All That Mullarkey (13 page)

So he was a great hit, Justin. Interested in everyone. Telling Gav that Cleo was great, that Gav was a lucky man. Was sorry with apparent sincerity that Keith, Dora, Ian and Rhianne had to leave to reclaim their children. Tried again to get his mate on the mobile, shook his head and said, ‘Still nothing doing.’

Gav was just offering to give him a ride home so that he could arrange for his car to be collected the next day, when his own mobile rang. ‘What – now?’ he exclaimed into the instrument. ‘Won’t it wait? OK. All right. I will.’ Cleo took the opportunity to shoot a fierce glare at Justin, who blew her a tiny kiss in return.

Gav sighed as he ended the call. ‘Got to go into work.’

‘Now?’ Cleo flicked an incredulous glance at her watch. Gav never had to work unsociable hours.

He was already standing, slapping his pockets to check for his wallet, fishing out car keys, looking away. ‘Intruders have been in the building, I’ve got to check my section with the police and report on anything damaged or missing. You know what security’s like.’ He dropped a kiss on Cleo’s hair. ‘Be home later – will you be OK?’

‘Yes –’ And he was gone. Everyone was.

Apart from Cleo. And Justin.

As soon as the heavy door swung behind Gav, she whipped round on Justin. ‘Just what the fuck are you doing? You nearly gave me a heart attack!’

He grinned, jiggling his car keys. ‘My car won’t work.’

She snorted her disbelief. ‘Right, and which wire did you yank to stop it working?’

He laughed, eyes dancing, mouth wide and delighted. ‘You’ve got a nasty suspicious mind. We’ll go and try it, if you like? Or how about I walk you home while I wait for my mate to ring?’

‘
If
he rings. And I don’t need walking home in Middledip.’

‘Famous last words.’ He rose, whisked her jacket from the back of her chair and walked out.

Chapter Fourteen

So, of course, she had no choice but to follow. In the road outside he was walking backwards, waiting for her. His car was slewed on the verge a few yards up the road. Nothing for it but to catch up, snatch her jacket and shrug into it. ‘You’re a bastard, Justin.’

‘I’m only walking you home.’

Cleo snorted at his mock hurt and led the way, by habit, the quickest way – the footpath around the playing fields and behind the village hall. She sniffed. ‘I thought you’d forgiven me?’

He linked his arm with hers. ‘I have.’

‘So why turn up when I’m with Gav?’ She stumbled into a pothole behind the goal posts stark in the moonlight.

His arm steadied her. ‘You don’t need to worry about introducing some gay bloke you met at a workshop to your husband. And I was right by the way, he is gitty.’

‘He’s
not
… Or he didn’t used to be.’ When she looked up he was watching. His lips looked very smooth, the lines gentle.

They set off again, strolling instead of the earlier irritated march. His voice was kinder. ‘How long have things been bloody?’

They paced slowly in step in the balmy, breezy night, and Cleo heaved a gusty sigh. ‘It’s all quite recent. Since he stormed out.’ Since Cleo had allowed her wounded rage to lead her into rash behaviour and rebellion against the growing sensation of being trapped in the paraphernalia and responsibilities of a shared life.

She slowed. They were standing behind the village hall, invisible in a lonely place on a dark night. ‘We never used to bicker like we do. He’s just …
different
these days.’ She found herself spilling her confusion about her marriage, to Justin. And she even told him about the pyjama thing. And that was disloyal.

Justin snorted. ‘What’s his problem?’

‘I don’t know, and don’t understand. He’s acting very oddly. Maybe he’s going through some crisis. Perhaps I should be more understanding.’

Spikes of Justin’s hair trembled in the breeze and moonlight caught his cheekbone, accentuating the angles of his nose and jaw. ‘He must be mad. You deserve better.’

Her reply came out flat and scornful. ‘You hardly know me.’

‘Probably more than you think.’ In the darkness he lifted his hands until his fingertips encountered her face. ‘Eyes, twinkle when you smile, dark and sad if you’re worried. Tiny, tiny lines at the side. I guess you’re what – thirty?’ His fingertips barely touched her incipient crows’ feet.

It made her shiver. She hoped he hadn’t felt it. She ought to move away, laugh it off. Instead, she answered, ‘Thirty-one,’ her voice husky.

He traced above her eyes. ‘You don’t pluck your eyebrows,’

‘Much,’ she amended. She really should shove his hands away. But his fingertips felt so good on her skin.

He laughed under his breath, his thumbs sliding down her cheeks. ‘Lovely skin. No freckles. Happy, smiling mouth.’ He brushed her lips before he moved on to her hair. ‘Dark, straight, shiny hair. Flicks around when you move your head. Pretty ears, earrings.’ He touched them; then his hands drifted back across her face, making her shiver again, down to stroke her collarbones, further down to outline her breasts.

Her breath stopped. His touch was light, hands cupping, smoothing. Tender, gentle. Almost unbearable. Her entire body rose in gooseflesh and her nipples gathered to press against her clothes. His fingers slid between two shirt buttons. ‘Your skin is
so
exciting.’ The fingers trickled like the wings of a dancing butterfly across her breasts where they swelled above her bra.

It was several heart thuds before he sighed and slid his arms around her, pulling her lightly against him. ‘At Muggie’s, that first night, you wore a raunchy smack-over-the-head perfume. At the seminar it was lighter, flowery, pleasant but inexpensive. And the same at The Almshouses.’ He inhaled. ‘Tonight, I can only smell shampoo. Clean and sexy.’ His mouth was suddenly right against her ear, lifting the hairs on her neck with his breath. ‘When I kiss your ears, you shudder.’ On cue, at the tickle of his breath, a shiver of pleasure shook through her. ‘I know the feel of you, the taste. The way you look naked.

‘I know you’re a live wire, bright, good at your job. I recognise the craziness in you, the moments of recklessness.’ His eyes glittered in the darkness. ‘OK, so I don’t know how many A levels you got, when you lost your virginity or who was your first boyfriend. And I’m not as predictable, nice, or sensible as your husband. But I know something about Cleo Callaway that seems to be passing him by – I know that you’re not happy. And that’s a dangerous thing for me to know.’

The spell broke.

Her hands seemed to spring up under their own power to thrust him away. Bones grew again in her legs and muscles pulled themselves together. Her heart slowed and clarity and reason flooded her mind. ‘So you must know that I’m not up for this.’ She heard her voice, calm and cool. ‘I’m not available, I’m committed elsewhere.’

He was very still.

‘Justin, this has to stop. I can’t cope with you. We had a fabulous night. You’re an exciting man. In other circumstances … But I’m a married woman. And I’m not going to ignore that – again.’

The rest of the way home he stalked beside her in silence. She stopped where Port Road met Ladies Lane, short of her house. ‘What now? Will you phone your mate again? Or call a cab?’ She was reluctant to offer to drive him home. To be in the intimate space of the car. To return to his flat.

‘I’ll go wait.’ He hesitated. ‘I’m not sorry that my car broke down tonight. It gave me a clearer idea of things.’

Cleo sat on the toilet, sobbing. Heaving, gasping, with fury at her own incompetence and the futile way she spent her emotions. The empty packaging from the test kit lay on the floor between her feet.

After Justin had gone she’d flown upstairs, filled with the compulsion to know, to be sure, to be free of the uncertainty. To face what was coming and deal with it. Not knowing suddenly seemed insupportable. Why on earth had she made excuses for so long? She scrambled at the back of her knickers drawer, thrusting aside the satin and lace, snatched out the packet and fought the cellophane with shaking hands.

She checked the instructions one final time – as if she didn’t know them by heart!

And dropped the wand straight down the fucking toilet. Where it lay, useless, unused, in the water which was automatically and hygienically bleached with every flush.

Her shoulders heaved.

Tomorrow, she’d buy another one.

Chapter Fifteen

Cleo felt like drumming her heels in frustration. Nathan had scheduled her to take a Professional Voice Over the Phone workshop
again
! Was the services world really running on multi-choice telephone systems and operators equipped only to deal with standard queries from customers they never met?

She parked. Withdrew her mobile from its pocket. It grew
warm in her hand as she gazed through the windscreen. Then, in a moment’s resolution, she selected last night’s message
from Justin and pressed
reply
.
Prefer not 2 meet again. Can
Õt hack yr games. Got enough 2 worry about. C

There. Done. Over. She ought to feel better. Soon. Soon she’d get peace of mind, having done something positive to save her marriage, salve her guilt.

She retrieved his reply at morning break, reading as she blew gently across the surface of her coffee. Most of the members of her group were occupied with texts of their own. None of them over twenty-five, they were firmly of the constant communication generation.

Don
Õt b a wimp. Only playing. WouldnÕt hurt u. What r u worried about?

She made herself carry on brightly with the session, although it felt like wading through treacle. ‘OK, I’m Ms Grumpy coming through on the line of … Amanda! Amanda, Ms Grumpy says to you: “Your company’s crap, your company is! You’ve had my cash for two weeks and the bike I ordered hasn’t left your effing, beeping warehouse yet! Do you know what the effing, beeping interest is on £109.99? Eh? No, you don’t, do you? Eff, beep, eff, beep!” Right Amanda, what’s your response?’

Amanda, blonde and fluffy and not long enough out of the classroom to mind courses, looked gobsmacked. ‘Shit,’ she quavered.

Cleo grinned without betraying a trace of irritation that kids were apparently being stuck on customer services hotlines without even basic training in telephonic interaction. ‘Any better suggestions? Bad idea to swear back. Better to remain calm and impeccably mannered, always. The ruder Ms Grumpy gets, the politer you become. Try again, Amanda?’

Amanda put her hand to her head. ‘Umm … I’ll get my manager?’

‘Maybe, not yet, not yet. Anyone else? Jason?’

Jason adjusted his tie. Coughed. Looked desperately around the room for inspiration. ‘Can I have your postcode, please?’ The others tittered.

‘Eventually. Something else, first. Cathy?’

Cathy gulped audibly. ‘Don’t swear at me?’ Everyone tittered again.

Cleo managed not to sigh. Barely versed in their basic script, these kids disintegrated in the face of trouble and were totally blank where initiative was concerned. ‘We’ll come back to that.’ She held up one finger. ‘First, your first and most important response – “
I’ll certainly try to sort this out for you, Ms Grumpy
.”’ Everyone sighed in relief at learning the answer and nodded. ‘Defuse the situation, reassure your caller you’re on their side. Be aware of your tone of voice – only twenty per cent of the message is received through the words. Remain polite, your tone conciliatory.’ More sage nods.

‘Then?’ She cast about for someone brave enough to voice an opinion. Phew, the temperature was high in this place. Slipping out of her jacket, she eased the high neck of her silk top, evidently too hot for energy-efficient office blocks in summer. She was forced to supply the answer again. ‘Then –
tell them what you intend to do
. “Ms Grumpy, if you’ll bear with me while I take the details, I’ll be able to look into your problem and see what I can do to solve it.”
Then
you ask for the postcode or customer number and go into the right screen for the account? OK?’

Murmuring, nods, ‘Oh yes, ’course.’

A final point to clear up before she took them through the whole caboodle again to see if any of it had lodged in the vacant little brains. ‘Cathy didn’t want to be sworn at. Good. Reasonable. But it happens, and it happens all the time, swearing is becoming casual in situations where it used to be inappropriate. So when is it time to react? Does your company have a policy on swearing?’ For a strangled moment she couldn’t even remember the company name.

She gazed encouragingly round the clutch of teenagers and twenty-somethings. They all gazed back, waiting for her to give them the answer.

The blonde-streaked fluffy girl, Amanda, tried, ‘The CEO seems to like it. Particularly on a bad day.’

Cleo moved on through the laughter, intent on retaining the collective attention. ‘No one know? Some firms used to have a policy of passing the call on immediately to a supervisor or manager who would politely ask the customer not to swear before dealing with the enquiry him- or herself. But it’s become the norm to simply ignore it. OK? Don’t rise to it, don’t comment on it. For goodness’ sake don’t repeat it!’ Delighted laughter. ‘I’ll grab your human resources manager at lunch and talk to him.’