A Minor Indiscretion (13 page)

“D
o you know if you've got any bread?” I have no idea whose voice this is, and I can only risk opening one eye. I sort of know where I am, but my brain is refusing to get cracking on all cylinders so that I don't realize the full enormity of it all at once.

When I do manage to focus on who's speaking, it is very definitely a shock. I am surrounded by half-dressed, undernourished gorgeous creatures in this place, and my already low self-esteem is digging a hole to Australia.

“Bread?” she repeats.

“I don't know,” I mumble. Somehow I've ended up curled up on the worn Chesterfield sofa in Christian's kitchen when the last thing I remember was sitting at the kitchen table. I'm freezing cold and my bones have solidified into one inert mass. One arm is dead so that I can't push myself up, and I daren't even look if there's a pool of dribble because really it's a foregone conclusion, isn't it? “I don't live here,” I say.

“Me neither,” the girl replies.

This one has less clothes on than Rebecca did. She's wearing just a bra and pants, and trendy ones at that. See-through animal-print gauzy numbers that wouldn't do anything to keep out a stiff wind. Or even a gentle breeze. Her slender body is lightly tanned, but her face bears the ghostly pall of the in
credibly hung over. She's hopping about on the terra-cotta floor, opening all the cupboards, presumably in her search for bread, and waiting for the kettle to boil. “I need toast,” she says as she shivers.

I can quite categorically state that toast ranks as a fairly low priority on my list of needs at the moment. Although a hot bath would be up there at the top somewhere. Some feeling has tingled its way back into my arm, and I push myself upright, massaging my lifeless muscles as I do. Upright feels worse than I remember it, and I let my head sag back against the sofa.

The girl is looking at me with concern. “Are you okay?”

I try a weak smile. “I'm fine.”

“I'll make you some tea,” she says.

“Thank you.” I am still wearing my coat, so I obviously didn't plan on staying when I retired to the sofa. I feel ridiculously over-dressed for the occasion, given the attire of my companion.

“I'm Sharon,” she says with a smile.

“Ali.” At least I think I am. “Are you a friend of Christian's?” I ask.

She wrinkles her nose. “Not really. Well, sort of. I only met him at Exodus last night.” I have no idea what or where Exodus is and no wish to appear ignorant, so I nod and smile and say nothing. Sharon finds some bread and waves it triumphantly in my direction. “I came back here and spent the night with…”

Sharon looks up and I follow her gaze. Christian is slouching in the doorway. He is wearing slouch pants and they are, appropriately, slouching on his hips. I get the answer to one of my musings. His flat, muscular chest is as bare as Elliott's bottom. He looks squarely at his houseguest and she blushes.

“Hi,” he says, his lips hovering somewhere between a wry smile and disinterest.

Sharon looks coquettish. I love that word. Coquettish. This is mainly because I could never, ever be coquettish, no matter how hard I tried. I'm too old, too experienced and far too bad-tempered to be bothered to learn to use such a beguiling technique to my advantage. Men fall for it every time though. Christian has certainly brightened. Sharon folds her bare arms across her midriff, which, far from hiding anything on display, only succeeds in plumping her cleavage up further. How is she managing to look coy while wearing nothing but see-through leopard-skin drawers?

I am too world-weary to feel cross, but I do feel like an intruder. “Am I interrupting?” I venture into the flirty silence.

Christian looks at me for the first time. I don't know quite who he thought this madwoman camping on his sofa was, but he clearly didn't recognize her as me. “Ali?”

He is visibly shaken and so is Sharon, but doesn't seem to know why she should be. “What on earth are you doing here?”

It's a question I'm going to have to find an answer to at some point. “I… I… I…” I can't bring myself to say I had nowhere else to go. There's a torrent of tears backing up behind my eyes and I daren't let them go or I might not stop.

“How long have you been here?”

I sniff. “Most of the night.”

“Oh, shit.” Christian crosses the room and kneels by my feet. “Did you hear us come in?”

“No. Nothing. I don't know what time I fell asleep.”

He searches my face with a flicker of anxiety in his eyes. “This is serious, isn't it?”

I nod, unable to speak. “I can leave if it's a bad time.”

“Of course it isn't.” He and Sharon exchange a look that I can't decipher, but she smiles sympathetically at me.

Christian touches my coat and then looks at his hand as if it is covered in blood. “You're soaking,” he says.

I nod again. It's not often my powers of speech desert me—ask any of my close friends. But they always do when you need them most, don't they?

“Let's get you out of those things and into a nice hot bath.”

I could weep with relief. Christian is being so kind. He eases me up from the sofa as if I have just discovered I have a terminal disease.

“I'll bring you both some tea,” Sharon says, and they nod at each other earnestly.

Christian takes my hand and leads me out of the room. He squeezes it reassuringly, and I follow him up the stairs. Did you ever see the first moonwalk where the astronauts were shuffling around awkwardly, dragging lead-weighted boots one painful step at a time? That's what my legs feel like now. Perhaps it's due to spending the night on a rock-hard Chesterfield, or I may have a cold coming due to sitting in wet clothes. All the times I laughed at my mother for saying that, and it turns out she may well be
right. Or it could just be the weight of emotional fatigue. I'm sure my blood has the consistency of Primula cheese spread—you know, that stuff that's a nightmare to squirt out of the tube. It's romping round my veins with all the exuberance of a lethargic snail on Valium. Christian looks like he might carry me, but thinks better of it. I struggle on manfully to the top, unaided.

“We're here.” Christian flings open the bathroom door.

“Wow,” I gasp.

The bathroom is amazing. It's huge and so breathtaking it momentarily takes my mind off my troubles. The fittings are white and vaguely Victorian, but the rest of the room is painted with the most stunning mural I've ever seen. Neptune with his trident dominates the far wall, surrounded by sea nymphs and shells and gargantuan fish that look like they've taken a swim straight out of mythology. The colors are vivid ocean hues of turquoise, aquamarine and coral pink. Dolphins play across the ceiling attended by mermaids with gold-spun hair and impossibly iridescent tails.

“This is fabulous.” I am shaking my red ringlets in disbelief.

“I did it,” Christian says.

“You did?”

He nods. “As a present to the owners.”

“I bet they love it.” I try to get my mouth to shut.

He shrugs noncommittally. “They haven't seen it yet. They're away,” he says. “We're sort of minding this place for them.”

I slide off my coat and let it plop in a wet heap on the black-and-white marble floor.

“I'll run the bath,” Christian says, and he leans over and flicks the taps on, while I tentatively start to undo my blouse, which is stuck to my skin, which is in turn clammy and goose-pimply.

Sharon pops her head round the door and proffers two mugs of tea and a plate of toast precariously balanced on a tray that's too small. Christian takes it from her.

Sharon bobs nervously. “I'll be off now,” she says. “I'll say goodbye to er…”

“Robbie,” Christian supplies.

“Yeah. And…thanks.” She smiles at me. “See you around sometime.”

I smile back, because Christian has already lost interest. He is simultaneously munching toast and pouring lashings of bubble bath into the steaming water.

“She's nice,” I say.

“She seems okay,” he answers over his shoulder. “Though I'd doubt the sanity of anyone who'd want to spend the night with Robbie.”

“Oh.” I'm relieved that she spent the night with Robbie, whoever that is, rather than Christian, because I did have my suspicions. I also have a grudging admiration for the current attitude of the young toward having sex with strangers. Despite all the risks involved, it doesn't seem to deter them. You could end up with AIDS, a nutter or at the very least damaged self-respect, but they do it with reckless abandon and no heed of the potential consequences. How can they do this without recoiling in horror in the morning? I have no idea. Will Tanya stomp heavily through this minefield? I wonder. Will she lose her innocence to someone whose name she doesn't know after a night out at a club? God, I hope not. I want her to wait—preferably for several years—and be seduced by an older man who knows what he's doing, in some lavish country retreat complete with champagne and four-poster bed, so that her first time will be a wonderful occasion that she can look back on with fond memories. I don't, however, think she'd thank me for telling her my view of her entry into womanhood.

I lost my virginity laughably late in life, even for my era, and by today's standards I was positively past it. Tanya, my little girl, can go and get the morning-after pill from the school nurse without me ever finding out, which is a terrifying thought. Is that really progress for a supposedly civilized society and a Labour government? I think not. What's the going rate now? Thirteen? Fourteen? Fifteen? Much less if that bastion of knowledge,
Seventeen,
is to be believed. I hope Tanya has the sense to wait until she's twenty-seven, at least, for this vastly overrated pleasure in life. But who knows? She may already be vastly more experienced than her mother. It wouldn't be hard. If things continue like this, by the time Tanya herself is a mother with a teenage daughter, they'll be fitting Pampers with condom pockets. And then she'll know what it feels like to worry!

I think alcohol is the main problem. When I was fifteen, booze tasted like booze. It was something you had to acclimatize yourself to—gradually increasing your intake in direct proportion to the amount you were prepared to be sick. Now booze tastes as
blandly inoffensive as fruit juice. You can drink three Bacardi Bombshells, or whatever, and have no ill-effects until you're flat on your back. Perhaps this is why this generation lose their inhibitions so quickly. Or perhaps they are desensitized to everything. There isn't a night of the week when you can't watch someone having sex on the telly, so where's the mystery in it when it comes to your turn?

My bath is run and the glorious bathroom is filled with strawberry-scented steam. I am getting warmer by the minute.

Christian sits on the loo and watches me. Which I can tell you is a deeply disconcerting experience. How do you get naked in front of someone you barely know? His eyes never leave my body. Not in a lascivious way, but nevertheless it feels like I'm performing a striptease. I want to huddle into myself and protect my imperfections from the intensity of his study. No one has looked at me like this before, and I'm stripped bare before him in more ways than one. This is definitely a moment when three Barcardi Bombshells would come in useful, even though it's barely ten o'clock in the morning. I let my clothes fall to the floor, brazening it out, although I can't bring myself to look at Christian.

I step into the bath with as much grace as I can muster and feel my feet sizzle in the heat of the water. Lowering myself into the bubbles, I enjoy their light caress on my weary skin and let out a sigh as the blissful relief of the warmth starts to soothe my frazzled nerves. I squeeze my eyes shut, and the tears thread themselves through the barrier of my lashes and start to make silent tracks over my burning cheeks.

Christian slides onto the floor beside the bath, and I open my eyes as he dabs the tears away with a Pooh Bear flannel. He hands me my tea and holds out a piece of toast while I bite it gratefully, then leans his hand on his elbow and studies me some more.

“Want to tell me why you're here?”

Not really, I think. This is too soon. Too complicated. And far too painful. I take a deep breath, which shudders from my lungs. “Ed found out about us,” I say as calmly as I can. “He found out about us and he threw me out.”

I recount the story of Elliott and the climbing frame, the visit to Casualty, the Kew Gardens ticket, et cetera, et cetera. You know it all. And by the time I've finished, so does Christian.

“Shit,” is all he says by way of acknowledgment, and I know exactly what he means. “What are you going to do?”

“Get dressed, go home and grovel, I guess.”

“But we haven't done anything.”

“That's what I'm going to try to explain.”

Christian tugs at his fringe in agitation. “This is all my fault.”

“I don't think so. You didn't exactly drag me screaming into it.”

“You still love your husband?”

I don't even need to think about it. “Yes.”

His face is sad, and I can't bear to see the corners of his smiling mouth downturned. “And what about us?”

“I think ‘us' has to end here.”

“I was hoping you wouldn't say that.”

“I can't do anything else,” I reason. “This isn't just about me. I have three children to consider. I came here because I didn't know what else to do.”

Christian traces my cheek with the back of his hand. He takes my cup from me even though I've hardly touched my tea and puts it on the floor. “I'm glad you came here,” he says, and his fingers twine in my hair at the nape of my neck.

“So am I.” I lean toward him and nuzzle into his neck, which smells of stale smoke and booze, and his stubble grazes against me. He presses his face into my hair and kisses it with tender, featherweight brushes of his lips.