Guilty Feet (9 page)

Of course he didn’t. He was having enough woman trouble at the moment. What with Libby and Aisling trying to come on to him in their own different ways, and Jo still not out of his head, he could do without any more complications. And yet—

There was no
and
yet
about it, he told himself firmly, and then stretched and looked at his watch. Bloody hell! Five-thirty already. Steve would be back any minute, and an hour after that they’d be heading out on the town with Aisling and Libby. Which he still wasn’t happy about, but he wasn’t sure why.

If Steve had his eye on Libby—and he certainly seemed to—that just left Aisling to handle, and he knew he could do that without much difficulty. It was just an evening out with a few friends, a break from routine which would do him good...So why could he not escape a nagging suspicion that things weren’t as clear-cut and straightforward as they should be?

***

By six o’clock I was feeling bored and sorry for myself again. I’d already phoned a couple of friends, despite my fear of using the phone. They’d suggested I joined them for a night on the town, which had been very tempting, but clubs are expensive, even for those on detox diets, and I had to be sensible now that I no longer knew what the immediate future held.

So in desperation I decided on one last call, and made it to Sid. I asked him if he fancied sharing some hot water with me, and he said a firm no, but that if he was allowed to bring his own food round he wouldn’t mind spending some of the evening with me.

He brought a Thai takeaway, which smelt delicious and made me produce gallons of saliva as I watched him eat it in front of me. He offered me some, and I very nearly succumbed, but was saved by a vivid image of my cellulite buttock, which I still hadn’t dared look at since the morning.

While I tried not to drool, he ate in silence, and as this was clearly the way he liked to do things I saved the question that had come into my mind till he took his empty plate into the kitchen and dutifully washed it up.

‘So, have you got a girlfriend?’ I asked as he sat in the armchair at a perfect right angle with my sofa. I was sipping hot water while he was slurping from a bottle of lager he’d brought along with him.

‘Not at the moment,’ he said cautiously. ‘Why?’

‘Just wondered,’ I said, though the truth is it was a prelude to bringing up the subject of Dan. Sid might look like a child but he was really an almost grown-up man, and he must have an idea how their minds worked.

‘You’re not thinking of offering to fill the vacancy, I hope?’ I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, or just getting me back for my comment about him proposing to me.

‘No, but there’s no need to sound quite so horrified at the thought.’

He managed the faintest of smiles. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt about women, having spent my life surrounded by them, it’s the fact that they don’t “just wonder” about anything. There’s always something behind a question like that, so you might as well just spit it out.’

He was casually dressed tonight—casual for him, anyway. Smart black trousers, neat sky blue sweater over an open-necked shirt. In terms of clothes he was the male equivalent of Cass.

‘It’s a fair cop,’ I said, impressed by his knowledge of female minds. ‘Fact is I want to pick your brains on the thoughts and behaviour of the puppy dogs’ tails of the species.’

He looked at me blankly.

‘It’s what little boys are made of, apparently,’ I said.

He smirked. ‘As opposed to sugar and spice and all things nice?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Well, unfortunately I don’t think I’m all that well qualified.’

‘You’re not gay, are you?’

‘No,’ he said without offence, ‘but, like I said, I’ve just grown up around too many women.’

‘There’s your dad. He’s a man.’

‘True. OK,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Fire away, then, if you must.’

‘I’ve got this friend...’ I began.

He held up his hand. ‘If you want my opinion then can we drop the bullshit, please? We’re talking about you, I take it?’

‘If you know so much about women then you should know that you’re supposed to go along with their bullshit.’ I exaggerated a sigh. ‘But OK, fair enough. So long as this doesn’t go any further.’

‘Where would it go?’

He had a point. Sid didn’t know anyone I knew who mattered, so I was as good as anonymous.

‘It’s about Dan and me,’ I said.

Sid looked thoughtful for a moment.

‘The bloke that you used to live with? He came to the office a couple of times, didn’t he?’

I nodded. ‘Things hadn’t been going well for a while, and I left when he said I was turning into my mother.’

‘And were you?’ Sid said.

‘Of course not!’

‘Then why did he say it?’

‘To be mean. Why else?’

‘I thought being “mean” was the province of sugar and spice,’ he said wryly. ‘In my limited experience I find men tend to say things because they believe them to be true. There’s not usually an ulterior motive.’

‘Well, that’s rubbish,’ I said a bit hotly, though I wasn’t sure how to back it up. So I didn’t even try. ‘And it’s not even what I wanted to talk about.’

‘Then get to the point,’ he said coolly.

‘The
point
is that I’ve never heard from him again. And he’s taking his new girlfriend home to meet his mother this weekend. They’re probably all sitting down to one of Jean’s fabulous dinners as we speak.’

‘Which bit of all that is the problem?’

‘All of it, of course!’

‘Did you tell him why you were leaving?’

I shook my head.

He glowered at me. ‘Not even in a note?’

I shook it again.

‘Well, I can only speak personally, but if you left me without explanation you wouldn’t hear from me again either. Did you ever call him?’

‘No. But...’

‘What the hell did you expect, then, you silly cow?’

I looked at him aghast. I don’t think anyone but Cass had ever called me that before.

‘I expected him to be worried about me. To call one of my friends.’ I told him everything else I’d expected, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be getting any sympathy now.

And I was right.

‘Well, good on him,’ Sid said. ‘He was obviously fed up with all the shit you were giving him and he did just the right thing.’

‘OK,’ I said miserably. I didn’t have the heart to argue. ‘But it can’t be right that he’s already taking someone else home to his mother, surely? Someone he swore that he didn’t fancy.’

Sid shrugged. ‘I took you home to meet my parents.’

‘This is different,’ I said miserably. ‘Dan’s practically engaged to Aisling, apparently.’

‘How do you know all this?’ Sid asked with a frown creasing his boyish brow. ‘If you’re no longer in touch with him, that is.’

‘Someone told me.’

‘Someone reliable?’

‘I think so. Yes,’ I said more confidently, ‘I’m sure she’s reliable.’

‘Ah,’ said Sid. ‘An
all
things
nice
... Are you sure about her motives?’

‘You’ve got a lousy opinion of women,’ I said.

He sipped some lager, then looked me right in the eye.

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘I just understand them better than most. And if you really want my opinion, I think you should ring Dan and tell him what a prat you’ve been and ask if you could meet for a chat.’

He made it sound so easy, but it just wasn’t. I was about to say as much when he suddenly got up and went to the door, where he’d left his coat and a black canvas bag. He was plainly bored with my whingeing.

He brought back the bag and unzipped it on the coffee table.

‘I have a spare,’ he said as he took out a neat little laptop computer. And I’d like you to e-mail your former clients. Explain what’s happened and tell them to expect to hear from us again very soon. Tell them they’re not to worry about their Internet sites. Say I’ll deal with any technical problems till we can sort out Pisus’s future.’

‘Yes, boss,’ I said with a bright-eyed grin. But it wasn’t the clients I was thinking about at that moment. It was the knowledge that I now had easy access to Sarah’s Hotmail account.

***

The meal had gone well. Good food, lively conversation—mostly about Libby’s impending windfall, but that was fine. She was bright and lively and looked surprisingly attractive tonight. She was wearing a cream-coloured dress that reminded Dan of one of Jo’s. A favourite of his, as a matter of fact, and what with her copper-coloured hair he found himself strangely drawn to her.

Of course the three pints of lager which Steve had pressed on him might have had a hand in creating the illusion that she looked and behaved like Jo, but he didn’t think about that at the time.

When they moved on to the club Aisling urged him to dance, but he drew the line there. The last time he’d danced had been with Jo, the night they met, and then only because he’d been rip-roaring drunk. But three pints was not enough to persuade him to put his dancing shoes on now, and while Libby encouraged Steve to keep Aisling company she—not being much of dancer herself, she said—opted to stay with him at the bar.

Even a day ago this would have bothered Dan, but since she was clearly getting on so well with Steve he temporarily dropped his guard.

They found a corner, where they propped themselves up against a wall.

They talked some more about the vinyl, and her half-formed plans to maybe buy a decent car with part of the proceeds, and as they did so Dan felt her hip rub against his own. He was pretty much pressed into the corner, and assumed it was the crush behind that was forcing this closeness.

He noticed that she smelled nice. She obviously used the same perfume as Jo did. And what with that and the dim lights and the closeness it was easy to imagine that it was Jo pressed up against him. Especially if he closed his eyes. He did close his eyes, and at that very moment, without any warning, she lunged at him.

And he found himself kissing her back. It went on for quite a long time, so he must have enjoyed it, and it was only when he came up for air and looked into her face that he realised what an awful mistake he had made.

Chapter Eight

By mid-afternoon I’d sent all the business e-mails through my old e-mail address from work—[email protected].

The Child Sid, with his usual foresight, had copied all Pisus’s relevant data on to his own system and then installed it on the laptop for me. It was probably highly illegal, but I didn’t think anyone would bother too much, especially if he succeeded with his plans.

And the more confident he seemed, the more I began to believe in him. As he’d said last night, it would be hard for the company’s former clients to start again with someone else. We’d planned their systems, got them up and running, and to begin all over again with a new e-business agency would be inconvenient as well as expensive.

I was even beginning to think that Sid was right about me. I
did
have a good relationship with my personal clients, and so, yes, maybe it really was possible that little old Jo Hurst could actually be an asset to him.

It was good to be doing something useful for a change. It was helping me to see things more positively (including my buttock, which looked a lot better today), and now, having followed Sid’s instructions to the letter, I felt that the time had come for a little Sunday afternoon mischief.

I’d already been into Sarah’s Hotmail account, found Dan’s latest message to her, and was just in the process of writing back.

Dear
Dan

I’m
originally
from
Truro
.

I wrote that because I happened to know that he had a soft spot for that particular city.

I’ve
got
a
good
friend
who
lives
in
Leeds,
by
the
way
.

I added that in an effort to create an even bigger connection, and besides, it was true—Sarah did indeed have a very good friend in Leeds, called Joanna Hurst. But I didn’t mention any names, of course.

We
were
at
school
together
.

Then I had to think long and hard about a suitable profession to give to dear Sarah. I considered many possibilities—doctor, lawyer, actress, trainee astronaut. You name it, I considered it. That’s the trouble when you can be whatever you want to be—too much choice. I’m not even sure why I opted for an artist in the end. The truth is that I can’t draw to save my life, but somehow it just seemed right for Sarah. I told him that it was the proximity of so many good galleries that took Sarah from Cornwall to London three years ago. I would have liked to add that she was a very successful artist. That she was extremely beautiful with sleek golden hair and wore a double D-cup bra, but I didn’t want to put him off with all that boasting.

I’d been kind of stunned by his claim to be ‘currently single’. I didn’t know what to make of it—whether Libby had got it horribly wrong about Aisling after all, whether things had changed since I last spoke to her, or whether Dan was just a barefaced liar and I’d never really known him at all.

I tried calling Libby but there was no reply, and until I could speak to her again I decided that I would keep playing along and see where it led. So I told him that Sarah was single as well.

I went even further. I told him that she had recently broken up with someone she’d lived with for quite a while and that she still thought about him a lot—because I hoped this might open the door for discussions about his own recent break-up...

And an hour later I got a reply.

Dear
Sarah

An
artist
.
Impressive!
What
do
you
paint?
Or
is
painting
old
hat
these
days?
Maybe
you’re
one
of
those
conceptual
types
that
make
statements
with
old
bits
of
chewing
gum
and
saucepan
lids?

Dan

PS
What
do
you
look
like?

I noticed that the message had been sent only five minutes before I picked it up, so I answered immediately, just in case he was still online.

Dear
Dan

I’m
the
old
hat
kind
of
artist
.

I said this because I didn’t think my imagination would stretch to anything beyond dunking dead animals in formaldehyde, and that had already been done. Nevertheless, I thought it was a bit rich for him to have a pop at experimental art when he listened in awe to
avant
-
garde
jazz. With this in mind, I added my own little dig.

Though
I
admire
those
who
are
prepared
to
explore
the
boundaries
of
what
we
call
art
.

And because that looked just a bit priggish and pompous when I read it back, I decided to lighten the mood of the e-mail.

What
do
I
look
like?
Well
,
I’m
seven
feet
three
inches
tall
,
and
I
wear
size
twelve
Doc
Martens
.
I
have
one
blue
eye
and
one
brown
one
,
but
it’s
hard
to
see
them
through
my
designer
target
glass
spectacles
.
Oh
,
yes
,
and
I’ve
got
seventeen
facial
moles
(on
the
last
count)
.

How
about
you?

I hung around and his reply came back within two minutes.

Dear
Sarah

How
do
you
manage
to
paint
with
target
-
glass
spectacles
—
designer
or
otherwise?

Dan

I whipped off a reply straight away.

Dear
Dan

Not
seeing
too
well
is
what
makes
my
work
so
original
.

Sarah

PS
You
haven’t
told
me
what
you
look
like
yet
.

Three minutes later still.

Dear
Sarah

I’m four feet eleven and a half inches, but my polka dot eyes do have twenty-twenty vision, I am happy to say. I don’t enjoy the benefits of facial moles, unfortunately, but I make up for this deficiency with my warts (49 at the last count)!

Maybe we should exchange photographs?

Dan

He was clearly getting into the swing of things.

Dear
Dan

Sadly I haven’t yet found a camera that can do me full justice. Any bad habits you’d like to get off your chest at this stage? Sarah

One minute, thirty seconds afterwards.

Dear
Sarah

I’ve
got
several
,
but
I’m
keeping
them
close
to
my
chest
at
the
moment
.
I
don’t
want
to
put
you
off
.
So
tell
me
more
about
this
man
you
broke
up
with
recently
.

Dan

Ah, so we were getting serious, were we? Pity. I’d been quite enjoying myself for a while. It was much more fun telling big silly lies than outrageous serious ones. And this was a tricky one to answer. I hadn’t really thought it out, and because he was waiting for my reply I found myself sailing dangerously close to the truth.

Sarah:
Not
much
to
tell
.
We
were
great
together
and
then
it
just
all
fell
apart
.

Dan:
Why?

Sarah:
Good
question
,
Dan
,
but
that’s
the
trouble
,
I
don’t
know
why
.

And now it was crunch time.

Have
you
ever
broken
up
with
anyone
important?

Dan:
Oh
,
yes
.
Not
very
long
ago
either
.
And
before
you
ask
,
I
don’t
know
why
it
happened
either
.

Nothing to do with a cellulite buttock, I thought—but didn’t write, of course. What I did write would be the obvious question.

Sarah:
Whose
idea
was
it
to
finish
things?

Dan:
Hers
.
She
just
disappeared
one
day
.
You?

Sarah:
Mine
,
I
suppose
.
I
was
the
one
who
left
anyway
.

Dan:
What
made
you
leave?

Sarah:
He
upset
me
with
something
he
said
,
and
I
wanted
him
to
come
after
me
and
apologise
.

Dan:
And
did
he?

Sarah:
No
.

Dan:
Maybe
he
didn’t
know
he’d
upset
you
so
much
.

Sarah:
He
should
have
known
.

Dan:
So
you
left
him
because
he
wasn’t
a
mind
-
reader
,
is
that
what
you’re
saying?