A Minor Indiscretion (14 page)

“Oh, Ali,” he murmurs. “I am so very much in love with you.”

“Christian…” I start to say, but his mouth is on mine, hot and damp and soft. My breasts are wet against the warmth of his chest and he draws me into him, whispering my name. I am gone. As easily as that. Softening, swooning, melting away under the heat of his touch. Could anyone feel the fire of this passion and not willingly surrender themselves to the flames?

Our lips are still molded together as he sloughs off his slouch pants, and his naked body makes me want to gasp out loud. His youthful curves and hollows are as beautiful as any classical sculpture, and his muscles show the definition that will blossom soon to full manhood. He steps into the bath and is above me, covering me with eager kisses. His face colors with lust. Have I ever before aroused such open desire in a man? I don't think so. It is such a powerful feeling that any ideas of inhibition I might have
harbored, fly away in the bold, bold face of it. His eyes and his body are hungry for me. Ravenous. And I too want to devour him. We twist and turn until I am astride him and we make love. We undulate together, his hands urging my hips in their frenzy until we cry out together that our ecstasy is spent. And I don't even think about whether the bathroom door is locked, or about the water lapping over the side onto the plate of toast, or whether Sharon or Robbie or the keen-eared Rebecca might hear us or the fact that I've never made love in the bath before. I don't think of any of these things until much, much later, and then I can't stop.

I lean on Christian's chest, and we are breathing heavily and grinning inanely at each other.

“Remember the day I drew you?” he says, brushing my hair from my face.

I nod and he bites his lip, smirking. “I said your hair was beautiful.”

I nod again, and Christian stifles a giggle as he tugs at one of my sodden dreadlocks. “Well, now you look just like Lenny Kravitz,” he splutters.

I splash against the bathwater, drowning him, when he is already too wet to care. We kiss again, laughing and struggling together in the bath until the tears run down my cheeks once more.

“S
o where is she then?” Ed massaged his unshaven beard and his face hurt.

“I was rather hoping you'd tell me,” Jemma snapped. She was stomping about her flat and was unnaturally purple in the face.

Ed hung his head farther. “I thought she was here.”

“Well, she isn't. So now what?”

Neil fidgeted uncomfortably, his leather biker's trousers squeaking inappropriately against Jemma's Conran leather chair. Ed noted his brother's sneaky looks at his sister-in-law's own bottom, clad in 1960s leather hipsters.

“What about ringing your parents?” Ed suggested.

“To say what? That you've temporarily misplaced their daughter?”

“She might be there,” he reasoned.

“And she might be under a bus, for all you care!” Jemma ranted. “Ed, how could you be so callous? She is the mother of your children.”

“I know, I know,” he pleaded. “And if I could find her, I'd make it up to her.”

“You let her walk out into the night, into the rain, without her handbag, without her phone. She could be anywhere.”

“I know.”

“She could have drowned in the canal.”

Ed looked alarmed. “What canal?”

“Any canal!”

Ed gnawed the skin at the side of his finger. “I'm sure she'll be fine.”

“Are you mad?” Jemma said. “London is full of lunatics.” She gave him a searing look. “Bits of her could be in a bin bag in some seedy backstreet.”

He could feel his blood turning to one of those Slush Puppies that Elliott was so fond of. “And she definitely didn't come here?”

Jemma shook her head. “I was here all night. Not a peep.”

“She can't just have vanished,” Ed said. “Do you think I ought to call the hospitals or police? Isn't that what you do when someone goes missing?”

“She didn't ‘go missing,' Edward, she was thrown out after a domestic argument. The first thing the police will do is dig up your patio.”

“Oh shit.”

“Oh shit, indeed,” echoed Jemma.

“Did she tell you anything about this bloke? This…Christian?”

“Of course she did. I'm her sister.” Jemma held her hand to her heart. “She tells me everything.”

“And…?”

“And, nothing! It was a silly flirtation. A bit of fun. Lord knows, she needs it.” Jemma looked accusingly at Ed, and he wondered what else Ali had told her. “He's a boy,” she added. “A child.”

“Is he?”

“If you'd taken the time to talk to her instead of going off at her like a bear with a sore bum, you would have known too. He has a crush on Ali. A silly schoolboy crush. You'd have probably had a good laugh about it.”

Ed somehow doubted it. The image of a schoolboy drooling over his wife didn't strike him, on any level, as rib-ticklingly amusing.

“Shall I put the kettle on?” Neil said brightly.

“I think that's a splendid idea, Neil,” Jemma said, as if he'd just announced that he'd solved the riddle of the meaning of life rather than resorting to the usual lame British answer to a difficult situation. A nice cup of tea. Ed tutted to himself. Jemma
turned off her scowl and smiled widely at his brother. “I'll show you where everything is.”

Jemma breezed out toward the kitchen, which was all chrome and steel and white tiles and looked like a trendy morgue with tea-making facilities. Neil followed with a leery wink at Ed, his clonky motorcycle boots at odds with the streamlined elegance of the rest of the flat. This wasn't a home, this was a house. A show house, with nothing out of place. It was small, compact to the point of being cupboardlike and the epitome of style. There were no sticky fingermarks on the wall, no curled-up drawings stuck to the fridge produced via a cunningly shaped potato dipped in paint; there were no toys, Rollerblades or skateboards booby-trapping the floor. The atmosphere that Jemma had tried to create meant that it lacked any form of atmosphere at all as far as Ed could tell. But then, he'd lived in a house that resembled Laura Ashley crossed with Hamley's toy store for so long that he'd forgotten what life was like pre-clutter. He hoped the boys were all right. Perhaps he should give them a quick ring and check, but then that would clog up his mobile and there might be a remote chance that Ali could ring just at that second.

He'd sworn them both to good behavior. Thomas was no problem. Ed had left him sitting wanly in a warm bath with instructions to go straight back to bed. His twelve-year-old son was the epitome of good behavior and would, no doubt, grow into a model citizen whose only attempt at rebellion would be to join the Freemasons when he reached forty. Elliott, at the tender age of four, was a lost cause, however. Ed was already dreading the time he'd turn seventeen and would be let loose on cars. Real cars. The things he managed to do with his toy ones defied description—he'd had to have bits of them surgically extracted from virtually every orifice of his body so far, and the nearside tire of an Aston Martin DB7 proved particularly tricky. Ed had thought of tying Elliott to a chair while he was out, but Social Services are funny about that sort of thing these days. Instead, he had warned his youngest child not to move, touch or jump over anything in his sternest possible voice, promised not to be too long, then had left for Jemma's on the back of Neil's bike in a shower of gravel.

Fat lot of good it had done him, Ed thought, while he waited for tea he didn't want. There was a lot of hilarity coming from the kitchen, which Ed didn't feel that the circumstances war
ranted, but he appreciated that he was sulking and it wasn't acceptable to expect everyone else to sulk with him. It was the old adage—smile and the whole world smiles with you. Sulk and everyone thinks you're a sad, old git.

So when Neil and Jemma came back in with the tea, Ed took it and smiled, although he didn't want to be here now. He wanted to be at home and waiting for Ali to come back. Surely she would? Wouldn't she?

“I
don't want you to go.” Christian has his arms round my waist and is fixing me with those deep brown puppy eyes.

I am dressed in an eclectic mixture of clothing courtesy of my husband, Ed. He would never make a personal shopper if he ever decides to stop hankering after a life in films and change careers. In the small case that my husband so kindly packed for me are three shades of nothing remotely useful. There were no knickers, so I'm bare-arsed under my itchy wool trousers—something that's keeping Christian amused, but not me. This sweater hasn't seen the light of day for about ten years because it goes with nothing else I possess. But then I don't think Ed was paying much attention to color coordinating when packing my clothing for my impromptu trip.

“I have to.” My little case is waiting patiently at my feet and I'm ready to leave.

“It was good though, wasn't it?” He puts his nose against mine.

“Yes.” I have had sex with a stranger despite all those things I said not two chapters ago. And I can tell you, I feel very weird. And not just because none of my clothes match. I have slept with only one other person apart from Ed and that was a teenage fumbling, and as far as I was concerned a complete waste of time. I defy anyone to say that their first experience of sex wasn't a total disappointment. You're bombarded with images of waves crash
ing and loud, resonant music like the Old Spice advert and exploding fireworks and shooting stars, and reality isn't like that. Is it? Reality is—that can't be all there is to it! I can't have waited all these years for that! That's reality. Not a single wave crashed when I surrendered my virginity to David Chatham after months of saying no. It wasn't even as powerful as a dripping tap. There wasn't a single note of classical music to be heard. Not anywhere. Not one firecracker cracked. Not one star shot. It was after a party and I'd had too many Cherry B's and cider, which I think puts it into context. See? Booze again. Disappointment reigned and we split up shortly afterward. Three days afterward, to be exact.

With Ed it was different. It was good. It was exciting. It still wasn't long before we slipped into the Comfort Zone though. Sex for people who worry about having to get up in the morning for work or whether their contraception will work. Sex where you can't have fireworks because loud bangs wake the children. Sex where you don't have to worry if you pull a funny face when you come or if bits wobble like unset blancmange. And I've got used to that. Nay, even liked it. I thought that's all there was.

Christian, on the other hand, has blown my mind. I have never smoked pot, but I can imagine what it feels like. I'm sort of drifty and smiley and squishy inside. And I should be anxious—you know my situation. After “The Bath” incident we made love again on Christian's bed and…well, I don't think I'm even going to attempt to tell you about it, because you'll go green, tear the page out and eat it out of sheer frustration. It has opened my eyes—no, really it has. That boy has been taking lessons, he must have, because no one gets born so sensual. I have had crashing waves, I have had the full rendition of Carl Orff's
Carmina Burana O Fortuna
(Old Spice advert again…). I have had exploding fireworks. Stars shot about all over the place. And I am going to have to do some serious reevaluation, because I don't know whether comfort sex will be enough when I get home. I didn't think I was discontented, but maybe I am. Ed and I are going to have to nip down to the porny video shop and rent
The Lover's Guide
or something not too seedy, because I sincerely believe we need help when I didn't two hours ago.

“I still don't want you to go.” Christian nuzzles my ear. I have erotic zones that I didn't know I had and I'm in complete turmoil.

“Don't.” I ease myself away from him, using my best schoolteacher's voice.

“There's loads of room here,” he says. “The others wouldn't mind.”

I think Ms. Rebecca Pert Bottom would definitely have something to say.

“I'll phone you,” I say.

“Promise.”

“We can have coffee sometime.”

“It isn't enough, Ali. It isn't enough for me and it isn't enough for you.”

“It'll have to be,” I say, and I really sound like I mean it this time. “I really appreciate this.” I gesture at the house. “And I'm really, really glad we had this morning together.”

“But…”

“There are too many buts, Christian.” I look at my watch. “And four of them will, no doubt, be waiting for me to give them lunch.”

Christian smiles sadly. He rummages in his pocket and pulls out ten pounds. “You won't get far without this.” He hesitates before he hands it over. “I could hold you captive,” he threatens.

He wraps his arms around me and holds me so tightly that it hurts. How do I tell him that already I am completely captivated and it will take all my strength to walk away?

E
d's car is in the drive, but there's no sign of life when I open the kitchen door. “Hello!”

Nothing. I have been missing and could have been presumed dead for a whole night, and no one has batted an eyelid. Me and my stupid suitcase have bounced all the way back on the rickety, rattly Tube dreading this moment, and now there's no one here with a shred of interest in my well-being. My traitorous handbag is sitting on the work surface looking suitably shame-faced. I poke it belligerently and vow to buy a new one just to spite it—one that sets off an ear-piercing alarm if you stray more than five feet from it.

The breakfast dishes are abandoned on the table, and I gather I am still the only person in this household who doesn't need to look at
Auto Route Express
to find the dishwasher.

The post is still unopened. Although it looks like nothing but bills, I start to leaf through it, and as I do there is a quiet, but disturbing whimpering coming from the lounge. It's a horrid noise. The sort of noise you hear on scary movies when the crazed Slasher has recently departed from a crazed slashing spree.

I drop the post and rush across the kitchen and, pausing only to check my heart is still beating, fling open the lounge door. A truly terrifying sight greets me.

Our next-door neighbors, the Beresfords, have a dog called
Harry. He is a black Labrador, fat and intrinsically stupid. Aren't they all? The Beresfords say he isn't fat, but has a muscular physique. Harry spends a lot of time in our house because the biscuits are better and in more plentiful supply than at home. I rest my case. For years it was suspected that Harry had some deadly form of undetectable brain tumor because he used to weave alarmingly rather than walk in a straight line as most dogs do. Then they found he was drinking Mr. Beresford's homemade pear wine straight from the demi-johns kept under the stairs and discovered that Harry didn't have a brain tumor at all, but that he was a drunk. The word “bite” has never entered his soft, canine brain.

Harry is lying inert on the floor, his big pink tongue lolling stupidly out of his mouth. Elliott takes a huge safety pin and finishes off his handiwork. Harry whimpers a bit more.

Elliott looks up and smiles. “Look what I did, Mummy.”

“Elliott,” I say through clenched teeth. “What have you done?”

“I've made him better,” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry is covered from head to toe in surgical bandages. Elliott has wound them round his head, over one eye and in an elaborate crisscross pattern round his body. I didn't even know we possessed so many of the damn things. Harry's legs, front and back, are bound together, and his tail, though thickly bandaged, is wagging ferociously. He would probably bark a friendly welcome as he usually does—if he could. Elliott has also bandaged his muzzle, which is neatly polished off with a bow that is tidier than anything my son has ever managed on his shoelaces.

“Elliott!” I yell, and kneel down beside the beleaguered dog. “That is so naughty!” Harry is trying to lick me despite the confines of his bandage.

“I thought he might have broken something,” my youngest son protests.

“He might have now, you silly boy,” I say, and I smack Elliott on the bottom. Hard. I don't believe in smacking children. Only when they deserve it. Or when I have completely come to the end of my tether and my sense of reason has departed. Both of which are implicated in the current situation.

It is a very long time since Elliott has felt the force of my hand and he's clearly in a state of shock. He sucks in all his breath,
stands rigid as a statue until he is a livid shade of puce and then issues forth an earsplitting scream at the top of his lungs. Harry starts to howl with him.

“Elliott! Shut up!”

But he only screeches louder. I tug at Harry's bandages, trying to loosen them, which makes him howl too, like the Hound of the Baskervilles. If the Beresfords hear him, he'll never be allowed in here for Tunnock's Caramel Wafers ever again.

At this juncture, Ed walks in.

Elliott runs to him and clings to his legs. “Mummy's hitting me!”

Ed's face blackens. “What?”

“Look what he's done to this poor dog!”

“I was only being a doctor,” Elliott snivelled.

Ed curled his son into him. “He was only being a doctor.”

“Doctors don't drag healthy dogs off the street and try to mummify them!” I untangle Harry's legs, and he yelps gratefully as he staggers to his feet.

“There's no harm done,” Ed snarls helpfully.

“And where have you been?” I ask coldly. “Why was Elliott left alone? You know what he's like.”

“I've been at Jemma's.” Ed stares directly at me. “Looking for you.”

I'm breathing heavily already, and it goes up a gear. I snatch the biscuit tin. “Elliott, give that poor dog a Wagon Wheel and take him home.”

My son does as he's told amid dramatic sniffles and leads Harry, who of course is none the worse for his amateur animal husbandry, out of the door.

Elliott is so angelic, even though I'm sure he has 666 tattooed in his hair somewhere, that it's impossible to stay mad at him. At this point Ed and I would normally break down into fits of giggles. Today it doesn't happen. We stay, horns locked, staring angrily at each other.

“You weren't at Jemma's,” Ed says.

“I went there and knocked for ages. She was out,” I state.

“Jemma says she was in all night. You never went there.”

“That isn't true.”

“What is, these days, Alicia?” Ed laughs, but it's clear he finds nothing amusing and there's a bitter edge to his tone. “So, where did you go?”

What can I say? Whatever I am charged with now, I'm guilty. Yesterday, I could justify being filled with righteous indignation at being so unfairly accused. But now? Images of my wanton watery romp swim by and, viewed from this distance, it isn't a very pretty sight. I've slept with another man and my innocence has gone.

“Did you go to
his
house?”

“Yes.”

Ed folds his arms across his chest and lets out a steady stream of breath. “And are you still insisting that there's nothing going on?”

How can I? I have been making love with Christian with no thought of my husband or my children or anyone but myself and…what does that make Christian now? My lover? What does it make me? A pretty crap wife, for one thing.

But I don't know that having gone this far, I can never see him again, never want him again, never hold him again. What on earth has happened? Why do I feel like this? Has my brain been scrambled because I'm thirty-eight and enormously grateful that someone so young and so beautiful could fall in love with me?

I love Ed. I always have. But suddenly
we
are the strangers. I look at him, and the connection between us has somehow been broken and I don't know what I can do to put it right. There are miles stretching out between us across a dozen dusty kitchen floor tiles. This has happened so quickly. One minute I'd told a teeny-weeny fib, and now I'm flailing about in the Grand Canyon of lies with no idea how to find my way out.

I try to move toward Ed, but I can't, the chasm is too big for me to cross. I catch sight of myself in one of the glass-fronted kitchen cabinets which I hate, because, hey, who wants to show off their tins of baked beans. And I don't recognize myself at all. I have no idea who I am. I swallow hard. “I'm sorry.”

Ed doesn't move either. “So am I,” is all he says.