Year of Being Single (27 page)

‘Have you slept with anyone yet?’

‘No.’

‘Not that woman from the roller-skating?’

‘No.’

‘Have you seen her again?’

‘Yes, another date. Lunch.’

‘What about other women? Please. I want to know.’

‘I’ve been out with a few other women. Dinner. Business functions. Family dos when they want to score a point with an ex.’ He winked at her. ‘No sex.’

She ignored the wink. Greg took both of her hands. ‘Do you want to carry on doing this? Seeing me?’

‘Paying you, you mean? Yes, I do. No, I don’t. I don’t know!’ Damn. The power was all his. Again. Someone else’s. Not hers. He had the power to hurt her, after all. By not liking her enough. For not liking her enough to drop the transaction and do this for real.
She
was the one supposed to be in control.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Let’s just enjoy today. Forget you’re paying me, we’ll act as though were actually dating, and we’ll see how things go. How about it?’

Her heart leapt. What did that mean? Did that mean he
did
want to do this for real? Was he giving her hope? It sounded like it! Oh, she was ecstatic, if he really meant it. This was wonderful.

‘I
really
do like you, Grace.’

He pulled her close to him again, and she believed him.

‘Yes. Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s just enjoy the day.’ She could do that. See how things went. Then think about how they felt tomorrow.

Even though she already knew.

Chapter Twenty-two: Imogen

Imogen went back into the box and Richard was holding court, laughing his loud American laugh and waving his large American hand in the air as though stopping traffic. He was obviously telling some anecdote or other. He was ebullient. Confident. Genial.

She tried to look at him objectively.
Tried
. But whichever way she looked at him, the truth stared her in the face. He was perfect. If her other men had been pavement lowlifes, then Richard was the top of the Empire State Building. Her New York kind of guy. He had charm. He wasn’t self-obsessed. He was funny. He liked
Goodfellas
. He knew 90s Britpop bands. And he seemed to really, really like her. A week ago she’d been really frightened by this, now it delighted her.

Oh Lord, what on earth would she tell Frankie and Grace? They’d kill her! How could she be a member of the Year of Being Single club, when she was secretly romancing a not-so-quiet American? How could she be sworn off men if she was secretly swearing an allegiance to Richard? Thank God Grace hadn’t rumbled her. What an amazing coincidence she was there. Actually, thinking about it, she supposed, it wasn’t
that
unlikely. There were a lot of coach trips to Ascot, and not all roads led to Stratford-on-Avon. Imogen picked up a glass of champagne and savoured the cool bubbles tickling her throat.

Carolyn was in Richard’s circle again. She looked enraptured. Her hatchet face had softened. She was actually laughing,
really
laughing, her head thrown back. She looked girlish, carefree. She’s as charmed as I am, Imogen thought. Richard really could charm the birds out of the trees.

Was
Carolyn a threat to her? No, not in that way. She didn’t think Richard was in any danger of fancying Carolyn – she was only attractive if you liked small axes with short handles. No, in terms of some sort of revenge against her. It still worried her. Imogen doubted Carolyn would just let it go, what she did to her that in the office that day. She could imagine a desire for retribution simmering for ages, before Carolyn struck, like a shoeless praying mantis…

Stop it, thought Imogen, you’re being silly. If Carolyn wanted revenge she would have taken it by now, and so what if her old Boot of an ex-boss liked Richard? Who wouldn’t? The man was a god.

Imogen approached the group. Also enjoying Richard’s story were the horsey couple and a pair of the posh, boozed-up city boys all braying and neighing so loudly they surely belonged down in the paddock. Richard smiled broadly at her as she stepped towards them.

‘Imogen,’ he said. ‘I was just telling these lovely people about my first ride on the Tube.’ He said it as ‘toob’. She loved that. ‘And how I sat for thirty minutes at St Paul’s because there was a handbag on the line at Bank.’ She laughed. He pulled her towards him. She slid her arm around his back, under his jacket. It was warm – she could trace his skin under his shirt with her hand. Carolyn gave her a look that was hard to interpret. Imogen decided it was a mixture of contempt and envy, all bound up in a supercilious smile Cruella De Vil would have been proud of.
Sorry, love
, thought Imogen.
I win.

The balcony was not such a hideous wind tunnel now the weather had brightened, so they all ventured outside to watch the next race. Richard had put a bet on for her, a horse called Avoid The Traffic. She had an urge to shout out, ‘Move your bloomin arse!’ like Audrey Hepburn in
My Fair Lady
. It was quite exciting.

After the race finished, and her horse had come a respectable third, Imogen and Richard stood for a while, feeling the sun on their faces. It was glorious now.

She leaned into him. Richard gave her a pair of binoculars and she looked down to the crowds of people below. The Silver Circle. She wondered if she could see Grace and her group of friends. She scanned the hordes. People were laughing, drinking, having a great time. Faces were red from the sun, and booze, and roaring at horses.

There she was! Grace. Laughing and holding a champagne flute in her hand. Tossing the curls that framed her face. Hang on, there was that guy again, the one at the Pimm’s stand. They were standing very close to each other.
Very
close. There was no gaggle of women nearby. No ‘gang’. Grace and the man looked very much à deux, and it didn’t look much à deux about nothing. He now had his arm round her. He was kissing her cheek. She was still laughing. Well, well, well. Grace, you
dark horse
, thought Imogen. She was with someone, and very handsome he was, too. Quite an improvement on that bastard, James. Good for her.

Richard stepped closer and put his hand lightly on Imogen’s waist. She smiled up at him. So she and Grace were both at it. She wouldn’t say anything. She couldn’t, could she? She didn’t have a leg to stand on. She almost willed Grace to turn round and catch her in the act, too.

The Single for a Year club looked like it was rapidly disbanding. They hadn’t even managed six months.

After the final race, Imogen presumed they would make their way out of Ascot and home. She thought Richard would call Nigel and tell him where to wait for them. She could get used to this driver business. How nice it was, having someone to just drive you around. She was a rubbish driver, a terrible parker and a perennial ‘scraper’ – of bollards, road signs, whatever. Her car was a scratched mess and she avoided driving it unless she absolutely had to. How wonderful to just glide in and out of a car that was always just waiting where you wanted it.

Richard didn’t call Nigel. ‘There’s a party,’ he said, holding her hand as he led her out of the box. She never wanted to let it go. Her hand felt safe in his.

‘A party? Where?’

‘In one of the car parks. An Owners’ and Trainers’ party. Would you like to go?’

‘I’d
love
to go!’

Owners, Trainers and Rich Americans, clearly. Exciting. Although to be honest, Imogen was torn between not wanting the day to end, and getting to Richard’s hotel, or wherever he was staying, as soon as possible so she could rip his clothes off. Just the touch of his hand was making her desperate to sleep with him. But, no, it was fine, she could wait, she could party on. Those fabulous shoes may have to come off, though. They were killing her.

They walked through Ascot’s tarmacked open areas in the fading June sun. The Grandstand was scattered with the aftermath of a typically boozy day. There were wandering, puce-faced men carrying battered top hats; shrieking women hobbling along the tarmac hanging on to each other, fascinators missing or woefully lopsided; staff members sweeping up litter and collecting empty plastic glasses. Heading through the now virtually empty Silver Circle, they came across a crescent of top-to-toe drunk women snoozing face down in the grass. Discarded empty champagne bottles were littered amongst upended stilettos shoes displaying scratched dirty soles, and hitched dresses revealed cellulite and scarlet knickers. She was pretty sure one of the women was the monstrous girl at the Pimm’s stand, conspicuous in a lime green wiggle dress that was concertinaed up her thighs and showcasing a bum sliced by a black thong. Grace was definitely not with them. Was she already on the coach? Or had she never been with these girls at all? Was she copping off somewhere in the bushes with Handsome Man, then following him home?

Imogen decided to check her phone. Just in case Grace had got separated from this gang of fools and needed to find her.

There was no text from Grace, but one from Frankie. The text said,
Ha, well we know what that means ;-) And I’d like to see you try!!
Hmm. That was odd. It sounded a bit flirty. Who on earth was that supposed to be for? Was Frankie texting a
man
?

I don’t think that was meant for me!!!!
texted Imogen. She and Richard were almost at the gate. He was being really attentive and she loved it. He was subtly steering away drunk posh city bloke number two who was trying to link arms with her, country dancing style, and breathing into her face. City bloke’s breath stank of beer and burgers and he had a repulsive, boozed-up red nose. Richard extricated his arm and placed it down by his side.

‘There you go, fella,’ he said. ‘We don’t want you falling over and dragging the lady down with you.’

‘Sorry, old chap,’ muttered the bloke. She could see why these idiots were still hanging around. Richard had been fabulous company and had kept them in as much champagne as they wanted, all day long. At least they had ditched Carolyn Boot. Dancing in car parks was hardly her scene. She had said a polite goodbye not long after the last race. Had seemed quite friendly with Imogen. Had shaken her hand and said it had been nice seeing her. But her smile had looked false and painted on and there was a steely glint in her eye Imogen didn’t much like the look of. Oh well, Carolyn could sod off – hopefully she would never have anything to do with her again.

Another text arrived from Frankie.

Ha, no. Soz. To another friend. How’s your day going with your mind-numbing clients?

Mind-numbingly awful, thanks. What u doing?

Not a lot. Just chilling out.

Enjoy.

You too. Spk soon.

Imogen put her phone back in her bag. She and Richard walked through a large metal gate and out into a wide open area that was a mixture of sandy grass and concrete. Flash sports cars and Range Rovers were parked to one side, and in the field beyond, a huge white marquee awaited them. It had reams of twinkling fairy lights strung all round it and as they approached she could see a huge, under-canvas bar where staff dressed in black were shaking stainless steel cocktail shakers. Wow. Top hats and tails and dresses and heels were all converging, heading towards the marquee like it was that mountain in
Close Encounters
. Thumping music was coming from somewhere. The Black Eyed Peas. This looked fun!

She weaved away from Richard and headed to the bar to get them both a drink. Her treat. Mojitos. But everything was free. She carried them over to Richard, who was leaning against a tree, his jacket slung over one shoulder. She had never been more in lust, more excited, more exhilarated, than on this perfect night.

Before long, shoes were off and she was dancing barefoot in the prickly grass, the evening breeze in her hair, fascinators and pashminas flung to the centre of the circle of people they’d randomly found themselves dancing with. It was a very posh update on dancing round handbags and brilliant fun. Richard was across the circle from her, making some quite impressive shapes.

‘Not bad for a Yankee Doodle!’ she shouted over Pharrell.

‘Thanks, English Rose,’ he called back. ‘Not so bad yourself!’

She was quite a good dancer, she knew. Yes, she was not the youngest there, by any stretch of the imagination, but she was totally fabulous. She
felt
young. She felt glowing and vibrant and full of life. She felt like life may well last for ever. It would, wouldn’t it? Why wouldn’t it?

The evening was lovely and warm. Heavenly. As the music switched to a Bruno Mars number, with a slower tempo, and the sun went down over a low bank of trees in the distance, Richard took her in his arms and held her in close, by the bottom. She pressed herself further into him. It felt saucy, lovely. She was reminded of the Jilly Cooper book cover for
Riders
. Recently, the PC brigade had demanded the hand on the jodhpurs be moved upwards, to look a bit less sexual. She wanted the original
Riders
’ hand on her bottom.

‘Hey, you,’ he said.

‘Hey,
you
.’

God, she fancied him. His eyes were boring into her brain, relinquishing her of her knickers, stripping her of inhibition, moral protest, underwear, the charter. Oh God, the charter. It was not quite dramatic enough to simply chuck it out of a car window – it was currently on a long scroll, in twirly writing, being held aloft by someone in doublet and hose, whilst a serf lit one corner with a flaming torch… Oh dear. She was a traitor. Her bravado briefly went up in smoke, too. How on earth was she going to break this to the others?