Confessions of a Serial Dater (14 page)

“I was just tired,” I jump in again. “I went straight to bed when I got home,” I say, which is, actually, the truth. I just didn’t go to bed alone.

“Granny Elsie thought you’d got lucky,” she sniffs. “But I know you’re not the kind of girl who casually picks up a man for the night.”

“Nope. Not me,” I say, because it’s true. Because I’m seeing Luke later, therefore am not a one-night stand. I can’t believe this is happening. I wonder what I should wear. Something sexy, yet casual. I wonder where we’re going for dinner. Maybe I should just invite him over here and order takeout food?

But then again, if we stay in, one thing will lead to another, and we won’t get much talking done. And if we’re going to have a proper relationship, then I at least ought to know more about him. His family, his hobbies, his background. What his favorite movie is…and his life complications, whatever they may be…

“I just thought you might like to know that Elaine’s fine. I just called Auntie Pat, and she had a comfortable night—they’ve just brought her home now.”

“I know,” I say, instantly guilty, because in my happiness I’d forgotten all about Elaine. How could I be so callous and unfeeling?

“Oh. So I take it you’ve already called her?”

“No,” I say, crossing my fingers. “Um, I spoke to one of the doctors,” I tell her, which is the truth, after all.

“Well I’ve promised that we’ll call around to visit her. We
should
visit her, because she’s family, and we have to make an effort.”

“Right,” I say, because Mum has a point. I know that a duty visit is in order, and I can be magnanimous in my happiness.

“So, I thought we should take something. Some flowers, maybe. And some chocolates—some Godiva chocolates, because they’re Elaine’s favorites.”

What Mum actually means is that I should procure them. Although from where is a mystery, since they don’t exactly stock Godiva chocolates in my corner shop.

“Right. I’ll see what I can do.” Pointless telling her that—I’ll just pick up whatever is handy.

“So you’ll be here in an hour? I thought we could walk up to the house before coming back here for Sunday lunch together.”

“Right,” I tell her.

An hour will be a bit of a rush, but at least it will while away some of the long hours before tonight.

God, I can’t
wait
to see him.

I think I’ll call Luke after lunch. That way, he’ll have had time to finish delivering Baby Jackson…

“How
lovely
of you, you really
shouldn’t
have,” Elaine gushes at me an hour and a half later as she accepts the bunch of daffodils I picked up from the corner shop. “They’re very
nice,
” she says. “I’m sure we can find space for them in the
kitchen.
As you see, people are so very
kind.
” She sweeps her arm around the living room. It is filled with expensive floral tributes.

The daffodils were all I could find, but it is nearly spring, and daffodils are so cheerful and fecund, with the big, fat trumpets sticking out from the center of the petals.

“They made me think of spring and new birth,” I tell her sincerely, so happy am I that even her insults cannot pierce my euphoric glow. If, in fact, she is insulting me. Think it’s just (a) my suspicious mind, and (b) previous dealings with Elaine that have made me cynical. In my current euphoric glow I must attempt to let bygones be bygones.

Elaine, pale and elegant in white, is lounging on the chaise longue with a silk blanket draped across her legs. Despite her indisposition, her hair and makeup are immaculate. Everything about her is immaculate. Including her taste.

“Oh, you brought me
Dairy Box,
how
thoughtful
you are,” she simpers, placing my chocolates next to the several boxes of Godiva offerings currently inhabiting the coffee table.

“So you’re feeling all better?” I ask her. “You gave us all quite a shock yesterday,” I add, because in my happiness, I love the world.

“The doctors said that everything’s going to be alright,” she says rather pitifully. “Although it was touch and go for a while.”

Um, that’s not what Luke said. He said she was fine, it was just a false alarm. But if Elaine wants to play the part of a heroine in a Victorian melodrama, then let her have it, I think—after all, single motherhood is a scary thing, so a bit of melodrama is only to be expected.

“Well, I expect they told you to take it easy for a few days, then?” I really am trying hard to make polite conversation. I think I’m doing rather well, too. Only another twenty minutes or so and we should be able to escape back to Mum’s.

Actually, I might slip upstairs and give Luke a call on my cell phone. I brought his number with me. And his letter. I mean, if I leave it any longer he might think I’m not interested, or playing games or something.

“They want her to take it easy for longer than that,” Auntie Pat says. “One just never knows what can go wrong with a pregnancy. Sandra, please don’t put your cup down on that table—you’ll mark it.”

“Oh, sorry. I—” Mum flusters.

“Can you get a coaster for the table, please, Auntie Pat?” I ask sweetly, because although I’m feeling love for the whole human race, it doesn’t mean I’m letting Auntie Pat get away
with that, and where the hell else is Mum supposed to put her cup down? And then, “Hospitals these days have all the latest electronic equipment, and the best doctors.” I smile, thinking of my best doctor. Even Auntie Pat can’t ruin my good mood today.

“The Lindo Wing at St. Mary’s is very nice,” Elaine says.

No National Health Service for Elaine.

“Only the best for our girl,” Auntie Pat adds, smiling benevolently. “And Luke is such a lovely man,” she says, and my heart pitter-patters. And I can’t help it, I’m beaming at the mere mention of his name.

“He seemed, um, very capable,” I say, which is a bit naughty, because I’m thinking of his capability in bed rather than on the ward.

“Yes. A dear,
dear
man,” Elaine says, watching me thoughtfully. “He made a point of coming to see me this morning before I left.”

“I’m sure he is.” I know he is. I smile even more widely, hugging my secret close.

And then my world comes crashing down around me at Elaine’s next sentence.

“And his wife is charming, utterly charming,” Elaine says.

Wife? Wife? Nononononono.

“Yes, Elaine worked with her on the fund-raiser for the homeless last spring,” Auntie Pat says, and my stomach lurches wildly, because this is all wrong.

This must be a mistake. Surely she’s talking about a different doctor. Definitely a different doctor.

“I didn’t realize that Rowan Smythe-Lawrence was actually married to him before he left, or I would have mentioned the connection to him,” Elaine says, her words smashing through my euphoric happiness. “I found out from the nurses. The nurses, of course, all drool madly over him, but he’s not interested. Apparently he only has eyes for Rowan. A
pity, because I quite fancy taking a shot at him myself. But of course I’d
never
betray another
woman
that way by stealing her
husband,
” Elaine adds, full of self-righteousness.

It all falls into place.

Rowan Smythe-Lawrence is the sister of Horrible Boss. I remember this, because Jonathan told me that Sidney’s sister arranged that fateful fund-raiser we attended last Christmas.

The fund-raiser, which is where I met Luke. Who was sitting with a beautiful, elegant blond. Ohgodohgodohgod.

A wife definitely qualifies as a complication….

“Devastatingly attractive man though, don’t you think, Rosie?”

“What?” I say, as her voice registers from a distance. “Oh, I don’t remember,” I lie, because despite the fact that the floor is dropping out of my world at a dizzying, sickeningly nauseating speed, I cannot let anyone know what has happened.

“Yes, she’s stunning, elegant, rich. Comes from a very good family. She couldn’t make Ned and Flora’s party yesterday, because she’s apparently over in The Hague giving a presentation to the European Parliament, or something.”

Oh. Ohfuckohmyfuck. Not only have I betrayed, however unknowingly, another woman, but also she’s practically a
saint.
This is too horrible to be true.

“I say, are you alright, Rosemary?” Auntie Pat demands.

“Yes, you are looking a bit green,” Elaine says, leaning away from me.

“I think I might have caught Elaine’s stomach bug,” I croak, putting a hand to my mouth.

“I thought you sounded off color this morning when I called you,” Mum sniffs.

“Come, come.” Auntie Pat practically hustles me out of the cream chair. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

And as it finally hits me that I have slept with a married
man, fallen madly and completely in love with a married man, and had the wool pulled ruthlessly over my eyes by a cheating swine of a lying married charmer, I can’t help it.

I’m sick all over Auntie Pat’s expensive cream carpet.

“I’m fine,” I lie to Mum on Wednesday morning as I force myself to get ready to set off for work.

Yes, I am a coward.

I have been hiding from my friends, and from the world at large, at Mum’s house since Sunday. Mum has deflected all calls, told everyone that I had a flu bug because that’s what she has decided is wrong with me, passed on all get-better-soon messages, and generally tried to force-feed me chicken soup, but it is time for me to stop wallowing in my well of self-pity and get myself back on track, because wallowing in self-pity is a waste of time and energy.

But so bad was I on Sunday that I barely remember Uncle
Bill driving us the short distance back to Mum’s house and Mum hustling me to bed. And all the while, hanging on grimly to my despair, and not being able to cry, because explaining tears would have been impossible.

My head aches, my stomach aches, my heart aches, my limbs feel heavy, and my joints ache, as though they’ve aged thirty years overnight. Even my skin is painful to the touch. I may never be fine again, but I
cannot
let my disaster with Luke ruin my life.

It was only one night, after all, I remind myself, my head aching even more as I pinch the bridge of my nose to force the tears back into my lachrymal glands. I cannot cry. Not even one tear, because one tear will lead to a lot of tears, and I
refuse
to allow that to happen.

I
will
feel better. And if I’m at work, I’ll have less time and less available brain cells to think about him. That’s all I need—to get back into my normal routine. It wasn’t as if Luke was ever
part
of my normal routine, which is good, which also means that I won’t miss him for long, on account of not having all those additional memories….

“Well, I think you should stay home for the rest of the week,” Mum frets, wringing her hands, and what she really means is that I should stay home at her house another few days so that she can fuss over me more and make it even harder for me to leave.

“Don’t fuss so much, Sandra,” Granny Elsie says, patting me on the shoulder.

“At least until your birthday,” Mum adds. “It will be lovely to all be together for your birthday.”

I had forgotten about my impending twenty-ninth, on Sunday.

“She looks fine to me,” Gran says. “And besides, work will be good—keep her mind off of things.” Granny Elsie can be very astute sometimes. Although I have not mentioned a
word of my disaster with Luke, she keeps giving me these curious, supportive little pats.

I can’t even spill the beans and share this with my lovely friends. Much as I love them, the only way to keep a secret, which it must be, is by not telling a soul.

Charlie is a gossip hound. He just can’t help himself. He has the best of intentions, but he always manages to let things slip out of his mouth, and before you know it, half of the population of London knows all about it, too.

Jess, dear girl, has a very expressive face and tells Aster everything. And let’s face it, if Aster finds out, he’ll probably write a song entitled “Achy Breaky Heart” or “Can’t Help Loving That Man of Mine,” or similar, featuring a woman who has been deceived by a married lover, and then dedicate it to me, so everyone knows who it’s about.

And Carmen has very strong feelings about cheating men—she wouldn’t mean to, but she wouldn’t be able to hide her feelings or her strong views from Rowan Smythe-Lawrence. Or from Luke.

You see, despite my misery, I have thought about this very carefully. I may be a shriveled-up prune inside, but I cannot bear the thought of causing pain to Rowan Smythe-Lawrence.

I have to face the fact that my friends may all, highly probably, meet her. I also have to face the issue that I will probably meet her myself.

It stands to reason that if Luke is one of Ned’s best friends, and he came to the engagement party, then the odds are extremely high that Luke and Rowan have also been invited to the wedding. Which means that I can’t breathe a word to Flora, either, on account of it upsetting her and casting a black cloud on her special day.

And as for me having to see Luke again, I will face that particular problem when I come to it…

But I’m feeling much stronger, I really am. After two days of being coddled and fussed over, I have moved on from hurt and disbelief and bewildered pain to anger. To cold fury. Aimed at Luke, but mainly at myself for doing something so stupid and out of character.

Never again.

“I could call Charlie for you again and tell him you’re taking just one more day, if you like,” Mum says hopefully. “I’m sure he can manage. You do look peaky. Doesn’t she look peaky, Mother?” she asks Granny Elsie.

“Nothing a bit of fresh air won’t sort out,” Gran says. “What do you think of this?” she asks me kindly, holding up a red Stetson with a large black feather tucked into one side. “Alf thinks red is the true me, on account of me bein’ exciting.” She winks at me and places the red concoction atop her blue rinse.

“It’s gorgeous,” I smile, because the sight is just so—so incongruous.

“That’s better,” Gran tells me, smiling back. “You have a good day at work—don’t go worryin’ about things you shouldn’t be worryin’ about,” she adds as she heads to the stairs, the red hat bobbing as she sways in what she considers true cowboy style. “I got to get ready for me line dance practice with Alf—we’re doing an exhibition next week and I want to be perfect.”

“What happened to Sid?” I ask.

“I don’t want to seem too keen,” Gran calls as she climbs the stairs. “I haven’t decided which one of ’em’s the most comfy fit yet. I’m keeping me options open, so I’m seein’ both of ’em.” Wise woman, my Gran.

“Honestly, your Gran will insist on making an exhibition of herself,” Mum says. “That episode with Sid has turned her head. She thinks she’s a sex siren.”

“Thanks for everything, Mum,” I tell her, kissing her cheek.
She’s been great, she really has. And despite all her fussing, it was good to be home with her for a few days.

“At least—at least come back here tonight so that I won’t worry about you having a relapse,” she says, handing me a woolen hat. “And put this on. You lose most of your body heat through your head, you know. It’s a medically proven fact.”

Medically proven fact inevitably leads me back to Luke, and I take the yellow-and-orange wooly hat, in which I wouldn’t usually be seen dead, and pull it on my head. Bad hat sense must run in the family.

But right now I don’t care. I look terrible, anyway, and the hat will only distract people from looking at my washed-out face and old, comfy black sneakers. They make my feet look like bargepoles, but I couldn’t wear my good sneakers, on account of them being covered in sick. Ruined. I had to throw them away…

What a fool I was to take such a risk,
I think, as I set off down the road, pulling the collar of my quilted, heavily padded coat around me as the cold chill of the February air joins forces with the freeze that has taken hold of my body. The coat adds about twenty pounds and twenty years to me, but I don’t care about that, either, because it’s the warmest thing I have at Mum’s house. I just need to feel warm again.

What an idiot I was to be taken in by a smooth, charming, lying, deceitful operator. I mean, I was such an easy conquest. I practically threw myself at him.
How he must have laughed at the effortlessness with which he got me into bed,
I think, as I push money into the ticket machine. All that acting endearing and nervous. What a farce.

And as for his bloody note, well, I ripped it to shreds and flushed it down the toilet, where it belongs. Yes, I’ve washed that man right outta my hair, as the song goes, and I think of
another of Gran’s favorite old-time music hall songs…the one where the cheating, lying man can’t get away to marry his sweetheart, because his wife won’t let him.

Honestly, the cheek of Luke Benton. Wants to see me again—Indeed! Has a complicated life that he needs to talk to me about.
That’s such a good line,
I think, scowling at the poor, innocent London Underground employee as I feed my ticket through the turnstile and march toward the packed elevator.

I wonder, as I get carried along by the flow of people into an even more tightly packed tube, how he would have broached the subject of, you know, that little complication of being married.

“My wife doesn’t understand me,” is, I believe, the favored line. “We’re just staying together for the sake of the children,” is always a handy favorite, too.

Oh. My. God. It never even occurred to me until right this moment that he might have kids.

The train lurches, and my stomach lurches along with it, and I fall into nightmare mode, because this episode in my life has cured me of daydreams.

Picture this: Luke and I are sharing an illicit weekend of passion at my house. Illicit because he still hasn’t gotten around to telling me about his wedding certificate and offspring. His cover for his wife: He’s attending a medical conference in Geneva, while she is home looking after three golden-haired children. Golden-haired because this is my nightmare and they take after their angelic mother rather than their devilish father.

I have also given them names and ages, because it adds greatly to my misery and anger if I can humanize them. They are Holly, age two, Sam, age four, and Luke Junior, age six.

Rowan, while emptying the pockets of his suits so that she
can take them to the dry cleaner, because she is the kind of woman who takes care of these details, finds a note I wrote to Luke.

My note says, “Darling Luke, I’m hot and willing for our weekend of passion. Don’t forget to pick up a giant box of condoms,” or something equally obvious, and because I want myself to feel even worse than I already do, it also contains my address.

And just after Luke and I have had wild, rampant sex on the rug in the living room, the doorbell rings. I pull on my bathrobe and open the door, because I’m expecting it to be our food delivery.

But instead of pepperoni pizza, it’s Rowan and three sweet little angel faces with despairing, accusing eyes.

From now on, I vow, as I walk up the tube station steps and into Notting Hill Gate, I am going to be the perfect safety zone.

No more risk…no more broken hearts.

“Darling, you look terrible,” is what Charlie says the moment he sets eyes on me when I push open the door and walk into the main reception area at Odd Jobs, and I’m touched by his sympathy for a few seconds until I realize that he’s referring to my apparel rather than my face.

“What on earth are you wearing? Is this some kind of fashion development I know nothing about?”

“I hope you’re not still contagious,” Shirley, our secretary, says rather dourly as she peers up into my face from her computer screen.

“Nice to see you all, too,” I say dryly. I know this is only her way, but am a bit hurt, all the same.

“Only I’ve just got over a cold and I don’t want to catch the flu. You know how long it takes me to recover from these
things,” she adds. Shirley, who is forty-nine, suffers with her illnesses.

Shirley’s colds are always worse than everyone else’s. All of her medical problems are worse than everyone else’s, because although she is a remarkably organized person, Shirley can be a bit of a hypochondriac at times.

“Yes—we lived through each one with you,” Gloria, our receptionist, tells her. “You should eat properly, then you wouldn’t get ill so much.”

This is one of the dramas that make office life so interesting, I remind myself before I can groan. Shirley, who is always trying to lose twenty pounds, has tried all the diets under the sun, and eating more is not on her agenda.

“God, she’s right. I missed the pinched look on your face due to the astonishing headwear,” Charlie says. “Good ploy, by the way, for removing attention from the pinched face.”

“She just needs a few square meals inside her, that’s all,” Gloria, unsurprisingly, says again. Good, square meals are something she believes in with conviction.

Gloria is, we guess, at least sixty, based on the fact that she has two children in their forties, but she won’t commit herself to actually telling us what her real age is. She’s five feet nothing, and one hundred pounds, and her square meals are something she amazes us with on a daily basis.

I’ve never seen anyone so tiny eat so much. Or someone so remarkably well preserved. If I didn’t know better, I would give her fifty-five, max.

“I must introduce you to my mother,” I tell her, because Mum has been providing good, square meals along with the chicken soup. Plus, I’m glad to talk about the mundane, rather than get cross-examined about my time off. I’m still nervous that I will spill all if pushed…

“Don’t you worry, you tell your mum that I’ll make sure
you continue the good work,” she tells me before picking up the telephone. “Good morning, Odd Jobs, this is Gloria speaking. How may I help you?” she bubbles down the telephone line.

“Are you sure you should even be here? We can manage without you for a couple more days if you need it,” Charlie says, peering at me with real concern, and I am almost undone. “You really don’t look so hot.”

“Thanks for the concern,” I say a bit croakily. “But really, I’m fine.”

“No, we can’t actually manage without her,” Colin, the voice of reason, says in his deadpan voice. “Glad to see you back, by the way,” he adds to me, and then back to Charlie, “not unless you want to sort out Mrs. Hamilton’s Brutus, the condom testers, the doggy breath sniffer and the Bingo caller.”

“Oh, good,” I say, thinking of condoms, which is not good and makes me think of Luke. I push him determinedly out of my mind. “I’m ready for a challenging challenge—bring them on.” I begin to unbutton my coat.

“I’ve got your friend Jess on the line,” Gloria tells me, and I head toward my office. “She says it’s urgent.”

“Oh, good,” I say again but don’t mean. Not because I don’t want to speak to Jess, but because I’m worried that in our first post-Luke conversation, I’ll slip up and tell her all about him.

“It’s me, it’s only me,” Jess says after I close my office door and pick up. “How are you feeling? Are you better? We were worried about you.”