It’s Now or Never Read online

  Lauren looked down at her dress. She’d chosen this so carefully this morning. A fine balance between looking smart and not too flash. Now it was all wrong. If she’d known that Georgia was coming along, she’d have gone for full-on bling. She’d have had her hair done at lunchtime too instead of staring dreamily at Jude’s office watching him on the phone. Damn.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ Zak said, as if picking up her thoughts. ‘If you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘I look dreadful,’ she replied.

  ‘No.’ He put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You look just perfect.’

  ‘I have to go,’ she said. ‘Now. I can’t stay.’

  ‘No.’ Zak held her tighter. ‘You’ll stay. You’ll smile a lot. And you’ll be very professional.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘This is the price you pay.’

  ‘For shagging the boss?’

  ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  ‘You’d better get that champagne open,’ Lauren said.

  Zak wagged a finger. ‘And not too much of that either. Two glasses max.’

  She’d planned on drinking two glasses straight down just to give herself a basecoat.

  ‘How could he do this to me?’ Lauren hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Now it was too late. ‘How could he not tell me?’

  ‘He should have warned you,’ Zak admitted, ‘at the very least. I only know because I heard him send Stephen out to collect her in his Merc.’

  ‘Thanks for giving me the heads up.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for.’ Zak popped the cork on the champagne bottle he was holding and splashed some into two glasses. He chinked his glass against hers. ‘You are going to be as bubbly as this fizz, Lauren Osbourne.’

  ‘I’ll try my best.’

  Zak put his arm round her and hugged Lauren to him. For a second, she let her weary head rest on his shoulder. It was at that moment that Jude walked in with Georgia.

  Chapter 18

  What had promised to be a lovely, fun evening turned out to be truly terrible. Despite Zak’s warning, or maybe because of it, Lauren had drunk too much and was now maudlin.

  Georgia was beautiful, funny, flirty and she had Jude. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. She’d done her best, Lauren thought. She’d kept her side of the bargain. She’d never wanted to fall in love with Jude, but he’d been so persuasive. He’d pursued her, not the other way around.

  Lauren had watched, tortured, as the couple had circulated round the room, chatting to the various groups of staff, moving ever closer towards her. She’d tried to keep one step ahead of them, but now there was nowhere to run. Jude was in front of her, holding Georgia’s hand. ‘Everything all right, Lauren?’

  Nodding, she turned on her brightest smile. ‘Hello, Jude. Georgia.’

  Jude’s wife touched her arm gently and Lauren’s skin crawled with shame. ‘It’s lovely to see you again.’

  Lauren said nothing, words stuck in her throat.

  ‘I keep saying to Jude that you’ll have to come over to our house sometime for dinner, with your young man.’

  There’s no young man, she wanted to say. Only your husband. That would force Jude’s hand, she thought. What if she said something right now? Brought it all out into the open once and for all?

  Then Zak was at her side again. She wondered if Georgia thought that she and Zak were an item. Did she think that he was her ‘young man’? He had been particularly attentive tonight. Telling her stupid jokes to make her laugh. Trying to make her pause between drinks.

  She slipped an arm round Zak’s waist and leaned against him flirtily. Jude’s face darkened. ‘That would be nice,’ she said, and her voice sounded considerably more calm than she felt. ‘We must arrange it.’

  ‘We should circulate, darling,’ Jude said, and tugged at his wife’s hand.

  He and Georgia moved on to the next group of people.

  ‘Come on,’ Zak said close to her ear. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’

  ‘Just as fast as you can,’ she agreed and they left. Only once did she glance back to see Jude with his arm round his wife, laughing, having fun.

  Chapter 19

  Lauren’s legs were buckling as they crossed the office and she wasn’t sure that it was all to do with the drink. She held on to Zak.

  ‘Oops a daisy,’ he said, and hauled her up. She started to giggle when she really wanted to cry.

  Behind them, the boardroom door closed and they turned to see Jude striding across the room towards them.

  ‘Here comes trouble,’ Zak whispered.

  ‘Are you going home with him?’ Jude hissed under his breath as he got close to them.

  ‘Yes,’ Lauren answered a bit squiffily.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ he said to Zak, and then snatched Lauren by the wrist and pulled her across the office and into the men’s toilets. He spun her round and pushed her up against the wall. Lauren was instantly sober.

  ‘What exactly do you think you’re doing?’ he asked through gritted teeth.

  ‘Going home.’

  ‘With him?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said again. ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘How can you do this to me?’

  ‘You’re here with your wife.’

  ‘I had no choice,’ Jude protested. ‘It’s not the same.’ His expression was bleak. ‘Don’t go home with Zak.’

  Lauren sagged. ‘It’s not what you think,’ she told him. ‘Zak’s a good friend. He can see that I’m distressed.’ She thumped a fist on her lover’s chest, weakly. She was so weary – weary of this party, weary of this relationship, weary of her life. ‘You brought your wife here, Jude, and you didn’t even think to warn me. Why did you do that?’ She pounded on him again, harder this time. ‘Why?’

  Jude grabbed her wrist again and held it tightly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured. ‘So sorry. It was thoughtless of me. Stupid. You see, I thought you’d know the score, that you’d cope with it. You always do.’

  Now she was crying. ‘I don’t want to cope any more. I can’t cope. I just want to get out of here. Let me go.’

  Jude pulled her to him. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I’ll make this up to you. We’ll go away – next weekend. Just the two of us. Somewhere wonderful. We’ll stay in bed for two whole days. I’ll organise it all.’ He stroked her hair as she sobbed against his chest. ‘Say you’ll come.’

  ‘Jude . . .’ She began to protest but already her resolve was weakening.

  ‘Say you still love me even though I’m a selfish bastard.’ He kissed her face, tenderly. Tiny hot kisses, all over. ‘Say it.’

  ‘I still love you,’ she said.

  ‘And I’ll show you just how much I love you as soon as I possibly can. But now, I have to go back to the party before Georgia misses me.’ He kissed her again. ‘Tell me you’re okay.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ Lauren said. But she wasn’t, she really wasn’t.

  ‘Wait a minute before you follow me out.’

  Lauren nodded. It was back to business as usual.

  Jude kissed her again, straightened his jacket and left.

  She splashed her face with water and, a moment later, as instructed, she followed him out.

  Zak was sitting on a desk waiting patiently for her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have had to witness that.’

  ‘He said he’d kill me if I laid a hand on you.’

  ‘Perhaps you shouldn’t get involved in this, Zak. I’d hate to think that it might cost you your job. Jude could get very funny about it.’

  Her friend shrugged. ‘It’s a risk I’m prepared to take.’

  Lauren sighed. ‘You really are a good friend.’

  Zak smiled. ‘I keep telling you that.’

  ‘Come back to my place for a coffee,’ Lauren said impulsively. ‘I don’t want to be alone.’

  ‘Only if you have Jaffa Cakes.’

  ‘We’ll pick some up at the shop
at the end of my road on the way.’

  ‘You certainly know how to please a man,’ her friend joked.

  ‘If only,’ she said with a sigh.

  The night was warm and pleasant, and Zak flagged down a cab straight away. They had the driver stop at the shop near her flat, to pick up the requisite Jaffa Cakes on the way.

  Zak followed her up the stairs to her apartment, letting her lean on his arm for support. She fumbled the key from her handbag as he waited beside her.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she admitted as, eventually, she opened the door.

  ‘I’ll do the coffee,’ Zak said. ‘Though peppermint tea might be better if you’ve got any.’

  ‘Putrid stuff,’ Lauren said, and her stomach lurched at the thought of it. ‘Have to go! ’Scuse me.’

  She ran for the bathroom and, making the loo just in time, parted with all the champagne and canapés that she’d consumed.

  Lauren was kneeling on the floor of the bathroom, her head in the toilet bowl, feeling wretched, when the door opened behind her and Zak was standing there with a glass of water.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said gratefully as he handed it to her. ‘Go home, please. I can manage. Let me die in peace.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ Zak said.

  ‘I don’t want you to see me like this.’

  He sat down on the side of the bath. ‘I’m particularly attracted to puking women. I have a fetish for it. Did you know that there’s an entire website dedicated to the art?’

  Lauren laughed weakly. ‘I’m sure there is.’ She sipped at the water.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  ‘Yes. Much.’ Then she turned to the loo and threw up again.

  Zak knelt down beside her to hold back her hair and stroke the small of her back.

  When she’d finished, she said weakly, ‘I think I really am dying.’

  ‘Clean your teeth,’ Zak instructed. ‘Then I’ll tuck you into bed.’

  ‘You’re so kind to me.’ Tears were fighting their way forwards.

  ‘Want me to sleep on the sofa tonight?’

  She nodded feebly. ‘Please.’

  Zak pulled her to his chest and she snuggled against him. ‘Well, girl, you nearly got through that unscathed.’

  ‘I did, didn’t I?’ Lauren started to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. ‘I do love him, Zak,’ she said, ‘but sometimes I can’t for the life of me think why.’

  ‘Love can be a fucking awful thing,’ he said with a heartfelt sigh.

  And Lauren couldn’t have agreed more.

  Chapter 20

  Greg and I set off for the North Norfolk coast at ten o’clock leaving strict instructions that neither of the kids are to announce on Facebook that they’re having a party at our house while the old folks are away.

  It’s lunchtime when we arrive and check into the Clifftop Guest House. Mrs Emerson is ready and waiting for us. As she has been for the last twenty years. ‘Hello, dears!’ she cries. ‘So lovely to see you again.’

  We must be her best customers. I wonder, idly, how much money I’ve paid into her pension fund over the years. Our landlady is a woman of indeterminate age – she’s definitely over sixty but she could be nearing a hundred. I think she’s run the Clifftop Guest House since the dinosaurs roamed the earth. She’s certainly sported the same blue rinse since we started coming here, and may even be wearing the same cardigan.

  ‘I’ll show you to your room.’

  Frankly, I could get to it blindfolded. The only other guests here now seem to be old-age pensioners and not the ones who think that sixty is the new forty.

  Why do we still come here? We could be in one of those trendy bed and breakfasts that have wi-fi connections, throws on the bed in shades of chocolate or mink that are fashioned from natural fibres and not polyester, and have complimentary Molton Brown toiletries in the en-suite bathroom rather than an industrial-size bottle of Tesco’s own brand shampoo. Mrs Emerson still hasn’t moved away from nylon sheets and honeycomb blankets with floral bedspreads.

  We’re too young to be staying somewhere like this. It was okay when the kids were young because it was cheap and cheerful and Mrs Emerson was fleet of foot and synthetic fabrics were still considered a marvellous new invention. Now as we trudge after her to the same room we always have, I could kick myself for not getting the name of a romantic love-nest-style hotel from Lauren.

  If I was a stronger woman, I’d demand that we leave now and find somewhere to stay that had been decorated since the 1970s. This place makes me feel a hundred and nine, not thirty-nine.

  ‘It’s so homely here,’ my husband whispers happily. ‘Comfy. That’s why I like it.’

  And I wonder if he’s lost his mind.

  Still, the fact that everyone else here is probably deaf means that it won’t matter if we make some unseemly noise when we have our night of unbridled passion in room number 4 with a view of the sea. Greg could take me up against the picture window while I bare my breasts to the seagulls of Cromer. A thrill runs through me at the thought.

  In preparation, the other day I popped into a nice lingerie shop with an Italian name, and paid continental prices for a little lacy bra and matching knickers. It’s not often that my underwear is co-ordinated – some days I’m lucky if my outer clothing is – and I think it’s something that I must address. A filmy kimono thing came with the set that I can slip on over the undies. Very sexy. Very Marilyn Monroe. I haven’t got them on now, of course. I’m saving them for later. We’re planning to go for a walk on the beach while the sun is still shining and I didn’t want the lacy bits to be scratchy under my jeans. Even femmes fatales have to be practical.

  I look out of said picture window with sea view – which is ten pounds extra at the Clifftop Guest House. (If you don’t pay it, you get a view of the car park and the You Win Bingo emporium.) It’s beautiful out there, in a stark way. The sky is milky blue, the sea a more steely shade . . . but it’s not quite the Turks and Caicos Isles, is it? There’s plenty of sand, but it isn’t white and powdery, it’s more mustard yellow and damp. The absence of swaying palms is noticeable.

  It’s not quite Peru either. Speaking of which, I brought my travel guide with me in my handbag, hoping that I’d have time for a more thorough perusal while we were here and, perhaps, be able to raise the subject with my husband. As yet, I haven’t had the chance. I get car sick if I read, but my time will come.

  Greg comes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I hear a wistful sigh as he stares out to sea. ‘I’m glad you persuaded me to come away for the weekend,’ he says. ‘We are getting set in our ways.’

  A breakthrough, I think. Like me, he’s ready to try new things, embrace a new life that doesn’t involve Mrs Emerson or nylon in any way, shape or form.

  ‘We can make a booking now for September while we’re here,’ he continues, before I have a chance to congratulate him on his insight into my frustration.

  September? Greg’s planning to come back here? Why can’t he see it through my eyes? Why can’t he see the peeling paint, the faded carpet, the chipped Formica furniture? Why?

  ‘Hmm,’ Greg says, as if he’s immensely pleased with himself for this momentous decision. ‘I’m looking forward to it already.’

  So, while my colleagues will be hiking in the Andes, exploring Inca ruins beneath snow-capped peaks and amid lush tropical forests, it looks like I’ll be coming back to Cromer and the delights of the Clifftop Guest House.

  Chapter 21

  We walk down the High Street, arm-in-arm, looking for somewhere to have lunch. My dark mood has been dispelled by the tang of the salty air and the enlivening breeze.

  ‘We could go to the Crown,’ Greg suggests when I stop outside a new bistro that’s opened since we were last here.

  ‘This looks nice.’ I scan the menu. Herb pancakes with mushroom stuffing and creamy Kirsch Gruyère sauce. Roasted butternut squash and parmesan risotto. Chilli crab linguine with cori
ander pesto.

  ‘I fancy the Crown,’ Greg says.

  Egg and chips. Ham and chips. Sausage and chips.

  ‘This is a bit different.’

  My husband scowls at the menu and wrinkles his nose in distaste at the delights on offer. ‘Looks a bit fussy.’

  The Crown it is then. We order two lots of sausage and chips – despite my protesting tastebuds. When we’ve eaten our solid, traditional lunch, I cast a longing glance at the bijou bistro as we jump back in the car and head out to Holkham for the afternoon.

  This is my favourite beach on this coastline. Miles and miles of flat, largely empty sand stretch out as far as the eye can see. This is one place I don’t mind coming back to again and again.

  We walk along the beach. It’s virtually deserted today, bar a couple of hardy dog-walkers as the weather is less than conducive to sunbathing. I snuggle close to Greg as the wind threatens to blow me away. The sun is trying its best, but it’s no match for the howling gale. Even the seagulls are being blown backwards.

  I tuck my arm into Greg’s, asking him, ‘Do you never get the urge to do anything different?’

  He shakes his head, and that’s just as I suspected.

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘I like our life,’ he says. ‘We’ve got a nice house, good friends, great kids. And I enjoy my job.’

  ‘You moan about it all the time.’

  ‘I know, but that’s what people do. It’s okay really. Pays the bills.’

  ‘Have you never wanted anything more?’

  My husband looks genuinely puzzled. ‘Like what?’

  I realise that this is a pointless conversation as Greg is never happier than when he has a fishing rod in his hand or is talking about the joys of catching carp. Nothing else really matters to him.

  Should I be pleased that my husband has no desire to ski down the slopes of Gstaad or own a flash yacht moored in St Tropez? Would I like to have a ruthlessly ambitious husband who was a workaholic and never at home? Or is there a fine line between being contented with one’s lot and becoming a sloth? At what point does being laidback tip into downright laziness?