Strictly Love, page 9
Rob had hoped Mark would be joining him, but Mark apparently had a date. Although the way Mark had put it was, ‘I'm going round to Emily's to watch the next episode of Green Wing,’ and then muttered something about her cooking him a meal. But it wasn't a date. Mark had been adamant on that point. Except that Rob evidently wasn't invited, so here he was, alone in the Hookers, trying to avoid the eye of Paranoid Pete, who needed no encouragement to leap in with, ‘They're watching us, you know.’ Rob knew of old that to answer ‘Who?’ would have Pete touching his nose briefly before muttering sotto voce, ‘The others,’ before proceeding to launch into a rant against aliens, New Labour and, bizarrely, scratch cards.
Oh God. And there was Dicey Derek, Thurfield's best used-car salesman. Rob had once made the mistake of buying a car from him. When he was hit from behind by a woman in a 4×4 on the school run, it more or less fell into two pieces. And yet still, Derek would come to tempt him with more goodies. Rob's salary was so pathetic, and Derek's prices so suspiciously good, it was horribly tempting sometimes.
Rob buried himself in his paper again. Good, Derek had found some pals in a corner. He could relax.
He looked around the bar again. The Hookers. So much a part of his life, it was like a second home. He came here every night of the week apart from Thursday. He had been known to spend the whole of Saturday here. Though now some of his ex-pupils were showing up, that was becoming slightly less appealing. Maybe Mark had a point. Perhaps he should think about coming in here less, and concentrate more on learning to dance, which, after all, he was enjoying. Rob shook his head. Apart from going to the pub and sex, what other interests did a man need?
Although Mark was definitely right about one thing. The Hookers was the lousiest pick-up joint in the world.
Or maybe not.
The flirty blonde from dancing was sitting in the corner with a friend, he noticed. They were giggling over their text messages. She was the one Mark had been so keen to get away from.
‘Ding dong …’ Rob muttered to himself, knocking back the rest of his pint. He picked up his paper and wandered over to them.
‘I say, ladies, can I interest you in a drink?’
The flirty blonde looked at him provocatively.
‘Mine's a double vodka,’ she purred.
Cheeky cow, thought Rob. Still. It just goes to show you should always expect the unexpected. The evening was turning out promising after all.
‘So how many episodes can we get through tonight?’ Mark teased Emily as he came through the door.
The previous week, they had managed three. They had spent most of the evening in stitches.
‘Well, if we're going to eat, maybe two?’
Mark followed Emily into her tiny little kitchen. It looked out onto a small but pretty garden, which had a beautiful view of the common, with the edge of the downs in the background. The first green shoots were coming up. Maybe spring was on the way. ‘Nice view,’ he said.
‘Isn't it?’ Emily agreed. ‘It's the closest I'm going to get to the Hill.’
Mark laughed.
‘You're not missing much,’ he said. ‘My ex-wife always wanted to live on the Hill. I think it's full of pretentious wankers myself.’
The Hill was full of massive properties, and at the top a fabulous gated community where rock stars were rumoured to live. Those who aspired to such things but couldn't afford the gated community (namely Sam and her lawyer lover) lived halfway up it. Mark had always resisted Sam's demands that they move onto the rather bland estate where she now lived, much preferring the tumbledown old house that they had bought in the Valley – where the normal people lived.
Mark had loved the house. Sam had hated it. But thanks to the property boom, when they'd sold it, it had made enough for her to go and live in the soulless zone when they split up. It helped, of course, that she was shacked up with a lawyer who'd just made partner. Mark's share had just about stretched to the three-bedroom cottage he'd bought for him and the girls. With Rob being between flats, it had seemed sensible to make some extra cash, if only to have something to put aside for the girls’ futures. Sam and the lawyer were more of the 'spend today, think about tomorrow later’ kind to worry about things like that.
‘Say it like it is, why don't you?’ Emily said, as she fried mushrooms in a pan. She was planning a steak flambé. She hoped it wasn't over-ambitious.
Mark pulled a face.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sam always said I was very black and white.
It's just I can't stand pretentious people or snobs. And in my experience most of the people who live on the Hill are both.’
‘I'd agree with you there,’ said Emily. ‘Although I'm not sure I agree with you about lawyers. I thought you were a bit hard on them.’
‘I don't think I was,’ said Mark. ‘One of my best friends was sued by a patient once and, thanks to the lawyers, his life was hell.’
‘Well you can't hold that against the whole legal profession,’ said Emily as she carefully poured brandy onto a spoon.
‘Don't tell me you're one.’
‘Oh no, of course not. Laywers scum of the earth, that's what I always say.’
Emily waived the question away, as she tried to avoid singeing her eyebrows. What had she been thinking when she planned this meal? He seemed interested in her. She couldn't – mustn't
– blow it. She'd just have to make sure she never mentioned the small fact that she was a lawyer.
‘Mind you, I don't hate lawyers as much as I hate this crap.’ Mark picked up a copy of Heat which was lying on the side. He sighed as he spotted the headline: Jasmine and Tony All Loved Up – we go behind the scenes of their very own Love Shack. Idly he flicked through it. ‘I mean, Pop Princess looks minging; Crap balding actor has fling. It's not just vapid, it's downright nasty. Who actually cares? You don't really read this stuff, do you?’
‘No, no, of course not. I had nothing to read on the train and someone had left it so I picked it up. You're right, it's utter nonsense. What idiot would read drivel like this?’ Emily laughed a silly, high-pitched, slightly hysterical laugh. This was awful. The first really decent man she'd met in years and he hated everything she stood for. When he found out what she really did for a living he was never going to come anywhere near her.
‘Good,’ Mark said, leaning on the kitchen counter. ‘Sam loved all that stuff. It drove me insane.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Emily, feeling rather hot. And it wasn't just from the frying pan.
‘What about you?’ Mark seemed to have changed tack, which was a relief. ‘Anyone ever tempted you up the aisle?’
‘Not so far,’ said Emily. ‘I've been concentrating on my career.’
‘Which is?’ Mark said.
‘Um,’ said Emily. After his rant about celebrities and lawyers, she couldn't possibly admit the truth. Not if she wanted to see him again. Christ, what could she do instead? She frantically scrabbled around for an alternative …
‘I'm a teacher,’ she gabbled, suddenly thinking about her oldest sister, Mary, stuck in the same comprehensive in Swansea for years.
‘Oh, so's Rob,’ said Mark. ‘He teaches history. What about you?’
‘Does he?’ Emily's voice came out in a squeak. Trust her luck that Mark's flatmate was a sodding teacher. ‘Um. I teach – er –’ (think, Emily, think, favourite subject, best subject, only stupid subject you know anything about) ‘English. I teach English.’
‘Oh, that explains all the books.’ Mark had already clocked that the downstairs of the cottage seemed to contain more books than furniture.
‘Yes, books. Perfect thing for an English teacher,’ said Emily, gabbling rather frantically. ‘I love books, me.’
Mark pulled a face.
‘I'm a bit rubbish at reading,’ he confessed. ‘Apart from thrillers, I don't read a lot. And I never did get Shakespeare.’
Emily acted semi-shocked. Despite getting distracted by the law, her love of books had remained undiminished since A-level English, when a charismatic English teacher had opened her eyes to the possibilities offered by literature. Up until then, Shakespeare had been a closed book, but after a trip to Stratford to see Macbeth, Emily had never looked back. From that moment on she had read as voraciously and widely as possible, and her love of books remained undiminished.
‘You don't get Shakespeare?’ Emily said. ‘How can anyone not get Shakespeare? He's not only our greatest literary export, his plays are still hugely relevant today. The Merchant of Venice deals with racism, Henry V is about the horror of warfare.’
‘Perhaps if you'd taught me Shakespeare, I might have listened more,’ said Mark.
‘Maybe I should take you in hand,’ replied Emily laughingly.
‘Maybe,’ said Mark with a smile, as he expertly opened the bottle of Wolf Blass he'd brought round, ‘maybe you should.’
Charlie was back from Amsterdam, and he seemed far more cheerful than he had of late. He kept whistling, which was driving Katie insane as she loaded the washing machine for the third time that evening. Charlie, meanwhile, was sitting at the kitchen table with a can of beer, doing The Times crossword.
‘So, the meetings went well, I take it,’ Katie said between gritted teeth. Why the bloody hell couldn't he see she needed help.
‘Fine.’ Charlie's response was only half there. For something that had been making him really wound up before he left, he was displaying a remarkable insouciance about it now.
‘And the merger's gone ahead all right then?’ ‘Oh, there are a few teething problems,’ said Charlie, ‘but it should be okay.’
Normally Charlie was a bundle of nerves in the middle of an important deal. But he'd barely consulted his BlackBerry all evening.
‘Good,’ said Katie. ‘What about the move? Any more news about that?’
Charlie folded the paper and put it down. He stretched languorously.
‘I think you're right, Katie,’ he said. ‘We shouldn't rush things. It may not be necessary to move after all. Let's just play it by ear.’
Katie was dumbfounded. It was like she was talking to a different person.
‘Well, if you're sure …’
‘Absolutely,’ said Charlie. ‘The kids are the priority, we shouldn't uproot them. If I have to be in Amsterdam in the week, I can stay in the company flat.’
‘The prospect seems to be making you very cheerful,’ said Katie drily. Again, the thought briefly flitted through her head. Suppose he was having an affair? No. No. No. Not Charlie. Charlie wouldn't do that to her. Charlie would never do anything like that. Just picturing his mother's reaction would probably be enough to keep him on the straight and narrow for life. Wouldn't it?
‘Well, I'm off for a bath,’ said Charlie, putting the paper down.
‘I could come and join you.’ A little bit of harmless flirtation couldn't hurt. Maybe that was all their marriage needed. Some more excitement to spice it up.
‘No, it's okay, thanks,’ mumbled Charlie. ‘I'm a bit creamcrackered to tell you the truth. I just thought I'd have a soak and crash out.’
He got up and kissed her briefly on the top of her head, and walked away as if nothing in the world was wrong. Katie folded a pair of his boxer shorts, and then buried her face in them in despair.
Oh God. Maybe, just maybe, he would.
Chapter Nine
‘So you're an English teacher now?’ Katie was hooting with laughter as she and Emily sat down. Isabella, dressed in a magnificent emerald-green dress dusted with silver sparkles that shimmered as she moved, was dancing with her partner Anton. They danced so fluidly together, they almost seemed to caress the floor, and it was hard to tell where one dancer ended and the other began.
The Jet Set, as Katie had decided to call them, the group of people who really knew what they were about, were dazzling their way round the room, switching from a flowing foxtrot to a thrilling tango in the blink of an eye. The women wearing floaty dresses and sparkly shoes, the men in their dark suits and polished shoes, they glided smoothly across the dance floor. Oh to dance like that, Katie thought enviously.
‘Shut up!’ Emily nudged Katie. Mark and Rob had just entered the room. ‘Don't you dare say a bloody word.’
‘Your secret's safe with me,’ laughed Katie. ‘Talk about subterfuge.’
‘Says the woman who told me to lie,’ said Emily. ‘And it's not lying exactly. It's more, I don't know, living a fantasy life that's a damn sight better than my real one. Anyway, what about you? I haven't noticed you mentioning the fact you're married with three kids.’
‘Yes, well, that's just to put off the weirdos,’ said Katie.
‘Who's a weirdo?’ Rob came up with a cheeky grin.
‘You, obviously,’ remarked Katie.
‘Cheers!’ said Rob.
‘However,’ continued Katie, ‘weird and all as you are, you are better than most of the prats I've danced with, so how about it?’
‘Ah, Katie, you say the nicest things.’
‘Well then?’
Rob looked around the room. He'd danced with most of the women on their own, more than danced with some of them. Most of them were rubbish dancers. Lots of them were rubbish in bed. Katie was a good dancer. The thought flitted into his head unbidden. What would she be like in bed? Which was ridiculous, as he didn't fancy her. Not at all.
‘Oh, okay, Thunder Thighs,’ he said, ‘till I get a better offer.’
‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Katie, punching him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Careful,’ he said, ‘I might start thinking you're flirting with me.’
‘In your dreams, pal, in your dreams.’
‘Expect the unexpected,’ said Rob with a twinkle, and Katie couldn't help laughing as he led her to the dance floor. Rob might think she had fat thighs, he might be far too full of himself, but at least he was good company. And boy, she thought, as he whisked her round the room with practised ease, boy, could he dance.
‘Shall we?’ Mark smiled at Emily. ‘I promise not to trip you up this time.’
‘That was probably as much my fault as it was yours,’ said Emily. ‘Oh god,’ she continued, watching Katie and Rob. ‘Every time I look at them, they put me to shame. I just can't imagine I'm ever going to be able to dance properly.’
‘Does that matter?’ said Mark.
‘Probably not,’ laughed Emily, a thrill going through her as he took her hand.
Her heart seemed to be beating so erratically as he led her to the dance floor, she wondered how she could still be breathing. She hoped he hadn't noticed the stealthy blush that had crept across her face, as he pulled her close to him.
‘I had a great time on Sunday,’ said Mark as he clumsily tried to lead Emily in a foxtrot. It only took a couple of turns for him to muddle his lefts and his rights. ‘Oh bugger, I've got that wrong again.’
‘I think that was me,’ said Emily, ‘I led forward with my right instead of back.’
They started again, this time Mark managing to steer them smack bang into another couple.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he and Emily said simultaneously, and they laughed.
Mark inexpertly attempted a spin turn that Isabella had shown them. Rather than ending up with Emily wrapped against his chest facing outwards, which was the effect he was after, their arms ended up twisted in opposite directions and she found herself crushed against his chest. Which was not a bad place to be.
‘Fancy a drink afterwards?’ Mark said.
‘That would be great,’ said Emily, as casually as she could muster.
This time, when they got to the pub there were no awkward silences, just easy and carefree conversation. Emily marvelled at how easy it was to talk to Mark. It felt like they had known each other forever. Before long they were comparing their likes and dislikes.
‘Favourite film?’ Mark challenged.
‘Some Like It Hot,’ said Emily. ‘You?’
‘Shaun of the Dead,’ said Mark. ‘And most comedy on TV, but I particularly like surreal stuff like Spaced.’
‘Me too,’ said Emily, ‘perhaps we should go on to Spaced after Green Wing, I missed most of that one too.’
‘I'm keen on political programmes, too,’ added Mark. ‘I never miss Question Time if I can.’
‘I don't watch it as often as I should,’ confessed Emily.
‘What about music?’ said Mark.
‘Fairly eclectic,’ said Emily. ‘Pretty much anything but gangsta rap.’
‘I'd probably say the same,’ said Mark, ‘though I retain an adolescent fondness for heavy metal.’
‘Oh, and I am a real sucker for musicals,’ added Emily. ‘The Sound of Music is my favourite.’
There was a pause while they both sipped their drinks.
‘What else is there?’ asked Mark. ‘Oh, I know, we haven't done books yet.’
‘I thought you didn't like books,’ teased Emily.
‘Well, not your kind of books, perhaps,’ said Mark. ‘But I'm a big fan of John Grisham.’
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said Emily. ‘Although I am going to make it my mission to get you into Shakespeare. I like nothing more than to curl up with a Terry Pratchett myself. But my favourite book of all time has to be Brideshead Revisited.’
‘Wasn't that on TV when we were kids?’ Mark asked. ‘I vaguely remember something to do with a teddy bear.’
‘That's the one,’ said Emily. ‘I studied it for A Level. My application to Oxford was entirely based on the fairytale depiction of Christ Church.’
‘Did you get in?’ asked Mark.
‘Nope,’ said Emily. ‘I think a girl from a scraggy comp in South Wales was always going to have trouble, but I was so overawed to be there I completely fluffed the interview.’
‘Do you know, I would never have guessed you're from Wales.’
‘I cover it up well,’ said Emily, feeling just a smidgeon of guilt. Since that experience at Oxford, when one of her interviewers had sneered at her accent, she'd worked hard to eradicate it. Sitting with Mark, who was clearly so unfazed by that kind of thing, made her feel that she had betrayed her roots somehow. And it made a change to be with someone who was so lacking in pretension. Particularly after Callum, whose raison d’être was to be seen in the right places, by the right people, wearing the right designer labels. She sipped her drink appreciatively. Maybe for once she had found herself a someone who was worth hanging on to.
