A Minor Indiscretion (20 page)

I
am sitting in Jemma's flat and we are both crying. Jemma is issuing tissues and chocolates, and I am consuming both in equal measure.

“You look dreadful, Ali,” she says. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

“I'm living with a sexually rampant twenty-three-year-old whose hormones are currently on lust overdrive and who is constantly, for some inexplicable reason, mad for my body,” I sniff. “Of course I'm not getting enough sleep.”

“Bitch,” Jemma hisses, and we laugh through our tears. “And you've lost weight.” She passes me another chocolate and I oblige. “Cow.”

“I'm not eating,” I say, stuffing a chocolate into my mouth. I wipe my snot away again and drag my hair back from my forehead, which feels hot and feverish. “The children were all so horrid today. They were like…like…like…”

“Children,” Jemma supplies.

“Christian hated them. They hated him. They were deliberately obnoxious.”

“Elliott is always obnoxious. With a modicum of training, he could be the next Macaulay Culkin.”

“Except for Thomas, who sat there quietly like he was dying
from the inside out.” I start to cry again. “I don't know what to do.”

“I hate to see you so unhappy,” Jemma sniffed. “Can't you just go back to Ed and sort this all out?”

“He's got someone else,” I point out. “That's why I'm sitting here sniveling.”

“At least you still have feelings for him.”

“You can't just turn your back on years of marriage. Of course I still l-love him.” I stutter slightly on the word “love,” as if it's something that's now an alien concept to me. And I must say that my traditional perception of that giddy state we loosely term love has shifted somewhat recently.

“And he still loves you. He can't have found someone else.”

“My children are a fairly reliable source of information.”

“They are not. You give them far too much credit. You should know what children are like. They put two and two together and come up with four million.”

“I should have had my suspicions about this Orville woman. Ed's been talking about her a lot recently. That's a sure sign of adultery.”

“He's probably doing it deliberately to make you jealous,” Jemma says.

That makes me brighten considerably. “Do you think so?”

“Oh, Alicia,” Jemma sighs. “You are such a fucking idiot.”

That's what I like about my sister. She is so supportive.

“It may have escaped your attention, but you've just run off with a hunky young toy boy. How do you think that will make Ed feel?”

I can feel my lip pouting involuntarily. “I don't know.”

“Then try, Alicia. Try. Try thinking about someone other than yourself for once.”

I think that's very unfair. That's what I think. It is a little-known fact that solicitors can charge clients for “thinking time” on a case. Two hundred pounds an hour for just thinking. Great work if you can get it. Those of us who have to think on our own time probably do considerably less of it. No one thinks about anything anymore. I don't. I don't have time. I don't have the time to think whether my bum looks big in anything or whether I'm getting the right balance of vitamins in my diet. I don't have time to think if I'm too tired and emotionally weary to go on. I don't
have time to think about what to wear in the morning, I just open the wardrobe and grab what's nearest to hand and fling it on. I didn't even think about this. “This” being my life. And “this” is a fairly big thing to go through without giving it due thinking time.

I think if I did have time to think, there might not actually be anything there that's remotely useful to think about anymore, and that frightens me more than you'd care to know. I think it's because all my good thoughts fall off the back of my brain like lemmings as I fill up the space in the front with shopping lists and borderline nutritious menus. I think my brain is frozen. All that is between my ears is Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. I am taking the lurch-about-from-one-crisis-to-another approach to my life, and there's no need for you, my sister or anyone else to point it out to me, I know that it isn't working. What shall I do? I'll have to think about it. When I get time.

“I reckon this is all down to the fact that you've always suffered from unrequited-love syndrome,” says Jemma, who clearly has more time to think than is good for her. This is because she dates married men and spends most of her time alone waiting for them to sprinkle their company on her, but I don't feel anywhere near brave enough to voice this thought. You wouldn't think I was the older, wiser sister who has suffered the pain of three children and has a bag full of worldly experiences to her name, would you? “You've always had crushes on younger, unattainable men,” she continues blithely, unaware that my jaw is setting. “Now that you've actually attained one, you're not quite sure how to handle it.”

“Lots of women have younger men these days,” I protest.

“Who?”

“Joan Collins, Tina Turner. Probably Ivana Trump. And undoubtedly Cher. They all have younger men.”

Jemma tuts.

So I'm at the cutting edge as far as soap stars, aging rockers and has-been film stars are concerned. Great. And it is a mixed blessing going to bed with someone as acutely young and beautiful as Christian. It makes me feel utterly powerful and sexy and much more aware that my body is falling to bits.

My sister is right, in some ways, although it grieves me to admit it. And, anyway, she prefers the fat stomach and even fat
ter wallet look in a man, so there's really no need to throw stones. But I have always mooned over pop stars and movie stars, although not in the bare-bottom “moon” sense. And I'm not talking about the clammy-handed crushes that saw me through my teens either. I'm talking about now. I still do it. Perhaps this is really why I have no time to think about serious things. Set me off musing on what might be up Russell Crowe's little leather skirt and I am lost in an entirely adult clammy-handed reverie. Am I alone in hoping that Brad and Jennifer won't last? Robbie Williams has a lot to answer for with his chubby romper suit, biteable bottom and “Angels.” At least I have the pretense of buying teen CDs and magazines with free glitter nail varnish taped to the front for my daughter, who is, for some reason, uninterested in any of Robbie Williams's anatomy. I hope she's not a lesbian.

Perhaps there is something deeply unfulfilling about my life that makes me desire these elusive men. I have no idea. Add it to the list of things to think about. Eventually.

“God,” Jemma says. “I'm going to open some fizz—otherwise we'll both be depressed. Bubbles are just as good in times of crisis as they are for celebrations. In fact, they're probably better.”

“I have to be getting back.” I think I want to cry again. “I've got to face Christian,” I say weakly and reach for my handbag.

“Not yet,” she says. “Not until you're happy again. Or, at least, drunk.” And she snatches the bag from my reach.

My copy of
How To Be a Sex Kitten at Any Age
falls to the white ash laminate floor with an embarrassed clonk. I can feel a rash coming up on my neck. Jemma picks my book up and scowls at the title. “Oh, Alicia!”

I sit on my hands and lower my head.

My sister waves the book at me. “Since when have you been reading this brain mush?”

“I've only flicked through it.”

“And what useful advice, if any, does it contain?”

“It says I should scatter frozen rose petals on the bed every night to create a sensual ambience,” I mutter into my chest.

“Oh, that'll make a world of difference!”

She could be right. I have to say that when I pictured rose petals scattered on Christian's combat camouflage duvet beneath the warring, bleeding soldiers, I thought better of it.

Jemma has opened the book. “‘Drape an item of perfumed lingerie over the table during an intimate lunch.'” Her eyes are wide with horror. “Ali!”

“I wasn't going to do it!” McDonald's was hardly the right setting for Estée Lauder–soaked knickers.

“You are not the sister I know and love,” she says sternly.

I wish Jemma's sofa would eat me.

“Would you be reading this sort of crap if you were still with Ed?”

“No,” I mumble guiltily. Jemma would have made a great headmistress.

“You are clearly not confident in this new relationship,” she pronounces. “It is damaging your self-esteem. I can't understand you, Alicia. You and Ed are so perfectly suited. I was saying to Neil…”

“Neil?” I look up. Jemma has blushed. Which is a very rare sight, as nothing makes my sister shame-faced. She buries her face in
How To Be a Sex Kitten at Any Age.
“Ed's Neil? My brother-in-law Neil?”

“Yes.”

“What were you doing with Neil?”

“We had supper together.”

“Why?”

“Because he's nice.”

“Did he ask you?”

“No. I asked him. It's not unusual these days.”

I look at her suspiciously. “Did you have a good time?”

“Yes,” she says. “And we're going to do it again.”

“When?”

“I don't know.”

“Oh.” This is all very interesting. “So. What were you saying to Neil?”

“Nothing,” she says, and her pink-tinged face deepens to strawberries, beetroot and tomato ketchup mashed together.

I think I like the sound of this. Or do I?

R
obbie dumped his backpack on the table. “You are looking particularly ragged, my friend.” He opened the fridge door and grabbed a beer. The fridge now smelled of Mr. Muscle rather than fungi and rotting vegetation because Ali was cleaning up for them, but it still contained nothing remotely healthy, unless you counted Budweiser and Toblerone. Oh, and one corner reserved for Rebecca's fat-free yogurt that was strictly out of bounds to them. Robbie flopped down next to Christian on the sofa.

Christian half opened his eyes and regarded himself critically. He seemed to have ketchup in places that shouldn't necessarily be smeared with condiments.

“I have spent the afternoon in that popular version of Armageddon they call McDonald's.”

“Ah.”

“And I am utterly, utterly exhausted.”

“You look it.”

“That is because I have just met the children from hell.” Christian clinked his bottle against Robbie's and downed a mouthful.

“Ali's brood?”

Christian nodded.

Rebecca opened the door and strode into the room. “She's got children?”

Christian and Robbie exchanged glances.

“Why did no one tell me?”

Christian and Robbie exchanged glances again.

“I wasn't snooping,” Rebecca snapped. “You two don't realize how loudly you talk. Or do anything else.” She looked pointedly at Christian.

“If you didn't walk out of the room every time Ali came in, then you might have had a conversation with her about them.”

Rebecca grunted in a way that said “fat chance.” She crossed to the sink and busied herself making a cup of tea. “So, how many kids has she got?”

“Three.”

“
Three?
Isn't that a bit excessive?”

Robbie laughed. “You've got none, then suddenly, three come along at once. Like buses.”

“And women,” Rebecca added. Robbie sniggered.

She brought her tea to the table and sat down opposite them. “What flavor are they?”

“Two footballers and a shopper.”

“Ages?”

“Fifteen, twelve and the little one's four, but he could easily be a hundred and four. He's like Yoda. He misses nothing.”

“Do they call you Uncle Christian?”

“Leave it, Becs,” he warned. “I'm just going to have to try harder. They made it pretty clear they didn't want me around.”

“Of course they don't. You're stealing their mother.”

“I'm not stealing her.”

“Oh.” Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “Are you going to give her back when you're finished with her?”

“I want her in my life, Becs. Permanently. If that means I have to make compromises, then it has to be that way.”

“You won't even compromise about which side of the bed you sleep on, Christian. Speaking of which…” Rebecca pulled a piece of paper from her pocket. “That girl Sharon phoned today.”

The boys looked blankly at her.

“You know, the one that spent the night with Robbie just before Mother Earth moved in.” She gave them both a knowing look. “Funnily enough, she phoned for you, Christian.”

Robbie and Christian avoided looking at each other.

“What did she want?” Christian asked.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. What do you think she wants?”

“A repeat shag would be my bet,” Robbie said.

His friend glared at him.

Robbie looked vacant. “What?”

Rebecca held out the slip of paper and Christian took it. He scrunched it up and put it in his pocket without looking at it. “I'm in a committed relationship now,” he said. “Things are different.”

“Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?”

“It means you talk out of your arse, Christian,” Rebecca said. And she left the room, taking her tea with her and banging the door behind her.

Christian and Robbie looked at each other. “Dotty totty,” they said in unison, and clinked their beer bottles together.

Robbie settled into the sofa. “So you think you'll stay with this bird?”

Christian nodded. “She gives my heart wings.”

“Have you been at the wacky baccy again, mate?”

“No.” Christian's eyes twinkled. “Why? Have you got any?”

Robbie smiled. “Is the Pope a very fine upstanding Catholic gentleman?”

“I think you'll find he is,” Christian said.

“Then I will be back momentarily,” Robbie said, springing to his feet. “I think we are both deserving of a little chemical-induced relaxation at the end of a particularly stressful day.”

 

Christian tried to blow a smoke ring and failed. The spliff had taken the tension from his shoulders and had made the room blur at the edges. He was at one with the soft furnishings and the cushions folded around him like fluffy clouds. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the fug.

“I want to do this right,” he said sleepily.

“Right,” Robbie echoed. His legs were stretched across Christian's lap and his feet were on the arm of the sofa next to him. Robbie's feet weren't fragrant and lovely, but he was Christian's best, best mate in the whole world, and he wasn't about to ask Robbie to move them. And, besides, Robbie was balancing the ashtray between his knees.

“Right,” Christian agreed.

“What?”

“This whole commitment thing.”

“Right.”

Christian took a long, soothing toke. “I want to get a job.”

“No, no, no.”

“I do,” Christian insisted. “I do. I do.”

“No, no, no.”

“A nice little nine-to-five job that pays a shit-load of cash.”

“No, no, no!”

“I want to look after Ali. I want to look after her children.”

“No, no, no!”

“I do. Everyone loves children.” Christian waved his hands expansively.

“I don't,” Robbie said.

“I don't either. But I will.”

“Becca doesn't.”

“Okay. Well, not everyone. But
nearly
everyone.”

Taking another long, lingering toke, Christian, with wavering fingers, passed the spliff back to his friend.

Robbie took it as if it were a china vase. “Do you think we should give Becca some puff?”

Christian shook his head vigorously.

“She's a bit uptight,” Robbie observed.

“I don't think she likes Ali,” Christian ventured.

“I like her.”

“I like her too.” Christian sighed. “I love her.”

Robbie grinned inanely. “Awww.”

“I want to go away with her.”

“Awww.”

“I want to take her on a big, nice cuddly holiday with lots of sun and sea and sex.”

“Awww.”

“Awww,” Christian beamed.

“And run up and down the beach without your togs on?”

“Mmm…” they both agreed.

Robbie's legs hit the floor with a thump as Christian pushed them from his lap. “I'm bloody well going to do it,” he said.

Robbie tried to focus his eyes. “Get a job?”

“What job?”

“I don't know. I thought you were going to get a job.”

“No, no, no. I'm going on holiday!”

“But you haven't got any money.”

Christian stood up, weaving slightly like a drunk. He tapped the side of his nose and then giggled into his hand. “But I know exactly where I can get some!”

Robbie licked his lips and waved the spliff toward Christian. “What are you up to, Winter, you bastard?”

“You wait and see,” Christian wandered toward the door, taking the scenic route.

“What was it Rebecca said about talking out of your arse?” Robbie teased

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.”

“Is that the same as a leopard never changing its spots?”

“I think it might well be,” Christian said. And, accompanied by his friend, he burst out laughing.