12
“Have your ears been burning?” Stella has an eyebrow raised, a flirtatious look on her face as she looks over my shoulder. I turn to see none other than Mark Simpson standing there. The Mark Simpson. That Mark Simpson. Looking rather different from when I last saw him at the wedding.
This Mark Simpson looks thunderous. Dangerous. Extremely pissed off. He looks, in other words, like a challenge, a rather sexy challenge, and as soon as I see his face I can feel myself rising to it.
No. Stop it. He might be exuding sex appeal as if it's going out of fashion, but this man has been with Julia for years. Whether they're happy or not is none of my business, but I do know it's certainly not an excuse.
And even if I were to go for it, a man like him isn't the type to be unfaithful. Not that I'd be his type. Julia's got that pretty-girl-next-door thing going on. Even when she looks like shit she's still the type that men want to protect, and me? No one could call me the girl-next- door type.
“Can I join you?” Mark pulls a chair from the neighboring table and drags it in between Johnny and me. He turns to me. “Mark Simpson. Nice to meet you.”
I smile as I shake his hand. “Actually we've met before.”
“I thought your face looked familiar. Where?”
“Adam and Lorna's wedding. I contributed to the Clangers discussion.” I wait for him to smile, but his face is blank, clearly focusing on other things. “Um . . . are you okay?”
He looks at me then. Sees me. “I'm sorry,” he says, and immediately I see that this man is really unhappy about something. It may be his relationship, I don't know. I've never been a big believer in office gossip, in that much as I like keeping up to date on things and hearing what people are talking about, I've learned to take it with a healthy pinch of salt.
Rumors become distorted and very quickly turn into facts, and although people had said, even tonight, that Mark was unhappy, I had to judge it for myself.
And now I am judging it for myself. This man is unhappy.
He shrugs. “Just a, well. A home thing. Domestic.” And he sighs and, what on earth is going on, what on earth am I feeling? Is this . . . could it be, compassion? For a stranger? How ridiculous.
“Do you want to come out to dinner with us?” I say, because compassion is not a feeling I'm used to, and I'd far rather move this on to safer territory. “We're going to Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza. I hear it's as good as the Ivy these days.”
To my great relief he laughs, and his entire face changes. God. This man really is far more attractive than I remember.
“I'll only come if I'm allowed to have an onion loaf all to myself.”
“You can have a whole onion loaf and a whole portion of garlic bread to yourself if you really want.”
“Now that's an offer I can't resist.”
I look up and see Stella watching us, and I can see that she really does have a crush on him, but I didn't ask him to join us because I'm interested in him, and I certainly didn't ask him to sit next to me. Besides, I'm hardly flirting, I'm just inviting an unhappy colleague out with my team. My Good Samaritan act of the week.
A huge basement restaurant, Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza is dark, noisy, and packed with parties such as ours: colleagues letting off steam after a hard week; drinking, dancing on the tiny dance floor in the middle of the room, and, presumably, as is the way with people who work closely together, getting up to rather more.
We contemplate fighting our way through the throngs of people to the bar, but a quick recce confirms that this simple procedure would force us through dozens of men, eyes as watchful as hawks, pretending to talk to mates, but all the while using a sip of their bottled beers as an excuse to scout the room, and the women in it. Standing close to the entrance, flanked by Stella, Nic and Nat, Mark next to me and the boys a step behind, I can see that we, the girls, are already being stripped by dozens of pairs of eyes, and although chatting people up goes along with this Friday night ritual of letting off steam, I am not sure I want to be part of it. Not when I am with my team. And Mark.
We are shown to a table at the back by an excessively cheerful waitress who has a good line in overfamiliarity, but this is what you find in restaurants such as these. I grit my teeth because I am constantly bemoaning the lack of service in this country, and this, although a little too much for my liking, is surely better than a sour-faced girl who does you a favor by deigning to serve you. From the sublime to the ridiculous. Ah well. Never mind.
I stand at the table with the others, all of them wondering where to sit, all of the girls wanting to sit next to Mark, but none, it seems, quite as much as Stella, who pushes her way next to him. I, incidentally, am on his other side, but not from maneuver so much as convenience: we walked to the table together, and this seems the easiest thing.
“And what can I get you to drink?” Shelley, the waitress, is back with her beaming smile.
“Tequila!” chorus Nat and Nic, giggling together, both already more than a little tipsy from our sojourn to the bar.
“Good choice!” the waitress says, and before I can order a gin and tonic, she's gone. I turn to see Mark looking at me with what surely resembles a smile on his face.
“She's going to bring back a bottle of tequila and . . .” he counts the heads, “. . . seven shot glasses. You know that, don't you?” I shrug. “So are you up for it?” he continues, eyebrow raised as he looks at me confrontationally.
“Up for . . . what exactly?” I purr. Stop it, Maeve! Take that flirtatious tone out of your voice immediately.
Mark looks surprised. Shit. He hadn't been flirting. I f*cked up. I must be cool. Businesslike. I do not get involved with men I work with anymore, and I certainly do not get involved with men who belong to other people.
“What were you thinking?” he says slowly, and now I am confused, because I can't work out from his tone whether he's flirting, or whether he has no idea of the inference behind my words.
“Nothing,” I say succinctly, before leaning toward him and murmuring quietly in his ear. “Just wondering whether you and I, given our responsible positions, ought to be getting drunk with the team.”
Mark laughs as Shelley arrives with, sure enough, a bottle of tequila, a plate of limes, and a bowl of salt. Mark pours his tequila and knocks it back, no lemon or salt required. “You know what I think?” He wipes his mouth and pours another. “I think that after the day I've had I deserve to get drunk. In fact I deserve to get royally pissed.” He then pours another glass and this time pushes it over to me. “And I also think that you need to let your hair down and have some fun,” and he looks deep into my eyes and I pick up that glass and throw it down my throat as quickly as I can.
Stella is watching us. I can feel her eyes burning every time I look away, and I try to position my body so I can't actually see her face when I am talking to Mark, but it is hard.
I am trying desperately not to flirt with Mark, to treat him as a distant work colleague, but there seems to be an intimacy between us, and I could swear it's not my imagination, nor because we are having a heated discussion about the Royal Family, and Mark and I are the only pro-royalists round the table.
Actually, pro might be pushing it. But I'm certainly not anti as all my interns appear to be, accusing them of being paid far too much money and of being outdated with no role in society other than as figures of fun.
“But you can't possibly hate the Queen Mum,” Mark says, at one point. “She's just a sweet old lady.”
“Do we detect a hint of sentimentality beneath that tough lawyer veneer?” Nat leans forward with a smile that, thanks to the amount of booze, is very definitely more of a leer.
“Beneath this tough lawyer veneer beats a heart of gold,” Mark says, smiling.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Nat's flirting, and I feel a flash of irritation which I quickly suppress. I am very aware of Mark sitting next to me. His arm accidentally brushes mine, and my arm suddenly feels heavy, immobile, and I want to move it but somehow I can't. All I can do is sit and feel the light blond hairs on his arm brush my skin, and try to look away because the sensation is all-consuming, and if I look at our arms touching, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it through this evening. It will be too overwhelming.
By the way, this feeling is not new to me. Love? You must be joking. This feeling—my heightened senses, the fact that I am aware of every movement he makes, every tap of the finger, every blink of the eye—is lust. Good old unadulterated lust. God, I love this feeling. And I had forgotten exactly how good it felt.
But I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men.
But he's not married . . . does that count?
Could I get away with it? He is, after all, unhappy, and I don't, after all, have any illusions about happy ever afters, so is it worth the risk?
I tune out of the conversation, putting my lust to one side as I consider the risk. I have been working at London Daytime Television for one week. So far I am very happy here. Could see myself working here for a very long time. Hell, as far as I'm concerned, I can picture the workmen taking down the plaque on the door that says “Mike Jones” and replacing it with one that says “Maeve Robertson.”
I could climb the ladder to the heavens here. And Mark is the lawyer. Not just on the legal team, the head of the legal team. As I said. The lawyer. Someone I am bound to come into regular contact with, but even though I know I could handle it, could he?
He is also living with, and trying for a baby with, Julia, who seems to be extremely popular and well respected. Christ, I like her myself. Hmmmm. I look at his arm: strong, tanned, just the right amount of sun-bleached hair. Sexy.
Not tonight, Josephine.
I raise an arm and signal for Shelley, ordering a large bottle of sparkling mineral water.
“I see you're pinning your hair back up,” Mark says with a wry smile. “Clearly my powers of persuasion aren't as good as I thought.”
I shrug. “Another time they might have worked, but I'm still new. I still need to impress.”
“You don't think you've impressed already?”
“I don't know. What do you think?” Oh God. Insecurity. Never a good thing to show a man you're insecure, because men, basically, just don't do insecurity.
“I'm impressed.” He doesn't look at me as he says this, and I sigh, because I could so easily be drawn into this man's web, but I won't. I can't.
“And I'm leaving.” I give him a smile that I hope conveys my regret.
“That's a good idea,” he says, scraping his chair back. “I ought to get home too.”
“Where do you live?” We're standing on the corner of St. Martin's Lane, my coat huddled around me, both desperately searching for cabs. Needless to say, the only ones we see are already taken, and, rather like a mirage in the desert, I keep thinking I see an orange light driving toward me. But I am wrong.
“Belsize Park. You?”
“Gospel Oak. Just up the road! We'll share a cab.” It's a statement, not a question. Then silence.
“Should we walk up there? It looks more promising.” Mark gestures up another street, as a taxi, probably taken, disappears round the far corner. I take it as a good sign and nod, as the two of us walk off side by side. The lust has, thank God, very definitely cooled since leaving the restaurant. I'm cold and I'm tired, and all I can think about right now is curling up in the back of a lovely heated cab, and going home to bed.
I pull the coat tighter and look down at the pavement, tottering along, wishing I had worn more comfortable shoes, when I'm aware that Mark has stopped. I stop too. I look at him, barely registering the look of sheer longing in his eyes, when—and I swear to you I still don't know exactly how this happened—I find myself locked in his arms, kissing him as if my life depended on it.
I wish I could describe it better: the passion, the lust, the fire. What I can tell you is that I feel as if I'm melting into him, clinging on to him for my sanity, both of us drowning in this incredible intensity.
We pull apart, eventually, and look at each other, eyes wide with shock.
“I'm sorry,” he says, and I'm about to reassure him, to say “Don't be,” when he kisses me again, and this time, when we break apart, he pulls me into an alleyway.
Let me say this: I am not the sort of girl who has sex in alleyways. I have never been turned on by the thrill of being caught, or being seen, or in fact being anywhere other than an extremely comfortable bedroom. Or living room. I am a creature of comfort, and like to plan things accordingly. I have seduced many men, and I have done it with silkily smooth legs achieved with an Epilady (disgustingly painful but worthwhile), with black stockings and garter belts (so cliché, but effective nonetheless), and with champagne and flattery (guaranteed to get me just about anywhere I want to go).
What I have never done is what I am doing now. Pressed up against a brick wall in a dark alleyway lit by a single, dull streetlamp at one end. The other end. Mark's mouth is all over me. My face, my neck, my collarbone. Rough, wet kisses that leave me gasping, eyes glazed over as I slide my hands under his jacket, pull his shirt out of his trousers, desperately pull it up until I can feel his hot skin under the palms of my hands.
He tears my shirt open, and I gasp as he moves his lips down my breast, moving my bra cup down until the white mounds of my flesh pour over the top, pulling my nipples into hard peaks with his mouth, his magical mouth, as I close my eyes and groan with pleasure.
I reach down and stroke his cock through his trousers, feeling the hardness, feeling, already, as if I cannot hold on much longer, and then he is inside me, thrusting deep inside me, breathing heavily into the side of my neck, holding one leg up by his waist as I cling to his back and move with him, moaning with lust.
He doesn't look at me afterward. We walk out of the alleyway and I watch the people passing, wondering whether they saw, whether anyone saw. We walk side by side, careful not to touch, all thoughts of a cab long-forgotten, and when we reach the end of the road I turn to Mark to try to say something, anything to break this silence, and when I look at him he starts to cry.
“Oh, Mark, what is it?” Surely the fast, furious f*ck of a few minutes ago happened to someone else. I feel like a stranger again, and put an arm round his shoulders awkwardly to comfort him.
“I'm sorry,” he blurts out. “Oh f*ck. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . Christ.” And neither of us knows what to say.
But I know one thing. I can't send this man home like this.
“I swear on my life that I'm not making a pass at you,” I say gently, feeling as if this whole situation is completely unreal, “and I understand that you might feel very awkward about this, but I think you need to talk to someone. Why don't you come back to my flat, just to talk? I'll make you some coffee and then you can go home.”
By the time we walk through my front door, I'm really not sure whether anything actually happened. I look out of the cab window on the way home (it did take forever, but we finally got one) and wonder whether I fell asleep at the table and dreamed that I had the most passionate f*ck of my life, with Mark, in a seedy alleyway on the way home. Wonder seriously whether it was only wishful thinking.
I make coffee and we sit on the sofa, a yard between us, neither wanting to be the first to speak, neither knowing quite why we are here.
“This is ridiculous,” Mark says. “First of all I don't know you, other than, um . . .” He has the good grace to blush, and I realize that it wasn't a dream after all. We definitely f*cked or he wouldn't be blushing. He continues: “. . . and you work for the same bloody company and I can't believe what happened tonight, and now I can't believe I'm even here, and—”
“Mark.” I stop him, laying a hand gently on his arm. “I know this sounds bizarre but sometimes it's far easier to talk to strangers than it is to talk to people you know. I am renowned for many things, but what I am really famous for, other than my spectacular ability in bed” (I only threw that in to lighten things, and although it could have been entirely inappropriate it works and Mark does manage a small, sad smile) “is my discretion. This may be none of my business, but you don't seem happy, and you seem to be a man who is shouldering an extremely heavy burden. You don't have to explain anything to me, but, and I'm not saying this because I want a repeat performance, but I would like to help, and I'm saying that because I think you're a nice guy and you seem like you could do with a friend.”
I stop to breathe.
“I don't know where to start,” he says, before laughing bitterly. “If I started with the events of tonight you probably wouldn't believe me.”
“Go on. What happened tonight?”
He tells me he went home and found his girlfriend and one of her friends dressed in white sheets and dancing round some sort of occult circle, almost in a trance as the flames of the candles scattered round the room tried to lick the bottom of the sheets.
“It was actually quite beautiful,” he says, “but we ended up having a huge row because the whole premise of it was completely ridiculous. She's desperate to have a baby, has been for ages, and we can't get pregnant, and instead of actually doing something practical about it, going to see someone, she's doing these ridiculous things like making me carry juniper berries in my wallet because it's supposed to increase a man's potency, and dancing round these stupid bloody candles with penises on them.”
I can't help it. I start laughing. “What?”
“What?”
“What do you mean, candles with penises on them?” I don't even want to begin to describe the picture that flashes into my head.
“I don't know,” he says, shrugging. “There was a big candle with an erect penis carved into it.”
“Okay.” A thought occurs to me. “Do you carry juniper berries, then?”
Mark reaches into his inside pocket, opens his wallet and pours a dozen juniper berries on to the coffee table with a sigh. We both pick one up and examine it.
“It sounds like she's scared,” I offer finally.
“Of course she's scared. I'm scared too. But being scared isn't going to make her pregnant. She has to be more practical.”
“I understand that, Mark, but it must be the worst feeling in the world to not be able to get pregnant. I'd be lying if I said I understood it, because children are really not on my agenda, but I'm sure that infertility would compromise your very womanhood.”
“But what about me?” Mark says, and as he turns to look at me the pain in his eyes is frightening. “She said it was my fault. That she'd been pregnant and therefore I had to be firing blanks.”
“Jesus.” I let out a long whistle. “Did she actually say that?”
“Basically.”
“That's tough, Mark.” We sit in silence for a while. “Can I ask you something else?” He looks at me, and I'm not even sure I ought to be asking what I'm about to ask, but I can't not ask him, it's too urgent. “Do you actually want children?”
“Yes. Of course. I love children. I've always wanted children.”
“Okay, let me put it another way. Do you actually want children with Julia?”
It's a loaded question and Mark catches his breath. “What are you asking?”
“I'm asking whether you're happy with her. Happy enough to spend the rest of your life with her. To wake up next to her every morning, for her to be the one you kiss every night before you roll over to sleep.
“I'm asking you, Mark, whether, should you actually get what you're looking for, you want Julia to be the mother of your children. Your partner for the rest of your life. That's what I'm asking. That's all.”
There's a very long silence while Mark drops his head into his hands. At first I think he's crying, but after a while he looks up at me and his eyes are dry. “Once upon a time I would have said Yes. Definitely. But now I'm not sure of anything anymore.”