An Autumn Affair (6 page)

‘You sure about this?’ Max asked, when the kissing had led to other things. ‘I’ve brought a condom with me.’

Unable to speak, burning with longing for him, Julia nodded. She’d never been more sure of anything in her entire life.

Their love-making had been slow, tender, their gaze locked the entire time. In Max’s usual competent way, he’d made her feel safe, special, loved. Not to mention experience feelings she never would have thought possible. The entire thing had been better than perfect. It had been absolutely exquisite.

‘Well, I certainly won’t forget this day in a hurry,’ Max whispered afterwards, holding her in his arms and nuzzling into her hair.

Julia swiped a tear from her face and knew for certain that she would remember that day for the rest of her life.

The post thudding down on the hall mat snapped her out of her reverie. She lifted her cup of coffee to her lips.

It was cold.

By the time Julia arrived at Waitrose, she was a jittering wreck. She had, however, made more of an effort. Wearing her best jeans and a blue shirt, she’d washed and blow-dried her hair, and even added a swipe of blusher and a touch of clear lip gloss. She’d tried one of her lipsticks but it was so long since she’d opened it that it had gone all gooey.

She attempted to concentrate on the shopping, but all the while her eyes scanned the aisles for gorgeous ex-boyfriends. She lingered longer than was obviously acceptable in the cereal aisle, causing a bemused assistant to enquire if she required any help. Julia flushed scarlet and politely declined the offer.

By the time she reached the checkout, frustrated tears burned her eyes.

‘Did you find everything you needed?’ the checkout lady asked.

Unfortunately not, Julia wanted to wail. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she replied instead.

Pushing the loaded trolley out to the car park with all the finesse of a drunken hippopotamus, Julia reached her car and began stuffing the bags into the boot, without a care for their contents. It was her own fault, she told herself. As much as she’d denied it over the week, she’d been desperate to see Max again today.
Hoping
to see Max again. She’d set herself up for an almighty fall. And boy, had she fallen.

*****

In the squash club changing room Paul gazed at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t look too bad for someone his age, he concluded, smoothing down his T-shirt over his almost flat stomach. Okay, so he had a few grey hairs, but who didn’t at forty? And a couple of deep lines had formed at the corners of his eyes, but he rather thought they added character. His teeth were pretty good, too, thanks to his six-monthly check-ups. But maybe they’d look even better if he had them whitened. He’d noticed something on the back of one of Faye’s magazines last week about some laser treatment that guaranteed …

‘Hi there, Paul.’

Startled out of his introspection, Paul mumbled some indecipherable greeting back to the interloper, before scuttling over to the bench to pick up his squash racquet.

What on earth was he doing? He’d never been vain before. He’d always prided himself on being smart for work, of course. Looking like an executive was part of playing the corporate game. But there any interest in his appearance had endeth.

Until his new assistant, Natalia, had started in the office.

In fact, until Natalia had started in the office, Paul had been a different man altogether. Completely focused on his work; drifting along in his home life; never questioning his existence. Taking it for granted, in fact, that, as you aged, nothing really excited you any more. But having a gorgeous, nubile, twenty-something by his side all day, whose sexy smiles and lingering eye contact suggested she found him attractive, had turned all of the above on its head.

Paul, nicknamed ‘The King of Spreadsheets’, now couldn’t look at a column of numbers without his mind wandering to Natalia’s vital statistics. Couldn’t settle in his own home without wondering what she was doing. Had begun taking an unhealthy interest in his shirts. And had started carrying out a detailed analysis of his life at every opportunity.

He’d never felt more restless, more invigorated, more out of control, and more bloody wonderful since university. It was like being eighteen all over again. And the fluttering of butterflies in his stomach each morning as he drove to work increased with every mile nearer to the office. It was a fabulous feeling he’d long since forgotten. The whole experience was better than any therapy – alternative or otherwise – and had re-energised him more than a ton of vitamin pills could ever hope to.

Not that anything had happened between him and Natalia. It really hadn’t. And it wasn’t his fault Natalia had invited herself along for a game of squash this evening. He hadn’t said anything to encourage her. Well, not much anyway.

‘Oh, so you play squash,’ she’d purred the day before. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving that a go myself.’

‘I could teach you if you like,’ Paul blurted out, before engaging his brain. ‘I’ll be going to the club tomorrow evening. Straight after work.’

‘Well, it just so happens I don’t have any plans for tomorrow evening, straight after work,’ Natalia replied, running her tongue along her bottom lip in a way that made Paul quiver with lust. ‘It’s a date.’

So excited had Paul been the previous night, that he couldn’t sleep. But, as the minutes on the clock clicked by, shards of guilt began piercing his bubble of euphoria. He was a married man. He had two kids. What the hell was he doing? By the time he hauled himself out of bed, he felt exhausted. And all day in the office he’d been a jittering wreck, jumping out of his skin every time the telephone rang, an email pinged in his inbox, or someone knocked on his office door.

And now … now he’d have to spend the next hour alone with her on the bloody squash court. Just the two of them. Wearing not very much clothing. Working up a sweat.

In fact, she was probably waiting for him right now.

Sucking in a deep breath, he yanked open the door to find Natalia leaning against the wall opposite, wearing the tiniest pair of white shorts, and the tightest cropped pink T-shirt, Paul had ever seen.

‘Ready?’ she asked.

Paul couldn’t reply.

Chapter Four

The dazzling Spanish sun was already high in the cloudless sky by the time Miranda pulled open the wispy bedroom curtains and stepped out onto the balcony. After the icy air conditioning of the room, the heat seemed stifling. Her head reeled and her stomach churned. Symptoms thankfully not attributed to morning sickness, but to the ridiculous amount of alcohol she’d consumed the previous evening: the only way she could endure yet another party. Her and Lydia’s third night in Marbella. Her and Lydia’s third night of partying. Not an unusual occurrence. Every trip to Marbella – and she and Lydia had made many – involved an incessant round of retail therapy, trips to the beauty parlour and social gatherings of the Costa del Sol’s rich and beautiful. Activities she normally enjoyed. This time, though, everything felt different. Surreal. Like she was looking at it all through someone else’s eyes.

And none of it made any sense.

‘You coming down to breakfast, Randy?’

Lydia’s voice hit her as sharply as the heat. Miranda looked over the balcony to find her friend peering up at her, surgically enhanced breasts straining against a miniscule pink sequinned bikini. With her overly highlighted hair woven into a mass of beaded plaits and her deep mahogany tan, she looked, thought Miranda for the first time ever, completely ridiculous.

‘I’m, er, not hungry,’ she called back, wishing, also for the first time ever, that Lydia wouldn’t insist on calling her Randy.

‘Well, at least come and talk to me,’ pleaded Lydia. ‘Darren’s taken the jet-ski down to the beach. I’m bored out of my tree here.’

Miranda sighed. She really wasn’t in the mood for Lydia today. In fact, she wasn’t in the mood for anyone. All she wanted to do was crawl back into bed and drift into another deep sleep; a sleep which would allow her to forget all her problems.

‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ she heard herself saying. Returning to the room, she sucked in a few breaths of icy air, gasping as it sliced through her lungs. She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. She looked terrible: dark shadows under her eyes, sallow skin, and lank hair. She dragged herself into the en-suite, splashed some water onto her face, then reached for her make-up bag and attempted damage limitation. Ten minutes later, wrapped in a lilac sarong, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail, she made her way downstairs, only to find her efforts had been in vain.

‘You look awful,’ Lydia pronounced.

‘Thanks. I feel it,’ muttered Miranda, the smell of coffee making her nauseous.

‘Getting too old for all this partying,’ cackled Lydia, shaking back her mane of plaits and causing all the beads to jangle.

Miranda smiled weakly, and slipped into the wicker chair opposite her friend. If only you knew the real reason, she resisted saying. That I am carrying your toy-boy lover’s child. Not that Lydia and Eduardo represented any great love match. As testified to by the fact that she and Lydia were staying in Darren Pembleton’s – Lydia’s ex-husband’s – luxury villa. And Lydia was sharing Darren’s bed. The relationship between those two was nonsensical to say the least. ‘Numerous infidelities’ by Darren had been cited in their divorce, before Darren upped sticks and moved to Spain. But, whenever he tired of his latest bimbo, he immediately called Lydia, who dropped everything and flew out there on the next available flight. Of course Miranda knew Lydia was well aware of Darren’s game. He used her when it suited him. But Lydia had her own agenda. And Darren fulfilled it perfectly. Lydia thrived on attention, glamour and sex. And Darren’s crowd provided all of that – with knobs on. Eduardo, meanwhile, kept Lydia amused in England. A role he fulfilled perfectly, according to Lydia. While he lived in her huge house, didn’t spend a penny of his own money, and, unbeknown to her, exchanged more than a few volleys with several of Buttersley’s attractive female residents. The whole set-up resembled a complicated TV drama. But then wasn’t life sometimes stranger than fiction? Miranda’s included.

‘I can’t wait for tonight,’ announced Lydia, plucking a juicy strawberry from the overflowing fruit bowl in front of her.

Miranda stared at her blankly. What was happening tonight? She’d been so focused on herself she couldn’t even remember what day it was.

Lydia tutted. ‘Tamsin’s Hawaiian party, of course. God, Rands, you’re really not with it, are you?’

‘I, um, think I might have caught a bug or something,’ lied Miranda. ‘Would you mind if I just went back to bed?’

Lydia heaved an almighty sigh. ‘But then I’ll have nobody to play with.’

Miranda felt a prick of irritation. Lydia sounded like a sulky six-year-old, not a grown woman approaching forty. ‘I’m sure you’ll find something to do. Why don’t you go and have a massage?’

‘Hmmm. That’s an idea. And I desperately need to have my nails repainted. This colour won’t go with my outfit at all tonight.’

‘Well, then. There you go,’ said Miranda, relief seeping through her. ‘Another fulfilling day for you then.’

Ignoring Lydia’s questioning look, Miranda scurried back upstairs, praying she wouldn’t bump into any of the household staff. She didn’t. Reaching her room, she darted inside, slammed the door shut and leaned against it. What on earth was she doing here? In Spain? In Marbella? In this blingy villa? She really, really, really shouldn’t have come. Not that she hadn’t known that before she’d flown out. From the moment she’d discovered she was pregnant, she’d been dreading the trip; had mentally concocted all sorts of reasons why she couldn’t possibly go. But she knew Lydia too well. Lydia liked her playmate with her, and any excuse Miranda invented would have been instantly dismissed. So here she was. Feeling like death warmed up. When she really should be at home. Sorting out this mess. Making plans to terminate this pregnancy. She flopped down on the bed and buried her face in the plump feather pillow. She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been. For all that she and Doug lived separate lives, she’d never cheated on him. Until that one time with Eduardo …

When Josie had been just a few months old, their little family settling into a pattern of blissful domesticity, and Miranda happier than she’d been in years, Doug announced he’d been promoted. To a role involving much more travelling.

‘But it’s a massive hike in salary,’ he enthused. ‘We can buy a house. Anywhere you like.’

Far more concerned with how she would cope with the baby on her own, the last thing Miranda wanted was the trauma of moving house. Besides, they didn’t need to. Doug’s apartment suited them well enough for now. It was modern, easy to keep clean, and had twice as much space as her parents’ semi. But, that same week, enjoying coffee and croissants in bed on Sunday morning, surrounded by the day’s papers and glossy supplements, Doug exclaimed:

‘Wow. You know I said we should consider buying a house, well how about this one?’

Miranda’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she’d gazed at the photos of the eighteenth-century manor house. ‘Yeah. Right. Dream on,’ she chuckled.

‘I’m not joking,’ insisted Doug earnestly. ‘With my new salary, and what we get from the sale of this place, we can afford it. And the best part is that it looks like it’s in an idyllic village called Buttersley in Yorkshire. Right in the heart of the countryside. I’d love Josie to grow up somewhere like that.’

Needless to say, they’d fallen in love with Buttersley Hall the moment they’d set eyes on it. The sale progressed without a hitch. And Doug started his new job, leaving an apprehensive Miranda alone with Josie.

‘You’ll soon settle into village life and make friends,’ he assured her, in words scarily echoing those of her parents during her first few months at Briardene. ‘It’ll be great. You’ll see.’

But ‘great’ was not an adjective Miranda would have used to describe life in Buttersley. There was no denying the village was beautiful – England at its most quintessential, in fact; the surrounding countryside spectacular; and Buttersley Hall the house of dreams. But none of that compensated for the residents’ frosty reception. Just as at Briardene, Miranda made every effort to fit in. She attended the mother-toddler group, baked cakes for the village fair, and joined the yoga class in the church hall. But the cliques in Buttersley, it soon transpired, were equally as well constructed and equally as impassable as those at school. Plus she was significantly younger than the other mums. They’d all launched into motherhood in their mid to late thirties, after establishing themselves in successful careers. With the exception of a baby, Miranda didn’t have a thing in common with any of them. All of which resulted in that now familiar feeling of not belonging.