. Fame agrees with you, Abby.”
Their eyes met and, at that instant, she was able to identify the sensation she’d experienced when he’d touched her previously: the exquisite thrill of sexual attraction. Like the tail flick of an electric eel, desire rippled throughout her body, sending every nerve ending onto high alert. And just as quickly, Abby knew how dangerous it would be to admit this to Jay. How embarrassing to behave like that with an old boyfriend, a married old boyfriend at that.
The air of
savoir-faire
she’d worked on so hard for her television persona came to her rescue just in time.
“You charmer,” she said, her voice deliberately light. “I bet you say that to all your old flames.”
“No.” Jay’s easy smile was gone. “I don’t.”
“Well, don’t say it to me,” she said, falsely stern. “I’m an old mar-ried lady and I’ve forgotten how to flirt.”
“Bet you haven’t,” he replied lightly. “You were always a temptress.”
And they were back on safe ground, teasing merrily, two old friends delighted to see each other and happy to reminisce about the past.
“We must have dinner sometime,” Jay said, getting to his feet.
Abby, halfway through searching in her handbag for her keys, hesitated. Was he saying what she thought he was saying?
“I’d love to meet Tom, and I know you’d adore Lottie,” Jay went on.
“Fantastic,” Abby said heartily, relief mingling with disappoint-ment. It would have been nice if he’d felt the same attraction she did, but it was easier that he didn’t. Her life was complicated enough. “Dinner would be wonderful. Here’s my card and we can set it up.”
The thought of Jay filled her mind all afternoon. There was something wildly exciting about meeting someone who made her feel young and attractive in a way Tom just didn’t anymore. And Jay had been so focused on her, he’d given her his full attention, which was something she certainly never got at home these days. Di-nosaurs had roamed the earth the last time she’d received anything like as much attention from her husband and daughter. Of course, old friends were always going to be interested in every detail of your life. Catching up, that’s what Jay had been doing—she knew that. But it had been fun, Abby thought wistfully. Great fun.
Four miles away, Jess and Steph were not having fun at all, shivering like whippets in their thin Aertex shirts amongst a class of students on the school football pitch. Mr. Hutton, the games teacher, stood at the front and explained that the afternoon sports session would be fun: relay races and five-a-side football to take the fourth years’ minds off the impending exams. Whatever about the exams, noth-ing could take their minds off the cold wind, which was whistling up from the harbour with the malevolence of a nuclear-powered Jack Frost. Their track-suit tops were all piled on benches behind them because, as Mr. Hutton said, “You’ll all be roasting after a few minutes of the relay races.”
“I don’t know why he thinks this is going to help us relax,” growled Steph, rubbing her arms frantically to get warm. “He’s all right: he’s wearing a bloody fleece.”
“I hate games,” muttered Jess. Her arms were turning blue and she’d got her period that morning in French—cramps with jaws like pit bull terriers were gnawing at her belly. She couldn’t bear to think about running in a stupid relay race, never mind actually doing it. But she couldn’t say anything to horrible Mr. Hutton. How did they expect girl students to talk about period pains to male sports teachers? It wasn’t on. Her mother had always moaned about having gone to an all-girls school but there had to be some advantages.
“Line up,” shouted Mr. Hutton joyfully.
Shuffling miserably, the students lined up, with Steph getting shoved to the front of their group, three people ahead of Jess.
“Sorry,” Steph mouthed, peering back along the ranks.
Jess gave a resigned shrug.
In the team beside her stood Saffron, her shining blonde hair tied up in a jaunty ponytail, her skin clear and fresh. As if to re-mind Jess of its existence in the face of such glowing perfection, a pimple on her forehead started to throb. Great. Throbbing forehead and throbbing belly.
Hating everything and everyone, she stared stonily ahead and tried to ignore Derek and Alan on her other side ogling Saffron’s high, jutting breasts, which completely filled out her tiny sports shirt. Jess shot the droolers a quelling look but they simply didn’t notice her, their hormonally operated eyes glued to Saffron’s chest. Ignored again. The story of her life, Jess thought miserably. Not that she wanted two Stone Age morons to look at her but still, it would be nice to turn heads the way Saffron did.
“GO!” shouted Mr. Hutton and the first runners shot off. Every-one else shuffled up unwillingly in their lines. Only Mr. Hutton and the insanely competitive guys from the football team were cheering. The rest seemed just as bored as Jess.
“It’s going to be fabulous.”
Jess tuned into what Saffron was saying in a low voice to her cronies.
“The tickets are limited to fifth and sixth years but Ian says you lot are all welcome, he’ll sort it out. I can’t wait.”
If Steph had been with her, Jess would have rolled her eyes the-atrically. The class blondes were always talking about some party or another. This time it was the dance on the night of the interschool soccer cup. Like, boring.
“… and it’s boned, so it, you know, really pushes them up.” Saf-fron demonstrated having her boobs pushed up so high she could rest her chin on them. Jess didn’t know which was worse: the hot gasps from Alan and Derek, or the thought of Ian’s gorgeous face when he saw Saffron all wrapped up like a Christmas cracker for him, boobs spilling out of her dress and the “Open” sign flickering in her eyes.
It all came down to tits, didn’t it?
The guy ahead of her sprinted off and Jess tried to look ready for her turn. She stretched her stiff calves, aware that she hadn’t lim-bered up properly. And what if she dropped the baton? She hated relay races.
Her teammate reached the other end and turned back. More people were screaming support now and it was easy to see which team was winning: the footballers, whose line-up somehow man-aged to consist of the fittest guys in the class and no girls. Jess began to jog on the spot. Her teammate was close, closer, he shoved the baton at her and she fumbled it. Then it went flying. Jess dived into the mud after it, grabbing at it frantically as it rolled out of reach.
“Come on, Jess, put some effort into it,” yelled Mr. Hutton.
“Come on, Jess,” howled her team.
Her cold fingers grasped the baton and she lurched to her feet and into a clumsy run. The people she was running against were al-ready on the return journey and Jess did her best. But the combina-tion of embarrassment at her mistake and the rumbling ache inside conspired against her. Her legs felt leaden, like in a nightmare in which ghouls were getting closer but her feet were stuck in quick-sand.
“Jess, Jess, hurry up!” shrieked everyone as she turned for home, to see the other runners nearly there. She put all her energy into the dash back and thrust the baton hurriedly into the final sprinter’s hand. Panting, she turned to see that it was too late. Her team would be last. And it was her fault.
“Tough luck, babes,” sympathised Steph, patting her arm. “I thought Hooty was going to have a heart attack when you couldn’t pick up the stick. Somebody should give that guy a chill pill. Sports are so not cool.”
“Yeah, you said it,” muttered Jess, still feeling as if everyone was looking at her and mentally branding her a clumsy idiot.
The football boys won, to much wild screaming, particularly from Saffron’s gang.
“Well done,” squealed Saffron, flicking her ponytail flirtatiously towards Tony, the best-looking of the winners. This husky-voiced giant sat near Jess in maths and had once picked up her silver gel pen when it had fallen onto the floor and handed it to her.
“Thanks, Saffron,” said Tony, giving the girl a smile of such promise that Jess felt scorched just by being near it. “You were pretty hot yourself.”
Jess knew that if Tony had said anything so sexy to her, she’d be staring at him stupidly, mouth open to display the horrible inside of her train-track braces. Saffron merely smiled out from under dark-ened lashes—definitely covered with forbidden mascara, Jess thought grimly—and winked knowingly at Tony.
Jess watched them both surreptitiously. Despite hating Saffron on one hand, she had a grudging respect for her on the other. Somehow, Saffron had solved the mystery of guys.
She
didn’t wait for them to throw her a crumb of conversation in the lunch queue. She didn’t lie in bed at night wondering if they’d noticed her. She went out and got them, like a cowboy roping a bullock. What was more, she didn’t panic that Ian would find out she’d flirted with Tony. For a brief, enjoyable moment, Jess imagined herself comfort-ing Ian and hearing him say: “I never thought I’d get over Saffron but she wasn’t my true love. You are, Jess. I’m so glad she’s going out with Tony. It’s given me the chance to…”
“… pick up the baton without fumbling and run with it.”
Bewildered, Jess left her dream world to focus on the real one and found Mr. Hutton loudly lecturing her about team sports, meaning team work. “If you didn’t want to be in the relay, you should have said something, Jess,” he added.
Stung by the unfairness of this, Jess was about to blurt out that the relay race would have consisted of five people in total if the class had any choice in the matter, but he barged on with his comments. “That’s what games are about. Joining in and doing your best for the team. You’re tall and athletic—you ought to be as fast as any of the boys,” he went on.
“Yeah, Jess is nearly a boy,” sniggered Derek to Alan, staring meaningfully at her T-shirt.
Flushing with rage and misery, Jess looked down at her feet and realised that she was covered with mud from her frantic grappling for the baton.
If Mr. Hutton had possessed even a single intuitive bone in his body, he’d have realised that Jess was staring down at the ground be-cause she didn’t want anyone to see the tears welling up in her eyes. But Mr. Hutton wouldn’t have known how to spell intuitive and decided that the lanky Barton girl was giving him cheek by her very attitude. She wasn’t even
looking
at him when he was talking to her.