A Minor Indiscretion (33 page)

I
nside, The Ivy had the tasteful air of a rather old-fashioned gentleman's club, all dark mahogany paneling and crisp white linen. There was a subdued hum of good-natured conversation, the occasional restrained ha-ha-ha of genteel laughter. The waiters moved silently, as graceful and as haughty as swans. Everyone was in couples, lovey-dovey holding-hands couples. Ed smiled quietly to himself. This was evidently not a hen-party type of place. This was a place where you came to impress a new love, get engaged or even try to patch up a shaky marriage. Looking round made him acutely aware that he was alone, and he felt conspicuous because of it. Ed glanced at his watch, nearly eight-thirty. He hoped his “mystery” date wasn't going to be late, acknowledging ruefully that Ali's punctuality had never been one of her strong points.

“Drink, sir?”

“Yes,” Ed said. “Please.” And he snapped his attention back to the menu. It ought to be champagne, as he hoped to God they'd have something to celebrate by the end of tonight. An end to all this madness, this mayhem and misery, this minor indiscretion. The start again of life as he used to know it. Ali could have been shagging the entire lineup of *NSYNC, and thoroughly enjoying it, and he wouldn't care as long as she agreed to come back and he didn't have to carry on living without her.

Ed ordered a bottle of the finest fizz, blanking the pain that this would cause his credit card. If the interior decor failed to make your pulse race, then the prices on the menu certainly would. The food was rather eclectic fare, influenced too much by
Ready, Steady Cook
for his liking. Not that he was hungry. His stomach was twisting and turning like wet washing in a tumble dryer. And he would be glad when the champagne arrived—as it did on cue—since his mouth tasted like one of yesterday's socks. The waiter poured him a glass and looked meaningfully at the conspicuously empty place opposite him and at the red roses by his side.

“Would sir like me to leave another glass?”

Ed checked his watch again. Perhaps it was fast. It was a quarter to nine and there was still no sign of Ali. “Yes. Yes, please,” he said. Why would she go to the trouble of setting this up if she didn't intend to show?

The waiter put the rest of the champagne in the ice bucket and left. Ed wet his lips. It tasted good—even at a zillion quid a sip. If he'd known Ali was going to be late, he'd have stopped at All Bar One across the road and had a few beers. The first glass of champagne went down without touching the sides, and Ed helped himself to a second glass from the ice bucket. He sat and twiddled his fingers and tried not to stare at the other diners.

At nine o'clock the waiter reappeared. “Would sir like to order?”

The champagne was half-gone and the bubbles were blowing his stomach up like the gas in a hot-air balloon. Ed looked round at the lovey-dovey couples again. This was too heartbreaking to bear. “No,” Ed said. “I won't be staying for supper.” He smiled bravely at the waiter. “I think I've been stood up.”

The waiter's sympathetic look said, “Tell me about it!”

“I'll just take the bill for the champagne.”

He wanted to get out of here as quickly as he could—all this ambience was making his eyes water. How could Ali have done this to him? He signed the bill with a hasty signature and went to leave. His legs felt like they were weighted with lead, and they were trembling slightly as they did when he'd overdone it a bit on the squash court. Perhaps this hadn't been Ali? Perhaps someone else, someone with a cruel, cruel sense of humor, had set him up to deliberately embarrass and humiliate him. But who? The
whole thing bore the hallmarks of an Alicia-style surprise. Would he have been taken in by it otherwise? Whoever had done it, he wanted to punch their lights out. When he found out who it was. And he would. Make no mistake.

Ed took the half-empty bottle of champagne from the ice bucket—there was no way he was leaving that here—and his rapidly wilting bunch of roses. Forcing himself to walk slowly out of the restaurant, Ed stared grimly ahead. There was no way he wanted to make eye contact with the other
It's A Wonderful Life
diners, and they, thankfully, seemed to be avoiding noticing his plight. He wanted to go home and lick his wounds, not have salt rubbed in them as someone had unkindly done.

The restaurant manager nodded as he pushed through the harlequin doors. “Good evening, sir.”

“Is it?” Ed said and walked out into the street, taking great gulping breaths of what passed for fresh air in London as he did.

Outside on the street, an old woman huddled in a filthy, once-tartan blanket, a mangy old dog curled round her feet.

“Spare a pound for a cup of tea,” she implored, thrusting out a hand that hadn't troubled soap for some considerable time.

“Here,” Ed said. He gave her the bunch of red roses and, with a final swig, the half-bottle of champagne. Peeling a twenty-pound note from the bills in his pocket, he parted with that too.

The old woman let her toothless mouth drop open. “You're a gent,” she cried ecstatically, clutching at her ragged coat. “A kindhearted gent.”

“I'm not,” Ed said bitterly. “I'm a mug. A first-class mug.” And he strode off down West Street trying not to break down. To top it all, he couldn't remember where the hell he had parked his car.

O
rla was standing outside Ed's house, hot and bothered, apprehensive and having raced across London to get here. Loud music pounded out into the driveway. After much knocking of the knocker, ringing of the bell and foot-tapping outside on the gravel, Elliott eventually opened the door.

“Hello,” he said warily.

Orla crouched down. It was always good to get on a level with kids.

“Have you dropped something?” Elliott said, looking at the gravel.

“No. I haven't.” Orla smiled brightly. “Remember me, Elliott?”

“I'm not an idiot.”

“Of course not.” Orla stood up again. This one would be the first to get straightened out with therapy. “I'm looking for Daddy,” she said.

“Your daddy or my daddy?” Elliott queried.

“Your daddy.” Orla kept her smile in place. “Is he home?”

“No.” Elliott studied his feet.

“Do you know where he's gone?”

“Yes.”

“Would you mind telling me?”

“I'm not supposed to talk to strangers.”

Orla laughed. “I'm not a stranger.”

“Tanya said you're very strange.”

“Did she?” Orla narrowed her eyes. Next in line for therapy, she vowed. “Please tell me where your daddy is, Elliott. It would be very helpful of you.”

Elliott puffed. “It'll cost you a fiver.”

“What?”

“Five pounds,” Elliott reiterated, folding his arms.

Orla felt plumes of smoke coming out of her nose. “Elliott…” she started. “Never mind.” She rummaged in her purse and reluctantly handed over a five-pound note.

Elliott put it in his pocket with an angelic smile. “He's gone to The Shrubbery.”

“The Shrubbery?”

“Haven't you heard of it?”

“No, I don't think I have.”

“It's a posh restaurant,” he informed her. “Very posh.”

“Oh, I see,” Orla said. “Do you think you might mean The Ivy?”

“I might do,” he replied. “I'm only four!”

“Right.” Orla sighed. “I'll try The Ivy.” She started to turn back toward her car.

“You should say thank you,” Elliott said.

“Thank you.” The smile was too much of an effort. “It's been nice meeting you again, Elliott,” she said. “And a pleasure doing business with you. I'll enjoy telling Daddy.
Your
daddy.”

Elliott leaned insolently on the door frame. “You wouldn't dare.”

“Just watch me,” Orla warned as she headed back toward her car.

“He's gone to The Shrubbery with Mummy,” Elliott shouted after her. “
My
mummy.” And he closed the front door firmly behind him.

W
hy is it you can never find a parking meter when you want one? There must have been thousands of the beggars stretched in a line all across London, but never just where you needed one. And tonight had been no exception. Neil had parked a million miles away from the restaurant and was now dashing through the streets, battering hapless passersby with his roses, racing to The Ivy.

The sidestreet was deserted, the restaurant shrouded by a framework of rusty iron. There was no point hanging around outside, as they should have ordered and be halfway through their starters by now—shock over, loosened up, laughing, joking, talking over old times. God, he hoped so.

Neil swung the door open and was greeted by a smart black-suited man whom he assumed was the restaurant manager. He was glad he was wearing his Paul Smith suit and not his usual garb of jeans, not necessarily clean, and polo shirt.

The man armed himself with his professional greeter's smile. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Do you have a table booked in the name of Kingston?”

The manager ran his finger down a page of bookings on his desk.

“It was for eight-thirty,” Neil offered helpfully.

The man frowned. “I'm afraid you're rather late….”

“It's not for me,” he said. “It's for my brother.” Neil tried to
peer over his shoulder. “And his wife. I wondered if they'd arrived?”

The manager studied his bookings some more. “One moment,” he said tight-lipped, and disappeared into the restaurant. Neil tried to catch a glimpse of the interior, but it was impossible. True to his word, a moment later the man reappeared, a waiter at his side.

“Mr. Kingston left in rather a rush,” the waiter said when prompted. “About five minutes ago. I'm afraid his guest didn't turn up.”

Neil's heart sank to his unpolished shoes. “Was he okay?”

The waiter looked for confirmation that it was all right to breach client discretion. The other man gave a barely discernible nod. “He seemed rather…disappointed,” the waiter said.

“Disappointed, about-to-slit-his-wrists disappointed?” Neil asked.

The waiter looked for the go-ahead again. “Disappointed, about-to-slit-someone-else's-wrists disappointed,” he said.

Neil sucked in his breath. “Thanks,” he replied earnestly.

“You're welcome.” The waiter disappeared gratefully back to his post.

“I'm sorry,” the manager said.

Neil pursed his lips. “Me too.” And he stuffed his bunch of bloodred roses into a conveniently placed leather wastepaper bin.

Misery washed over him. Ed would batter him to a pulp with his cricket bat if he ever found out that it was Neil and Jemma who'd dreamed up this fiasco. And why the hell hadn't Ali showed? Perhaps she was hopelessly in love with this young toy boy of hers after all. Perhaps it wasn't just a flash in the pan. Perhaps they should never have interfered in other people's lives. How, by all that was holy, he was going to break this news to Jemma he had no idea. And this was supposed to be his lucky, lucky suit!

He turned to go out of the door, and as he did so, a stunningly attractive woman rushed past him, causing the heavy, well-oiled door to ricochet on its hinges. She turned and stared at him. Her hair was almost black, frothy, like a feather boa piled on top of her head, and her strong, wide mouth, emphasized with a slash of red lipstick, was unhappy. Fine lines creased her soft white forehead into a frown. Her black eyes were shuttered, inscrutable,
and they flicked over Neil blink-clicking like the lens of a camera. She was tall, beautiful and utterly, utterly out of his league. The strains of Rossano Brazzi singing “Some Enchanted Evening” from the film
South Pacific
reverberated very loudly in Neil's head. He checked the speakers in the foyer—they were playing some twinkly classical stuff. Neil banged his ear.

“Sorry,” she said in a resonantly New York accent. “I'm in a rush.”

“Me too,” Neil said, wishing that Rossano would shut the flip up. He stood and held the door open gormlessly.

“Thanks,” the woman said, flicking her tongue across her full lips.

Neil decided that he had died and gone to heaven and that the inevitable bollocking that would come his way from Jemma would be well worth it for this moment alone.

The restaurant manager engaged his professional smile again, although Neil noted that it seemed less of an effort for this particular customer.

“I'm looking for a Mr. Ed Kingston,” she said, brushing a stray curl from her eyes.

The manager cast a nervous glance at Neil. The woman turned round and followed his gaze.

Neil felt himself flush. “So was I,” he said.

The woman's frown deepened. “And you are?”

“His brother.”

The woman raised her eyebrows. “Really?” she said. The frown stayed in place. “I'm Orla.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

Neil looked at her hand and back at her face. Rossano Brazzi's exquisite rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening” screeched abruptly to a halt.

I
am curled up on the bed, clutching my stomach. A thousand knives are slashing away at my insides. I've been here for hours now, alternating between throwing the duvet off as I boil over and pulling it back on as I turn into a shivering wreck. My forehead and hands are like blocks of ice. In case you are in any doubt, I am not a well person.

Christian is standing over me pale-faced, plucking at his T-shirt and perspiring nervously. “What can I do?” he says.

“I think I need you to call the emergency doctor.” I barely recognize my own voice, it croaks out in a whisper like a frog with a sore throat.

Christian's eyes are bleak, and he might or might not be in focus. “What emergency doctor?”

“At the practice you're registered with. Don't they have an emergency number?”

“I'm not registered with a doctor,” he says. “I'm never ill,” he adds apologetically.

It only serves to make me more aware of our age difference. Christian is in that blissful gap between the conquering of childhood illnesses and the onset of age-induced meltdown. He is at the age where he believes he can abuse his body unmercifully and it will never let him down. But it will. They all do in the end.

Like mine. I roll in pain. I know exactly what's wrong with it. Or I think I do. Dr. James phoned me yesterday when he'd received the results of my smear test and told me his fears, unleashing mine. He told me not to worry, which I didn't until he told me not to. It's like telling someone not to blink, isn't it? The minute you think about it, you can do nothing but blink. And I am blinking worrying, that's for sure. I have an appointment with a specialist next Wednesday, but I'm not sure that I'm going to be able to wait until then.

“Can you drive me to the hospital?”

“Are you sure you need to go?”

The words I need to say to Christian won't come to my mouth. They are stuck in my throat, lodged, unspeakable.

“It could be something dodgy you've eaten,” he offers brightly.

“I don't think so.” The room is starting to go swimmy and soft. The commando screaming out of the ceiling becomes a hazy khaki blob. “Can you drive my car?”

“Er…no,” Christian says weakly. “I'm banned.”

I groan.

“Drunk driving,” he says. “I've got another year to go.”

“I can't wait that long.”

“I didn't mean…” he tails off.

“What about Robbie? Or Rebecca?” See how desperate I am?

“Neither of them drive,” Christian says feebly.

Why should they? They live in London and don't have children to ferry around.

Another wave of pain crashes against me. “Ring for a taxi,” I say, clenching my teeth.

Christian chews his lip. “I haven't got any money.”

“I'll pay,” I say. “Just do it. Do it now.”

Christian rakes his hair, breathes heavily through his nostrils and walks out of the room.

I try to sit upright and fail. I fall back onto the bed and try not to hold on to the thoughts that come unwanted. I'll pay. No truer words have ever been spoken. Believe me, there's no such thing as a free lunch. And there's no such thing as a free drawing either. Everything in life has its price, and now I'm being asked to pay up.