More to Life Than This Page 13

  Natalie frowned at him. ‘Will you be okay? I’ll come straight back.’

  ‘It was me,’ he said flatly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was me who smashed the window.’

  ‘You?’ Natalie started to laugh. It was a light tinkling sound—rather too reminiscent of the shattering of glass. ‘You?’

  ‘Me.’

  She put her hands to her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t laugh.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ Jeffrey said morosely. ‘I deserve to be an object of derision.’

  Natalie giggled again. ‘What were you thinking of ?’ He glanced up at her. ‘I was thinking of apologising to you.’

  ‘But I was here.’

  ‘I’m fully aware of that fact now,’ Jeffrey said tightly.

  ‘Oh, Jeffers,’ she said, progressing to an unrestrained guffaw.

  He sat there, humiliation burning into his cheeks. The last time he had felt as shamefaced as this was when he was ten and was caught in the playground with his hand up Janet Eccleston’s skirt.

  ‘Of course, I’ll pay for the damage,’ Jeffrey said.

  ‘I’ll bring you the bill,’ Natalie chuckled.

  ‘Thank you. I’m not proud of myself, you know.’

  ‘Going wild once in a while isn’t something to be ashamed of, Jeffers. Maybe you should do it more often, then it wouldn’t be such a shock to the system. That’s my philosophy on life.’

  ‘I’m not sure that it’s mine,’ he mumbled.

  She came over and kissed Jeffrey on the forehead. ‘You are very sweet,’ she said.

  Sweet?

  ‘You go and get yourself spruced up while I’m away,’ she instructed. ‘You can’t waste this wonderful day moping round the house with a hangover. I’ll be back soon.’

  When she did return—with an astronomical bill from The Smashing Glazing Company—Jeffrey had washed, scrubbed and brushed himself back into some feeling of normality. He was sitting at the kitchen table, ploughing his way through the strongest black coffee he could make in the largest mug he had been able to find, filled with remorse and muesli.

  Natalie threw her backpack on the floor, turned a chair round and sat astride it, scrutinising him intensely. As his mother would have said, her legs went all the way up to the top. Jeffrey closed his eyes.

  ‘You’re looking very uptight again, Jeffers,’ she noted.

  He glanced up at her. ‘Oh,’ he said, pouring some more sludge down his throat in the hope that it would at some point get his caffeine receptors to respond.

  ‘I rather liked you when you were a wild thing.’

  Jeffrey’s heart sank. She was teasing him again.

  ‘Does Kate like the clothes you wear?’

  ‘Kate?’ He mulled it over briefly. ‘She’s never said. But then she buys most of them, so I suppose she must.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me being upfront, Jeffers,’ she said earnestly.

  Could you be anything else?

  ‘…but I think you need to get a bit more chill in your dressing.’

  ‘Chill?’ He rolled the word round his mouth. ‘Chill? You mean short-sleeved shirts?’

  ‘I think we may have a long way to go.’ She folded her arms across the top of the chair and leaned her chin on them. Her smile was guileless and, for a moment, she looked little older than his daughter. What a terrifying thought.

  ‘I have to go into Milton Keynes to buy some new panties.’

  Did I need to know that? Jeffrey was aware of how easily his brow perspired these days.

  ‘Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a revamp.’

  Jeffrey looked wary, which hid the fact that inside, his intestines were recoiling in horror. ‘I’m not sure if my red corpuscles are up to revamping today.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be anything major, just a little titivation,’ she promised.

  He wasn’t sure if his red corpuscles were up to Natalie’s titivation either. ‘Perhaps another day.’

  ‘There may not be another day, Jeffers. Trust me.’

  ‘I’ve got a headache,’ he complained.

  ‘Then let’s go and give your credit card some ache,’ she suggested. ‘The body can only cope with one type of pain at once. Believe me—your headache will completely vanish.’

  chapter 24

  Natalie tugged at his hand. ‘Marks & Spencer is for wimps,’ she said in a tone that dared him to argue.

  But I like Marks & Spencer. It’s a sensible shop for a sensible man.

  ‘It’s an accountants’ shop,’ she said. ‘And what are we today?’

  He looked at her blankly.

  ‘Not an accountant at all,’ she supplied. She frowned theatrically. ‘I have seen the white undies in the washing basket, Jeffrey. They are not cool.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. Kate had said so many times. It’s just that they were comfortable. They held him securely. He had never liked the feeling of flapping around in the breeze.

  ‘White shirts are out, too.’

  ‘White shirts are out,’ he echoed uncertainly.

  Natalie dragged him across the concourse and away from the lure of good quality clothing at reasonable prices.

  It appeared that citrus-coloured shirts were in. Lime-green, orange and sunshine-yellow. One or two of them had patterns.

  Jeffrey was still unsure. What might look good on Bondi Beach was sure to raise eyebrows at Hills & Hopeland. It was definitely a white shirt company. Hadn’t he himself raised the odd follicle when one of the trainees had appeared in anything other than ‘acceptable’ colours—i.e., white? Natalie assured him that the bold colours flattered his skin and made him look less drained. It was a shame the same couldn’t be said for his bank account.

  He had escaped briefly for a caffeine recharge, while the aforementioned panties were chosen, and despite his complaints and his uncertainty that lime-green really was ‘his thing’, he had enjoyed their day immensely. Natalie was fun to be with. She flitted round the shops like an impatient butterfly, flinging clothes around with casual disregard for the assistants’ stony glares. She had posed in ridiculous hats and had made him do the same and had flung extortionately expensive scarves round her slender young neck. She had, dare he say it, made shopping a joy.

  The last stop was the hairdresser’s—the most exclusive in Milton Keynes, of course. A palace of natural wood, muted tones and soft jazz. Natalie led him in with the malicious glee of a tricoteuse—one of those old Frenchwomen who used to sit and knit as they watched someone go to Madame Guillotine. He liked his hair. It had been this style for years. He’d grown rather attached to it. Or rather, it had grown attached to him. Most of it.

  He was to be at the mercy of Mark, the Ultimate Style Director—hairdressing’s answer to God. And, not surprisingly, twice the price of any other mere crimper.

  ‘Do your worst,’ Natalie instructed, sitting down in the next seat and studying him intently.

  Jeffrey tried hard not to look at the large amount of blond hair—his precious, thinning hair—that appeared to be amassing on the floor.

  Mark did his worst. Once Jeffrey had got over the shock of feeling the wind blowing round his ears, he had to agree it wasn’t half-bad. He now sported one of those cropped affairs favoured by boy bands that gave him a certain rakish charm—even though he said it himself. Kerry would be delighted. He looked fearfully in the mirror and wondered what Kate would think. How do you like it, darling? Not a lot.

  Natalie was hyper—even more so than normal. Clearly pleased that the proposed revamp had gone according to plan, she clutched her small bag of new smalls while he was laden down with designer carriers, and sang all the way back to the car, which had a whole minute left to run on the parking ticket.

  As he turned to manoeuvre the car out of the tight space, she took his hand and he was lucky not to shoot back into the unsuspecting Fiesta behind them. She spread her fingers, interlacing them slowly with his and squeezed lightly. ‘It’
s been a great day, Jeffers,’ she said with a happy sigh.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, aware of his blood pumping against the warmth of her palm. Their eyes met and he felt his Adam’s apple bob up and down.

  ‘I’ll remember it for a long time.’

  ‘I will too,’ he managed. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I’ve bought you a little present for being such a poppet.’ A poppet? ‘You shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Well, I did.’ She produced a small bag.

  ‘Shall I open it now?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He rummaged in the small carrier bag and pulled out a tissue-wrapped parcel. It contained two pairs of hipster-type briefs in soft clingy material with Calvin Klein’s moniker emblazoned on the waistband. They were pale blue with navy overstitching, and sported three little blue tortoiseshell buttons down the front. Jeffrey gulped.

  ‘You should look good in them.’ She smiled seductively.

  He tugged at the neck of his shirt. Is it hot in here, or is it me?

  ‘They’ll make your bum look cute.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said rather breathlessly, not entirely sure whether a cute bottom was up there on his list of ‘must-haves’.

  Natalie’s eyebrows twitched in a faintly amused fashion. ‘No sweat.’

  But there was sweat. On his top lip, on his newly exposed brow and under his clammy arms. Returning the briefs to the safety of their carrier bag, he swung out of the car-park on autopilot. Why did she make him feel like this? There was a euphoria throbbing in his body that he didn’t normally experience from excessive retail purchases. Was this the sort of thing people felt the urge to discuss on Oprah? It was an addictive feeling and he knew he wanted more.

  He still had his headache though. Contrary to Natalie’s prediction it hadn’t completely vanished. The only thing that had completely vanished was an awful lot of money.

  chapter 25

  ‘That’s it for today,’ Sam said brightly. ‘Let’s finish the session by bowing to each other.’

  At least he could manage that. Right fist, left palm. I have no weapons. I mean you no harm.

  The problem with having no weapons, Ben decided, was that it left you defenceless in the face of a surprise attack. He looked longingly in the direction of his attacker who was inoffensively tucking her hair behind her ear.

  They had spent the afternoon working with sabres, heavy, curving weapons representing the metal element. Blunt, hard, unyielding, cutting through. It wasn’t his favourite weapon, it was too brutal. He much preferred the fluid flexibility of the long, slender water sword. Still, that was what he was going to have to be—blunt, hard, unyielding. For both of their sakes. If he continued to be soft and malleable, he would be lost.

  Ben had been avoiding Kate all day and he could tell that it was clearly bothering her. At times he had felt her eyes boring into his back and he had longed to turn round and smile at her. Now she was hovering on the edge of the group, fiddling with her tube of suntan cream and keeping one eye on him. Heaven knows, he wanted to be with her, but sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. At the end of the day, this would be the painless route. It’s just that being a heartless bastard didn’t come easy.

  He acknowledged her briefly as he walked past, quickening his pace.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, catching up with him. ‘You’ve been quiet today.’

  ‘Just preoccupied,’ he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He glanced unnecessarily at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’ Chop her off at the knees with your sabre, Ben old boy.

  ‘Will we see you at dinner?’

  ‘I’m going out tonight.’ Blunt.

  She stopped walking and stared at him. He avoided her penetrating eyes. ‘Business,’ he shrugged. Hard.

  ‘Oh.’

  He couldn’t bear the hurt look on her face.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll see you in the bar for a drink afterwards.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ His tone was too crisp, he knew that. ‘I may be late.’ Unyielding.

  ‘Have a nice time,’ she said, and he could tell that he had wounded her. A cruel blow.

  ‘You, too.’

  Fiona was late. But then she usually was. Ben was punctuality itself, and therefore by the time she did roll up to the door of Northwood Priory, he was just about ready to shred his fingernails. It was one of the many differences between them, not least of which was their ages. Fi had been a tender twenty-six years old when he had first employed her two years ago. And she hadn’t aged at all since then, not emotionally, anyway. He knew she was consistently late because she was so disorganised and had an in-built disregard for the passing of time, but he couldn’t help but worry about her, too. There was always the chance that she had got lost or had an accident. This was beyond the reach of the London Underground and, as such, uncharted territory for her.

  It was a relief when her battered old car smoked and clattered its way up the drive. Ben pushed himself away from the wall that he had been trying to lean casually against, when every fibre of his being wanted to rush into the dining room and consume soggy shepherd’s pie with Kate.

  Fiona flung her door open and he gave her a wry look.

  ‘Sorry, Ben,’ she said. ‘Took a bit of a circuitous route. I can’t cope with all these country lanes. All the bloody trees look the same.’

  ‘Well, they’re all green, I suppose.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she dragged on her cigarette. ‘Can you get hay fever from trees? My nose has been running since I came off the motorway.’

  ‘It’s probably not used to breathing clean air.’

  ‘True,’ she said.

  ‘ Or is it some other substance that’s irritating your nasal passages?’

  ‘Don’t turn into my maiden aunt so soon, Ben-Ben,’ she scolded with a pouting lip.

  ‘I worry about you.’

  ‘A girl’s got to have some fun.’

  ‘Dabbling with illegal substances isn’t fun, Fi. it’s dangerous.’

  ‘So is heading this far out of London,’ she countered.

  He smiled, defeated by lack of reason once again. ‘Park up,’ he instructed. ‘We’ll go in my car.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob.’ She patted the passenger seat. ‘Get in—you won’t catch anything. I’ve got to drive home anyway, so you might as well enjoy a drink. From the miserable expression on your face, you could do with one.’

  Ben slid into Fi’s car and screwed his nose up. ‘We pay you a huge salary and you’ve just had a fat bonus cheque, can’t you spend some of it on a decent set of wheels?’ He poked his finger into a hole in the seat where foam padding peeped through. ‘I don’t know why you insist on driving this festering heap.’

  Fiona patted the dashboard. ‘Old Faithful,’ she said with pride. ‘It never lets me down. Not like some men I could mention.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘I look after it. It looks after me.’

  ‘But you don’t look after it.’

  ‘It’s like my houseplants,’ she assured him. ‘It thrives on neglect.’

  ‘And what about you? Do you thrive on neglect?’

  ‘I’ll try to do better, Aunty Ben,’ she teased. ‘Where are we going?’

  She put the old car into gear and Ben pointed the way out of the priory. ‘There’s a little pub down the road I thought we could try.’

  ‘Isn’t there a Chez Nico anywhere?’

  ‘Now who’s being a snob? Enjoy the local colour.’

  ‘The local colour seems to be beige.’

  Fiona was right, the pub was a bit beige. Designer old-fashioned with nicotine effect paintwork and, as she pointed out with her silk-wrapped nails, the predicted bunches of hops around the bar. Hard going for a girl who inhabited a world of Prada handbags and balsamic vinegar. The menu made a stoic attempt at modernity and Fi deigned to order a goat’s cheese salad.

  Sitting down, she slung her briefcase across her knees, looking out of place in her strappy Jimmy Choo kitten heels and shocking pink Versa
ce suit. ‘We might as well get this out of the way while we wait for the food,’ she said, swishing the salt and pepper pots to one side. ‘Da, da!’ She opened a folder on the table with a flourish. ‘The Bradley account!’ Fiona produced a cigarette and lit it. ‘Read it and weep,’ she instructed.

  Ben turned the folder round to face him and scanned it briefly. ‘It’s great,’ he said.

  She narrowed her eyes through her cigarette smoke. ‘You’ve hardly glanced at it,’ she said accusingly. ‘Have a proper look.’

  ‘I have,’ Ben said defensively. ‘And I’ve fully absorbed it.’

  ‘Cursory is the word that springs to mind.’ Fiona blew out a stream of smoke.

  ‘It’s great,’ he repeated. ‘You’ve done an excellent job.’

  Fiona leaned forward suspiciously. ‘Okay, what’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ben sat back. ‘I said it was great. Twice.’

  ‘So why did you say it like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘It’s great.’ Fi did a flat monotonous voice. ‘It sounds like the enthusiasm bypass was a total success.’

  ‘It is great,’ he reiterated. ‘Wonderful. Marvellous. Fantastic. You’re the best account manager in Mahler Bell.’

  ‘Keep going,’ Fiona said when he stopped.

  Ben laughed.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said. A look of concern wrinkled her brow. ‘You seem so uptight. I thought this T’ai Chi lark was supposed to be relaxing.’

  ‘It is,’ he answered, sounding more tetchy than he wanted to. ‘I’ve just got a few things on my mind.’

  ‘Is that why you’ve dragged me halfway to the end of the universe, to pretend to be interested in the Bradley account? And why, stunning as it is, my brilliant peach of a presentation has failed to raise even the glimmer of a smile?’

  Ben’s smile glimmered. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Problems?’ she asked sympathetically.

  Ben studied the table, picking absently at the whorls notched into the pine. ‘You could say.’

  ‘Ben “nothing-is-a-problem” Mahler has got problems?’ Fiona looked incredulous. ‘Well, it can’t be your job,’ she reasoned, ‘the agency is going great guns. It can’t be money either, because you could actually lend the Sultan of Brunei a few quid if he was ever strapped for cash.’ She regarded him through the wispy smoke of her cigarette. ‘So it must be an affair of the heart.’