Any Way You Want Me (12 page)

Ten seconds later, the phone rang. ‘Oh, hi, Mum,’ I said, turning the volume down so she wouldn’t hear it. My mum was convinced that children who watched too much television grew up to be psychopaths. ‘How are you?’

Hi Danny,

Sorry not to have replied earlier. I’ve been in Antigua for a little spring break. Sometimes it’s nice to get away from it all, isn’t it?

Alex rang at about five o’clock. ‘Sade, you’re going to hate me for this, but . . .’

I sighed crossly. Damn right I was. ‘You’re working late and you can’t get out of it,’ I finished for him.

‘Don’t be like that. I’m sorry, but I need to finish something off before I go. Deadlines, Sadie.’

I stared at the TV screen, teeth gritted, bitchy replies forming in my head like poisonous little bubbles.

‘Sadie? Don’t go all quiet on me. This is what pays the mortgage, remember. Work.’

I could hear someone laughing in the background. A woman’s laugh, loud and confident. Julia?

‘Alex – it’s Friday night. If you’re going out for a drink, just tell me. You don’t have to give me this work sob story,’ I said. And who’s that woman tittering away so close to you? I wanted to add. And how close
was
she, anyway? She sounded loud enough to be right next to him.

‘It’s not a sob story. Look, I’ll tell you all about it later. I shouldn’t be too long, OK?’

‘OK,’ I replied.
Whatever
, I said in my head, like a teenager.

As my mum would say, there were two hopes of him coming back before ‘too long’ – Bob Hope and no hope. It was Friday night. I’d worked in an office, I knew the score. Everyone down the pub as soon as possible. Everyone lagered and in a weekend mood. Who’d get the opening round? Alex! Good old Alex, always first at the bar.

‘Bye, then.’

‘Bye.’

I put the phone down. We’d had this argument so many times and he always had to throw the
this is what pays the mortgage, remember
line in my face. Like I didn’t make any contribution to our home life. Like I was sitting around on my arse all day while he, big, important Alex, went out and grafted for
us
. It made me feel like punching him.

I put a bottle of wine in the fridge instead. The Sancerre that Alex’s rich uncle had given him for Christmas, which was, without a doubt, flashily expensive. Sod it. Hadn’t I just had a hard day at work, too?

Dear Danny,

OK, here’s the truth. I’ve been with this guy, Alex, for six years but it’s all gone a bit pants, and I’ve decided to leave him for you. I’ll be up in Manchester just as soon as I can. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be bringing two small children with me. That’s all right, isn’t it?

Ha.

Huh.

By seven o’clock, I’d already had one glass of wine. By the time I’d got the kids quiet and asleep, I’d had most of another glass. I’d also scoffed my way through all the emergency chocolate buttons (two bags) and biscuits (half a packet) and had dialled out for a curry. I was going to have a girls’ night in, all on my own. I had my book to read for Lizzie’s book group, a tube of face mask goo at the ready, the rest of the wine in the fridge and a chicken jalfrezi winging its way across south London at that very minute.

Damn it, I was going to have a great time.

I filled up my glass and went into the front room, ignoring the light scattering of toys on the carpet until I trod on a small plastic sheep and nearly woke the children up with furious swearing. Then I tried not to cry.

Dear Dan,

How are you? I’m not quite sure how I am. Swinging between sheer joy and miserable exhaustion seems about the size of it. My kids really got on my nerves today and I’m only starting to like them again now that they’re asleep. That makes me sound horrible, doesn’t it? Well, it’s true. My partner, Alex, is probably boozing and shouting and laughing with all his mates – including women mates – right now. Sometimes he is such a tosser, you know, I can’t quite believe I am in a relationship with him. What’s more, his boss is very attractive, in a hard-faced-bitch kind of way. I don’t think she’s Alex’s type, but what do I know?

‘Sadie? Sadie!’

I stirred and groaned. My arm was numb. I had tight patches of skin on my cheeks where rogue blobs of face mask had escaped being washed off. Mouth wet where I’d been dribbling. ‘What? What time is it?’

‘It’s half-eleven. Come upstairs to bed.’

‘What?’ I stretched my legs and felt resistance from something soft. I kicked experimentally. A pile of cushions. Oh yeah. I was on the sofa. I sat up. ‘Must have fallen asleep,’ I muttered.

He crossed the room, crunching over the farmyard animals still on the carpet. I could smell the waves of alcohol that were rolling through the air in front of him before he was even close.

‘Get your work done, then?’ I asked sarcastically.

‘What? Oh, right. Yeah.’ He sat down next to me and closed his eyes. ‘God, I’m whacked. What a week.’

Oh, here we go, I thought. How tired Alex is, how hard he’s been working. I was awake suddenly, remembering our argument. ‘Don’t tell me. You were kidnapped by
Julia
and she dragged you down to the pub.’

He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘Julia? What are you on about?’

I pursed my lips. Attack was the best form of self-defence, wasn’t that right? ‘Well, I’ll find out sooner or later. You might as well tell me.’

He started laughing. I loved Alex’s laugh. It was unashamedly loud and pure and annoyingly infectious. It made me laugh, too, there and then, even though I didn’t want to. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he told me, sounding exaggeratedly northern. He always did when he was pissed. ‘Julia? Leave it out. She’s my boss. And she’s really scary. She didn’t even come to the pub anyway. Tickets for the opera, darling.’

I believed him. The high-pitched impression alone was enough to convince me. ‘Oh, good,’ I said. I rubbed my eyes. ‘I thought I heard her laughing down the phone when you called, that’s all.’

‘Julia? No,’ he said, taking a swig from my wine glass that was on the coffee table. ‘That was Nat, not Julia.’

‘Nat?’

‘Natasha. She’s new in the department.’

Oh, right. Great. New in the department? Needing a bit of looking after? Oh, Alex would do it. Alex was everybody’s friend. Alex made everyone laugh. He had made her laugh, anyway. I’d heard her. Nat. Natasha.

He was frowning. Then he patted my leg thoughtfully. ‘Actually . . . I’ve got a bit of bad news about work.’

‘What?’ My voice was a croak.

He laughed again. ‘Don’t look like that! It’s not
terrible
news. I just know you’re going to hate it, and say, “Oh, Alex, do I have to?”’

‘What?’ I repeated. Then I got it. He was right. ‘Oh, Alex, do I have to?’ I wailed. Well, I was nothing if not predictable. ‘It’s another wanky worky do, partners obliged to attend bollocks, isn’t it? Oh, no, is it?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but you guessed right. Another wanky worky do. But it IS at the Laurel Tree. You know, that new bar in Soho? Cutting-edge design and wicked cocktails, according to Steph. She’s the one organizing the whole thing.’

‘Hmmmph,’ I moaned. Inside, I was running through a mental list of pros and cons. I thought: champagne cocktails, swanking around Soho, night out away from the kids. Babysitter.
New dress
.

‘And you’ll get to meet lots of interesting people,’ he added coaxingly.

‘Hmmmph,’ I said again. Not so appealing. I thought: Sloanie babes, Botoxed career women, dull, drunk men, air-kissing.

‘And at least you’ll know some other people this time – Matthew and Chloe, Julia and Mark.’

My mouth opened and then closed. I thought: Mark.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘When did you say it was?’

I struck a deal with Alex over the weekend. If I took the kids out on Sunday and gave him time to watch the Leeds match in peace, I could go out
on my own
for lunch with Becca and Nick on Saturday. It sounded good to me. I was pretty much game on for anything that involved the words
on my own
.

Cleaning? No. Cleaning on my own? Ooh, yes, please. How relaxing!

Supermarket shopping? No. Supermarket shopping on my own? God, yeah, great. Bring it on!

I was just about to leave the house
on my own
, though, when I felt a sudden ache that made me stop and clutch the hall radiator. Oh, no. It couldn’t be.

Ouch. Yes. I would recognize that kick anywhere.

I ran upstairs.

‘What are you doing?’ Alex shouted. Fair enough question, seeing as I’d only just said goodbye to him and the kids.

I was rummaging through my chest of drawers like a maniac. Where on earth were they? It had been so long since I’d needed them . . . Ahh. Tampons. Welcome back into my life, little white friends. Not.

‘Nothing,’ I yelled back. I didn’t want to start shouting about periods down the stairs. Mrs Wilkes next door was bound to be listening as usual. I wasn’t sure that she needed to know the ins and outs of my menstrual cycle as well as everything else about our family.

God, my body had it in for me, it really did. Traitor. I’d only squeezed Nathan out a paltry five months ago, and boom! I was fertile all over again already, everything geared up inside me to house another baby for another nine months. Ha! Not likely.

‘Right, bye again,’ I shouted, rushing downstairs and out of the hall. My legs were still aching from running the other night. My bottom felt as if someone had been whacking it repeatedly with an oar. But I’d enjoyed it, at the same time. I was definitely going to go again.

What was it Mark had said?
Let’s do it again
.

Yeah, right, Mark. How was that supposed to happen, then? London was massive. It wasn’t like we were going to bump into each other again, just like that.

I thought about his face. How good his arse looked in running shorts . . . Ding-DONG! Maybe it was better if we didn’t meet again after all, if it was going to turn me into a bottom-staring lech.

I smiled and swung my bag as I walked down the road to the bus stop. I’d bumped into Mark once, hadn’t I? Maybe it would happen again. Fate would bring us together, and . . .

And what?

And nothing, I told myself firmly, as the bus pulled up. God, absolutely nothing, you stupid cow. Earth calling deluded woman on faraway planet: you have a long-term partner and two children! Mark is a happily married man. Remember?

Oh yeah.

Enough about him, anyway. I was actually out on my own, going for lunch with Becca and her new man! That was enough to think about right now. I was dying to know what Nick was going to be like. Becca had eclectic taste in men, to put it politely. She’d fallen in love with whey-faced poets and fake-tanned businessmen alike, would go on a date to a cutting-edge art ‘event’ or, just as happily, to a company golf day depending on who she was with. She’d date a slick, groomed Notting Hill lad one month and then be seen with a Burberry mac and wellies type the next. Becca just had two main criteria when it came to her men: good sex and fat wallets. Anything else – sense of humour, attractiveness, political preference – seemed to be optional extras from where I was standing.

Nick had actually sounded quite promising the other night. What had it been? Six foot, six-pack, and sexy, or something similar. The package was good enough in those terms, but I wasn’t fooled. I’d learned the hard way, after years of being friends with Becca, that there still might be a shock in store for me when it came to actually meeting a new man. I hoped Nick wasn’t religious. Or depressed. Or really, really old.

I jumped off the bus at the Common and strolled up to the tapas bar Becca had suggested, smiling and blinking at the unfamiliar sensation of sun on my face. I would have to dig out my sunglasses soon, I thought happily. And track down all my summer dresses, too. I’d missed out on a summer, clothes-wise. I’d sweated my way through the heat the year before, Nath budding and then blooming in my belly, and had lived in enormous maternity vest tops and stretchy skirts for months on end.

But this year, I deserved some new clothes. And shoes. Oh boy, did I need some new shoes! I’d make an afternoon of it – drag the girls out to dither enjoyably over which type of heel to choose. Oh, I would be urban and hip and effortlessly stylish this summer. A chic London babe. Sequinned flip-flops and cool floaty dresses . . . Cropped trousers and wedge-heeled mules . . .

‘Hiya! Over here!’

As I pushed open the restaurant door, I heard Becca’s voice above the low rumble of chatter and turned to see her waving and smiling in the far corner. I threaded my way through the lines of wooden tables, breathing in the scent of frying potatoes, bacon, rosemary. The walls were whitewashed and hung with kitschy Spanish souvenirs – grinning plastic donkeys with stuffed panniers, raffia sombreros, miniature guitars. No doubt it had been lauded in all the reviews as some kind of ironic celebration of tack, but it looked pretty naff to me. Like my nan’s old front room, but worse.

‘Hello,’ I said, finally making it across to their table. She stood up and grabbed my hands, then kissed me on both cheeks.

‘Hi, babe,’ she grinned, squeezing my fingers. ‘This is Nick.’

He stood up, too, and held out a hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said.

‘And you,’ I replied.

Good first impression, anyway. Open, friendly face. Seemed to have all his teeth, which was always a bonus. Sparkly eyes. Short, blond hair. Wide mouth, just the right shade of pink.

I sat down hurriedly, aware that I was staring. Poor bloke, leave him alone. ‘So!’ I said brightly. ‘How are you two?’

‘Great. Just got up actually.’ There was a look between them. A secret lovers-only look. ‘We’ve only just got here ourselves so we haven’t ordered anything yet. Have a menu.’ Becca slid one across the table.

‘Lovely. Thanks.’

She and Nick were holding hands and beaming at each other across the table. Bless. I scanned the menu, feeling hungrier by the second. It had been hours since my six-thirty breakfast with the
bambinos
.