Babyville (12 page)

“I won't bother telling you I'll give you a call after I've seen all the applicants,” says Fay, as we both drain our coffee cups and place them carefully on the coffee table (Heal's). “I like you. I can see you here, and I'd trust you, so if you want the flat for a year, it's yours.”

“I'll take it,” I say, smiling, and three days later I am in, with a week to unpack, settle myself, and explore Belsize Park.

Lorna gave me Julia's number. “She's so nice,” she said. “You must call her.” But I couldn't bring myself to, as by that time I knew I was her replacement, and I wouldn't have known what to say. As hard and ambitious as I am, confrontation is not my style. And anyway, I was here to work. Not to socialize.

One
week and I love it. I have started work, met the team, checked schedules, cleared budgets, briefed researchers, lunched liquidly, and already feel part of the furniture.

“I can't believe you've only been here a week,” says Johnny, once Julia's right-hand man, until I started to work on him. I believe I am making some headway, as his phone calls to her are noticeably fewer (I know he's calling her when he speaks very quietly into the mouthpiece, bows his head, and takes quick furtive glances around the office to ensure no one is listening as he passes on gossip).

I have been invited to sit with various big cheeses in the canteen for lunch, or in the bar after work, and I have accepted as many times as I have declined, because age has—finally—taught me that it is not always wise to ignore your peers. Or indeed your team.

I have been firm but fair with my team. While I'm as friendly as I can be, I have also ensured that they are aware of the boundaries. And respect them. I am happy to socialize with them, to be friends with them outside of the office, but when we are in the office I need them to know that I am not their mate. I have little time for mistakes but will reward good behavior, as these years in the business have taught me that this is the best way to get the best out of people.

In fact Friday night, as a thank you for being so welcoming to me, for making my first week so enjoyable (political? me?), I am taking my team out after work. I suggested dinner and, being young, fun, and full of the joys of the weekend, we have decided to drink copious amounts of alcohol before hitting one of those American-style-baby-back-ribs types of places in Covent Garden.

Don't ever accuse me of not knowing the way to a young person's heart.

This is, incidentally, one of the advantages of working for London Daytime Television. The social life that comes as part of the package is enormous. Every night this week I have ended up in the bar at work, talking for hours, before going out for dinner with at least two colleagues.

Exhausted as I now am, the advantages are numerous. I'm starting to feel very comfortable here, I'm getting to know my colleagues, my face is being seen by all the right people, and I am definitely being seen to be committed. Plus it's a damn sight better than going home to an empty flat and drinking a glass of wine on the sofa alone.

Tonight it's Nat, Niccy, Stella, Dan, and Ted. Johnny wasn't feeling too hot and left early today, and I am thankful for that, because, much as I like him, I find it easier to relax when he's not around. And don't ask me why everyone's names are shortened. I have no clue, but it seems to be prevalent. I would, however, shoot anyone who called me May.

We are starting our evening with a few rounds in the company bar, sitting at two tables pushed together, wrapped in cigarette smoke and laughter.

“Tony Nolan,” Niccy is groaning. “Oh God. Do I have to?”

“Yeah!” the others chorus, all leaning in.

“I can't believe I'm going to say this. Tony Nolan?” Stella pauses before giving her verdict, and even I lean forward because Tony Nolan I have met. He is the News Director. Perfectly nice, but with the worst set of teeth you've ever seen in your life. Alternately gray and yellow, they are crooked, overcrowding his mouth, emitting a slightly sour odor that forces you either to back away or offer him chewing gum. Except that he doesn't like chewing gum.

The others lean forward in anticipation as Stella sips her beer before looking up. “Shag!”

“No way!” Dan and Ted almost spit their beer out, and a discussion ensues about Tony Nolan's teeth and how could she. We are playing Shag or Die, which doesn't seem to have any rules, and isn't particularly revealing other than the way people voice their opinions.

“Mark Simpson?” Ted then asks, looking at each of the girls as I listen, unable to join in, because most of the candidates are employees of the company, many of whom I haven't even heard of, let alone met.

“Nat?”

“Phwooargh. Shag.”

“Niccy?”

“Shag him senseless.”

“Stella?”

“Yes, please. I'd shag him for my country.”

“Who's Mark Simpson?” I'm laughing at the ludicrousness of this game, but slightly intrigued at the number of shags Mark Simpson could be getting should he so desire.

“Mark. You know. The lawyer.” My face is still blank as Stella rolls her eyes. “You were supposed to have a meeting with him yesterday but you rearranged for next week?”

Ah yes. Now I remember. “Of course,” I laugh. “I've had to learn so many names this week, and put so many faces to them, I couldn't remember. So what's so special about this Mark Simpson?”

“He's just gorgeous,” Nat sighs.

“Drop-dead delicious,” Niccy groans.

“He is gorgeous”—Stella lights a cigarette—“but that's not what makes him so attractive. He's got this little-boy-lost vulnerability that lawyers aren't supposed to have. No one thinks he's very happy in his relationship. God, it's not exactly a surprise when you think what's been happening there, and I suppose we all suffer from rescue syndrome. You just want to kiss him and make it all better.”

“Mmm,” Nat chuckles. “Kiss him all over.”

“Christ, you're pathetic,” Ted says with disdain. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, envy.

“So who's his partner?”

“You didn't know?” Ted looks at me in surprise. “It's Julia.”

I think back to Adam and Lorna's wedding. Of course I remember Mark, only I hadn't known this was the same person, and I certainly wouldn't have expected him to be this heartthrob. Handsome? Yes. Nice guy? Yes. Sexual fantasy material? Most definitely not.

Shag or Die? Ah. Well, that's a different kettle of fish altogether.

12

“Have your ears been burning?”
Stella has an eyebrow raised, a flirtatious look on her face as she looks over my shoulder. I turn to see none other than Mark Simpson standing there. The Mark Simpson. That Mark Simpson. Looking rather different from when I last saw him at the wedding.

This Mark Simpson looks thunderous. Dangerous. Extremely pissed off. He looks, in other words, like a challenge, a rather sexy challenge, and as soon as I see his face I can feel myself rising to it.

No. Stop it. He might be exuding sex appeal as if it's going out of fashion, but this man has been with Julia for years. Whether they're happy or not is none of my business, but I do know it's certainly not an excuse.

And even if I were to go for it, a man like him isn't the type to be unfaithful. Not that I'd be his type. Julia's got that pretty-girl-next-door thing going on. Even when she looks like shit she's still the type that men want to protect, and me? No one could call me the girl-next- door type.

“Can I join you?” Mark pulls a chair from the neighboring table and drags it in between Johnny and me. He turns to me. “Mark Simpson. Nice to meet you.”

I smile as I shake his hand. “Actually we've met before.”

“I thought your face looked familiar. Where?”

“Adam and Lorna's wedding. I contributed to the Clangers discussion.” I wait for him to smile, but his face is blank, clearly focusing on other things. “Um . . . are you okay?”

He looks at me then. Sees me. “I'm sorry,” he says, and immediately I see that this man is really unhappy about something. It may be his relationship, I don't know. I've never been a big believer in office gossip, in that much as I like keeping up to date on things and hearing what people are talking about, I've learned to take it with a healthy pinch of salt.

Rumors become distorted and very quickly turn into facts, and although people had said, even tonight, that Mark was unhappy, I had to judge it for myself.

And now I am judging it for myself. This man is unhappy.

He shrugs. “Just a, well. A home thing. Domestic.” And he sighs and, what on earth is going on, what on earth am I feeling? Is this . . . could it be, compassion? For a stranger? How ridiculous.

“Do you want to come out to dinner with us?” I say, because compassion is not a feeling I'm used to, and I'd far rather move this on to safer territory. “We're going to Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza. I hear it's as good as the Ivy these days.”

To my great relief he laughs, and his entire face changes. God. This man really is far more attractive than I remember.

“I'll only come if I'm allowed to have an onion loaf all to myself.”

“You can have a whole onion loaf and a whole portion of garlic bread to yourself if you really want.”

“Now that's an offer I can't resist.”

I look up and see Stella watching us, and I can see that she really does have a crush on him, but I didn't ask him to join us because I'm interested in him, and I certainly didn't ask him to sit next to me. Besides, I'm hardly flirting, I'm just inviting an unhappy colleague out with my team. My Good Samaritan act of the week.

A huge
basement restaurant, Chuck's Great American Rib 'n' Beef Extravaganza is dark, noisy, and packed with parties such as ours: colleagues letting off steam after a hard week; drinking, dancing on the tiny dance floor in the middle of the room, and, presumably, as is the way with people who work closely together, getting up to rather more.

We contemplate fighting our way through the throngs of people to the bar, but a quick recce confirms that this simple procedure would force us through dozens of men, eyes as watchful as hawks, pretending to talk to mates, but all the while using a sip of their bottled beers as an excuse to scout the room, and the women in it. Standing close to the entrance, flanked by Stella, Nic and Nat, Mark next to me and the boys a step behind, I can see that we, the girls, are already being stripped by dozens of pairs of eyes, and although chatting people up goes along with this Friday night ritual of letting off steam, I am not sure I want to be part of it. Not when I am with my team. And Mark.

We are shown to a table at the back by an excessively cheerful waitress who has a good line in overfamiliarity, but this is what you find in restaurants such as these. I grit my teeth because I am constantly bemoaning the lack of service in this country, and this, although a little too much for my liking, is surely better than a sour-faced girl who does you a favor by deigning to serve you. From the sublime to the ridiculous. Ah well. Never mind.

I stand at the table with the others, all of them wondering where to sit, all of the girls wanting to sit next to Mark, but none, it seems, quite as much as Stella, who pushes her way next to him. I, incidentally, am on his other side, but not from maneuver so much as convenience: we walked to the table together, and this seems the easiest thing.

“And what can I get you to drink?” Shelley, the waitress, is back with her beaming smile.

“Tequila!” chorus Nat and Nic, giggling together, both already more than a little tipsy from our sojourn to the bar.

“Good choice!” the waitress says, and before I can order a gin and tonic, she's gone. I turn to see Mark looking at me with what surely resembles a smile on his face.

“She's going to bring back a bottle of tequila and . . .” he counts the heads, “. . . seven shot glasses. You know that, don't you?” I shrug. “So are you up for it?” he continues, eyebrow raised as he looks at me confrontationally.

“Up for . . . what exactly?” I purr. Stop it, Maeve! Take that flirtatious tone out of your voice immediately.

Mark looks surprised. Shit. He hadn't been flirting. I fucked up. I must be cool. Businesslike. I do not get involved with men I work with anymore, and I certainly do not get involved with men who belong to other people.

“What were you thinking?” he says slowly, and now I am confused, because I can't work out from his tone whether he's flirting, or whether he has no idea of the inference behind my words.

“Nothing,” I say succinctly, before leaning toward him and murmuring quietly in his ear. “Just wondering whether you and I, given our responsible positions, ought to be getting drunk with the team.”

Mark laughs as Shelley arrives with, sure enough, a bottle of tequila, a plate of limes, and a bowl of salt. Mark pours his tequila and knocks it back, no lemon or salt required. “You know what I think?” He wipes his mouth and pours another. “I think that after the day I've had I deserve to get drunk. In fact I deserve to get royally pissed.” He then pours another glass and this time pushes it over to me. “And I also think that you need to let your hair down and have some fun,” and he looks deep into my eyes and I pick up that glass and throw it down my throat as quickly as I can.

Stella is watching us. I can feel her eyes burning every time I look away, and I try to position my body so I can't actually see her face when I am talking to Mark, but it is hard.

I am
trying desperately not to flirt with Mark, to treat him as a distant work colleague, but there seems to be an intimacy between us, and I could swear it's not my imagination, nor because we are having a heated discussion about the Royal Family, and Mark and I are the only pro-royalists round the table.

Actually, pro might be pushing it. But I'm certainly not anti as all my interns appear to be, accusing them of being paid far too much money and of being outdated with no role in society other than as figures of fun.

“But you can't possibly hate the Queen Mum,” Mark says, at one point. “She's just a sweet old lady.”

“Do we detect a hint of sentimentality beneath that tough lawyer veneer?” Nat leans forward with a smile that, thanks to the amount of booze, is very definitely more of a leer.

“Beneath this tough lawyer veneer beats a heart of gold,” Mark says, smiling.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.” Nat's flirting, and I feel a flash of irritation which I quickly suppress. I am very aware of Mark sitting next to me. His arm accidentally brushes mine, and my arm suddenly feels heavy, immobile, and I want to move it but somehow I can't. All I can do is sit and feel the light blond hairs on his arm brush my skin, and try to look away because the sensation is all-consuming, and if I look at our arms touching, I'm not sure I'll be able to make it through this evening. It will be too overwhelming.

By the way, this feeling is not new to me. Love? You must be joking. This feeling—my heightened senses, the fact that I am aware of every movement he makes, every tap of the finger, every blink of the eye—is lust. Good old unadulterated lust. God, I love this feeling. And I had forgotten exactly how good it felt.

But I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men. I do not mess with married men.

But he's not married . . . does that count?

Could I get away with it? He is, after all, unhappy, and I don't, after all, have any illusions about happy ever afters, so is it worth the risk?

I tune out of the conversation, putting my lust to one side as I consider the risk. I have been working at London Daytime Television for one week. So far I am very happy here. Could see myself working here for a very long time. Hell, as far as I'm concerned, I can picture the workmen taking down the plaque on the door that says “Mike Jones” and replacing it with one that says “Maeve Robertson.”

I could climb the ladder to the heavens here. And Mark is the lawyer. Not just on the legal team, the head of the legal team. As I said. The lawyer. Someone I am bound to come into regular contact with, but even though I know I could handle it, could he?

He is also living with, and trying for a baby with, Julia, who seems to be extremely popular and well respected. Christ, I like her myself. Hmmmm. I look at his arm: strong, tanned, just the right amount of sun-bleached hair. Sexy.

Not tonight, Josephine.

I raise an arm and signal for Shelley, ordering a large bottle of sparkling mineral water.

“I see you're pinning your hair back up,” Mark says with a wry smile. “Clearly my powers of persuasion aren't as good as I thought.”

I shrug. “Another time they might have worked, but I'm still new. I still need to impress.”

“You don't think you've impressed already?”

“I don't know. What do you think?” Oh God. Insecurity. Never a good thing to show a man you're insecure, because men, basically, just don't do insecurity.

“I'm impressed.” He doesn't look at me as he says this, and I sigh, because I could so easily be drawn into this man's web, but I won't. I can't.

“And I'm leaving.” I give him a smile that I hope conveys my regret.

“That's a good idea,” he says, scraping his chair back. “I ought to get home too.”

 “Where
do you live?” We're standing on the corner of St. Martin's Lane, my coat huddled around me, both desperately searching for cabs. Needless to say, the only ones we see are already taken, and, rather like a mirage in the desert, I keep thinking I see an orange light driving toward me. But I am wrong.

“Belsize Park. You?”

“Gospel Oak. Just up the road! We'll share a cab.” It's a statement, not a question. Then silence.

“Should we walk up there? It looks more promising.” Mark gestures up another street, as a taxi, probably taken, disappears round the far corner. I take it as a good sign and nod, as the two of us walk off side by side. The lust has, thank God, very definitely cooled since leaving the restaurant. I'm cold and I'm tired, and all I can think about right now is curling up in the back of a lovely heated cab, and going home to bed.

I pull the coat tighter and look down at the pavement, tottering along, wishing I had worn more comfortable shoes, when I'm aware that Mark has stopped. I stop too. I look at him, barely registering the look of sheer longing in his eyes, when—and I swear to you I still don't know exactly how this happened—I find myself locked in his arms, kissing him as if my life depended on it.

I wish I could describe it better: the passion, the lust, the fire. What I can tell you is that I feel as if I'm melting into him, clinging on to him for my sanity, both of us drowning in this incredible intensity.

We pull apart, eventually, and look at each other, eyes wide with shock.

“I'm sorry,” he says, and I'm about to reassure him, to say “Don't be,” when he kisses me again, and this time, when we break apart, he pulls me into an alleyway.

Let me say this: I am not the sort of girl who has sex in alleyways. I have never been turned on by the thrill of being caught, or being seen, or in fact being anywhere other than an extremely comfortable bedroom. Or living room. I am a creature of comfort, and like to plan things accordingly. I have seduced many men, and I have done it with silkily smooth legs achieved with an Epilady (disgustingly painful but worthwhile), with black stockings and garter belts (so cliché, but effective nonetheless), and with champagne and flattery (guaranteed to get me just about anywhere I want to go).

What I have never done is what I am doing now. Pressed up against a brick wall in a dark alleyway lit by a single, dull streetlamp at one end. The other end. Mark's mouth is all over me. My face, my neck, my collarbone. Rough, wet kisses that leave me gasping, eyes glazed over as I slide my hands under his jacket, pull his shirt out of his trousers, desperately pull it up until I can feel his hot skin under the palms of my hands.

He tears my shirt open, and I gasp as he moves his lips down my breast, moving my bra cup down until the white mounds of my flesh pour over the top, pulling my nipples into hard peaks with his mouth, his magical mouth, as I close my eyes and groan with pleasure.

I reach down and stroke his cock through his trousers, feeling the hardness, feeling, already, as if I cannot hold on much longer, and then he is inside me, thrusting deep inside me, breathing heavily into the side of my neck, holding one leg up by his waist as I cling to his back and move with him, moaning with lust.

He
doesn't look at me afterward. We walk out of the alleyway and I watch the people passing, wondering whether they saw, whether anyone saw. We walk side by side, careful not to touch, all thoughts of a cab long-forgotten, and when we reach the end of the road I turn to Mark to try to say something, anything to break this silence, and when I look at him he starts to cry.