Jack’s apartment, Friday, 18 May
A funny thing happened last night. Jack and I have been going out together an average of about five times a week since Georgia’s wedding and, while the general state of euphoria I’m in at the moment is in many ways priceless, it is not having a positive effect on my bank balance.
‘Let’s just stay in then,’ Jack said. ‘We can get a DVD out and cuddle up on the sofa. If you’re okay with that.’
‘Fantastic,’ I said. And, bizarrely, I meant it.
Before now, it was exactly this sort of thing which counted as one of my ‘triggers’: those little things which might seem perfectly innocuous to a bystander but were enough to make me start plotting my bid for freedom with all the determination of an Alcatraz prisoner.
I had loads of these triggers. From the sight of someone’s socks in my washing basket to the suggestion of dinner with the parents, anything that could reasonably be deemed ‘coupley’ was enough to make me run for the hills. But apparently, as of last night, staying in to watch a DVD is a prospect I consider to be more exciting than a movie première with Brad Pitt on my arm.
Even more weirdly, it actually lived up to expectations. I loved eating the dinner Jack had cooked for me, I loved watching the crap film we’d rented, and I loved cuddling up on the sofa. No, I
really
loved cuddling up on the sofa.
There was, in fact, only one downer on the whole evening–something I can’t quite get out of my mind, even now. Jack went to the bathroom and while he was out of the room, his mobile started ringing. I was about to answer it for him, when I saw the name flashing up on the screen.
Beth
. My eyes widened in shock as I sat there, letting it ring, wondering what the hell to do. It rang off as he was walking back into the room.
‘Er, you just m-missed a call,’ I told him, stuttering.
‘Right,’ he said, looking at the phone’s screen. ‘Thanks.’
I scrutinized his expression, but he wasn’t giving anything away.
‘Aren’t you going to phone them back?’ I asked as casually as possible.
‘They’ll leave a message if it’s important,’ he shrugged, equally casually.
I was about to ask if it was anyone I knew–just to test whether he would try to pretend it was someone else–when I stopped myself. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation. In fact, I was sure there would be. So I couldn’t just go launching into a full-scale interrogation. Relationships are about trust, or so every magazine I’ve ever read in every hairdressers I’ve ever been to has told me. So I need to trust him. Definitely.
But what if he’s a complete and utter two-timing cad? And I’m falling for him? Oh God. Oh bugger. Argghhh!
In the event, I kept my mouth shut and didn’t ask any
more questions. Partly to avoid Jack thinking I’m a jealous control freak who doesn’t want him even speaking to other women. But also because I didn’t want to know the answers.
Tonight, I ring the doorbell to Jack’s flat at seven having shaved my legs again (they haven’t been this smooth for such a sustained period since I was three months old) and put on just enough make-up to cover any blemishes but not so much that I look over the top for an evening in front of the telly.
He answers the door wearing jeans and a T-shirt which shows off the definition in his arms to such an off-putting degree I know immediately I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else tonight.
‘Come in,’ he says, taking off my coat as I am enveloped in a fantastic aroma, which for once isn’t coming from him.
‘You do like Thai food, don’t you?’ he says as we go through to the kitchen so he can stir his sauce.
‘Love it,’ I say.
Then somehow, and I honestly don’t know how, something happens which brings our conversation to an immediate end. It might be the spices invading our senses or, more probably, the simple fact that this has been building up for weeks. Whatever it is, within seconds of my arrival Jack and I are in each other’s arms, kissing–no, not kissing,
devouring
–each other.
With our mouths exploring each other’s and his body pressing hard against mine, we stumble across the room until we find ourselves next to the breakfast bar. Jack lifts me up onto a stool, kissing every inch of my collarbone as I wrap my legs around his waist. Something takes over me as I grab his T-shirt and, determinedly, lift it over his head to expose the smooth, toned muscles of his torso.
Item by item, we undress each other until we are both almost naked, Jack is inside me and we are swept away in a bliss I can confidently say I have simply never experienced before.
The Thai red curry frantically boils over and the rice turns into mush. Dinner is certain to be inedible.
But, quite frankly, neither of us care.
My flat, Monday, 21 May
We didn’t move from Jack’s flat for two full days. Honestly, I was waiting for the Missing Persons Bureau to turn up after an intensive forty-eight-hour search, only to find us lazing about in bed having survived on nothing but toast, black coffee and a healthy helping of lust.
Tonight, I’ve been on a late shift at work and so we’ve agreed we won’t see each other until tomorrow. Apart from anything else, there is a big part of me that thinks I really ought to spend a night by myself just to prove I can do it without pining for him.
At least, that was the theory. It’s now almost 10 p.m. and as I open the door to my flat and flop in front of the television, the news is on and I wonder if he’s watching it too. I immediately shake the thought out of my head. I am getting concerned that I’m becoming a bit pathetic now.
Tonight, when I was covering a story about a protest by fox-hunters, it made me wonder where Jack stood on animal rights. When I went to the ladies and looked in the mirror, it made me think about him kissing my forehead last night. I
even found myself doodling his name on my shorthand pad when I was meant to be taking down some quotes from a local councillor. The last time I did that with a boy’s name, Duran Duran were in the charts. In short, I’ve been thinking about Jack Williamson more or less constantly.
But it’s not all been good. Because at the back of my mind I still can’t shake the nagging feeling I have about that phone call from Beth. Should I challenge him about it? Or would that make him run a mile? I’m thinking about this very issue–again–when my mobile rings.
‘Just thought I’d phone to see how your evening was,’ says Jack.
Despite what was going through my mind a second ago, the sound of his voice makes me smile. In fact, it makes me smile so widely, I know I couldn’t look more uncool if I was wearing Clark Kent’s glasses.
‘Oh, fabulous,’ I tell him. ‘I had a succession of nutters on the phone. One wanted me to do a story about him being ripped off by a guy who’d sold him some dodgy cannabis.’
Jack laughs. ‘What did you tell him?’
‘I advised him to contact Trading Standards,’ I say. ‘What about your night?’
‘Nothing like as exciting,’ he says. ‘I was torn between catching up with a load of work, fixing the skirting board in the living room and watching repeats of
M.A.S.H.
on satellite.’
‘It’d have been Hot Lips Houlihan all the way for me,’ I say.
‘Yeah, well, she pretty much won the day,’ he agrees. ‘But I have to say, I had a much better night last night.’
I smile again, this time from ear to ear.
‘Me too,’ I purr. ‘In fact, if you don’t think it’s too forward, I’d like to do it again some time.’
‘I
do
think it’s forward,’ he tells me, ‘and I’m very glad you’d like to do it again some time, because as far as I’m concerned, you can do so as often as you want.’
‘Ah, but will I get breakfast in bed every time?’ I say.
‘Is that all you want me for?’ he asks, sounding hurt.
‘Hmm, that and your body,’ I tell him.
By the time the conversation ends an hour and a half later and I’m climbing into bed, I have to force myself to think about some of the other things I’m meant to be thinking about at the moment. Benno, aka my pal DI Gregg Benson, and his story about Pete Gibson’s goings-on (which I’m still plugging away at), Polly’s fifth birthday next week, my mother’s wedding…Oh God, yes–my mother’s wedding!
Only three weeks to go, and while she’s sorted out a woman to dye her headdress and someone to apply her henna tattoos, there are still other matters she’s ‘working on’.
Like invitations. And transport. And music.
Why do I think I’d be better relying on a three-year-old to organize this wedding?
My mum’s house, Scarisbrick, Lancashire, Friday, 8 June
I answer the door to Valentina, who is grinning madly and carrying a suitcase so big that if it had wheels you’d call it a caravan.
‘Are you embarking on a round-the-world trip or something?’ I ask, grabbing the handle of her case to help her hoist it up the stairs.
‘If you’re referring to my case,’ she says, ‘I promise you Harvey Nicks have some far less modest ones.’
‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me,’ I tell her.
‘I’m aware of that,’ she says, uncharacteristically chirpily, ‘but just for the record, I have got both myself and Charlotte to attend to today, which means I had to bring double the amount of cosmetics. We have completely different skin tones.’
I study her expression for a second.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask. I’ve never seen Valentina smiling quite so broadly before, largely because she’s worried about triggering the onset of premature wrinkles.
‘Oh yes,’ she replies mysteriously. ‘Oh yes indeed.’
We finally get up to my mother’s bedroom which, with its riot of batiks and ethnic throws, looks like a cross between a charity shop and an opium den. The overall feel of the place is shabby chic without the chic. And with six people crammed into it, it’s also already starting to feel a little bit claustrophobic.
‘Valentina! Lovely to see you!’ says my mum, kissing her on the cheek.
Mum has spent all morning in her dressing-gown, with her red hair pinned up in tight kiss curls, which I strongly suspect are going to make her look like a Muppet when they come out.
‘Thank you, Sarah,’ beams Valentina. ‘And how are you today? Nervous?’
‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘I don’t tend to get nervous. I’ve done too much yoga over the years–I think nervousness is beyond me.’
‘All that dope you smoked in the seventies probably helped too,’ I put in.
The doorbell rings again and Valentina jauntily offers to go and get it, although she’s probably glad to get away from all the joss sticks, which must be clashing dreadfully with her DKNY Be Delicious perfume.
It’s Charlotte, Grace and Gloria Flowerdew, my mum’s friend and another of her many bridesmaids, wearing her trademark dungarees. What with my two younger cousins, Deborah and Jasmine, as well as Denise–who works on reception at the place where my mum teaches yoga–the number of people in the room is now starting to give it the air of a third-world bazaar.
‘Right, Charlotte,’ says Valentina, guiding her over to the edge of the bed. ‘How shall we do your make-up today?’
‘Oh, er, I don’t mind,’ says Charlotte. ‘You always do it nicely. Just do what you think.’
‘Right,’ says Valentina, looking for some reason as if this wasn’t the response she was expecting.
‘What do you think, Grace?’ she adds, tilting Charlotte’s chin upwards. ‘I reckon some soft apricot swept across her eyelids would really bring out her colouring, don’t you?’
Grace, who is rummaging around in her handbag, looks up momentarily.
‘Definitely,’ she says, before going back to trying to locate her mobile.
Having grinned more than the average Cheshire cat since she got here, Valentina, for some reason, is starting to look unhappy. This time, she turns to me as I’m putting my own make-up on in the mirror.
‘Evie,’ she says, ‘those colours you’re using might be nice for Charlotte too. What do you think?’
Then she does the weirdest thing. She places both hands on my shoulders and leans down to look at me in the mirror as she’s talking. It’s the sort of chummy physical contact you might expect between two pals in their third year at Mallory Towers. From Valentina it’s as suspicious as a brown parcel making a ticking noise.
‘I’m sure you’re a far better judge of these sorts of things,’ I tell her.
She pulls away and crosses her arms, now looking really annoyed.
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask. ‘There is something the matter, isn’t there?’
‘Well, now you mention it, yes,’ she says.
‘Well, come on then, spit it out.’
‘This!
’ she squeals, thrusting her left hand in front of my face, as the room falls silent.
On the third finger along she is wearing a diamond ring. No, not just any old diamond ring.
This diamond ring is so big you could use it as a paperweight.
‘Bloody hell!’ comes a cry from the other side of the room.
It’s Denise, and she is rushing towards us. Grabbing Valentina’s hand, she examines the ring while Valentina at last looks mildly satisfied.
‘I was going to get one of those!’ exclaims Denise in the sort of tones that make Coleen McLoughlin sound as if she’s had a lifetime of elocution lessons.
Valentina’s face drops. ‘I don’t think you were,’ she says snootily, turning her nose up.
‘I
was
,’ insists Denise.
‘No,’ insists Valentina back, snatching her hand away. ‘No, you weren’t.’
‘Honestly,’ continues Denise innocently, ‘it’s
Diamontique
, isn’t it? They had them on that shopping channel last week. They are
gorgeous
. You lucky thing.’
Valentina looks as if she’s going to faint.
‘Would you like to sit down?’ asks Charlotte diplomatically.
Our friend dramatically perches herself on the edge of my mother’s bed, the back of her hand on her brow.
‘This is
not
, I repeat,
not Diamon
-whatever,’ she says firmly.
‘
Diamontique
,’ corrects Denise, clearly oblivious to the distress she’s managing to elicit.
‘This,’ stresses Valentina, ‘is a genuine five-carat diamond, perfectly cut and one of a kind. Master craftsmen have toiled away for months to create the most beautiful, the most unique and the most perfect engagement ring anyone could ever hope to find.
And more importantly, it cost a bloody arm and a leg!
’
Poor Denise is finally silenced.
‘You’re
engaged
?’ asks Grace, incredulous.
‘Is that so hard to believe?’ Valentina sounds slightly hysterical now.
‘Yes–I mean
no
,’ Grace flusters. ‘What I mean is, you’ve only known Edmund for a matter of weeks, haven’t you? Isn’t it a little soon?’
‘We’re
in love
,’ growls Valentina.
Charlotte leans down to give her a hug.
‘Well, I’m delighted for you,’ she says simply. ‘You deserve it, Valentina.’
This, for some reason, seems to snap everyone into action and they all start fussing and congratulating her. When it dies and people begin to concentrate on their curlers and mascara again, I go over to Valentina.
‘Well done,’ I say. ‘It’s fantastic news, brilliant. So when did he ask you to marry him?’
‘Oh, yesterday,’ she says. ‘It was
very
romantic.’
‘Did he get down on one knee?’
‘Between you and me, not exactly,’ she whispers. ‘We were in the middle of a particularly athletic technique I’d
read about in
Cosmopolitan
at the time. But then I can’t complain. I was only expecting a multiple orgasm from it and ended up with a fiancé. What more could a girl ask for, from a quiet night in?’