Precious Things (31 page)

God, he's gorgeous.
For a moment Maggie almost forgot herself.

Suddenly remembering where she was, she beckoned to Tim to join her. As he walked over, she realised how uncomfortable he must be. All the fuss, and all these people . . . Tim hated this!

Turning around to face their guests, he put his arm around Maggie's shoulders and gave her a dry peck on the cheek. Maggie ducked her head to avoid Michael's gaze as Tim thanked everyone for coming (less awkwardly than her, she noted) and felt she could barely breathe.

After what felt like an eternity, Tim released her. Maggie stepped away.

Everyone turned back to their conversations, a flurry of piano jazz wafted out into the garden and the party returned to full volume. Brushing Maggie's shoulders with his hands, Tim turned to face her. His gaze fixed firmly on her face, he started to say something. But out of the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Michael make his way over, and watched as Tim registered his presence.

‘Your friend is here,' Tim said quietly. Rubbing his thumbs along her bare upper arms, his voice was flat. Maggie found herself shivering in the night air.

And then Michael was standing beside them.

‘Maggie! Tim. Good to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you,' Michael said, shaking Tim's hand.

No you haven't
, thought Maggie, wondering at his smooth lie.

‘And Maggie, don't you look stunning this evening.' Michael looked her up and down with obvious appreciation. He leaned over to kiss her on the cheek and Maggie felt a deep shiver run through her.

Michael turned to Tim. ‘I hear you're the architect responsible for all those new developments in the East End. Thank God somebody did it. Even so, who'd live there for quids, eh?' he laughed.

Maggie felt Tim tense up beside her. The party was growing more boisterous by the moment and they were jostled from behind, Tim's undrunk champagne slopping over her shoes.

‘Mmmm,' murmured Tim politely, but Maggie could see the cool disdain in his eyes. ‘If you'll excuse me, I have to speak with my ma and da. They're about to leave. Drinks?' he asked, indicating at a tray on a nearby table. Without waiting for an answer, Tim strode off.

Maggie's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. ‘They're quite elderly,' she faltered. ‘They came down from Yorkshire just for tonight . . .' Michael looked at her carefully, and she cursed herself again for allowing him to so unsettle her. And for inviting him! Somehow, though, she couldn't help feeling pleased that he'd made it, that he wanted to see her enough that he would come to Tim's party. Maggie's stomach flipped again.

At that moment Stella sashayed past, blithely ignoring her. Maggie could tell she'd already had too much to drink.

‘Yay for Dad!' Stella laughed, wobbling slightly on her heels as she turned and made a beeline towards the stereo. ‘About time we had some real music, though.'

With the sense that things were about to veer out of control, Maggie looked around for Tim, but he and his parents had vanished. The noise ratcheted up a few notches as people struggled to shout over the din – Stella was fiddling with the stereo's knobs. Meanwhile, a group of Tim's younger work colleagues standing nearby seemed
unable to tear their eyes away from Stella's gazelle-like legs, which were shown to full effect tonight in a pair of skimpy shorts. Michael's eyes brushed over her, before settling on Maggie.

‘So,' he said, eyes twinkling down at her. Maggie laughed nervously. He leaned closer to her, and murmured into her ear. ‘Might we be able to find somewhere a bit quieter?'

Maggie's heart skipped a beat. Dimly, she knew she should really scoop up Stella, who'd started dancing provocatively by the speaker to the first bars of Robin Thicke's ‘Blurred Lines', and hustle her upstairs, but something in Michael's voice made her blood run faster in her veins . . . Ah, to hell with it! Why did she always have to behave so responsibly? She missed being Stella's age. Who thought about consequences when they were sixteen? God, how lovely it would be
not
to for a change.

Maggie smiled at Michael. Stella could look after herself, there were loads of people around. She would get her upstairs later. Leading the way back to the house through the packed garden, she felt acutely aware of Michael following close at her heels. Would something . . . happen? It seemed inevitable. His hand lightly touched the small of her back as they ascended the stairs, and Maggie's whole body tingled.
Oh God
, she thought, breath catching in her throat. They reached the first landing.
This is it
, she told herself. What she'd half been waiting for . . . She felt powerless to stop it.

Maggie could see a thin wedge of light seeping out from beneath the closed door of her bedroom. As she reached out for the handle, Michael curled his fingers around her wrist and a spark of electricity shot up her arm.

Barely breathing, Maggie pushed the door open, emptying her head.

And came face to face with Rachel.

She and John stood there in the middle of the bedroom, obviously in the middle of an argument. Rachel looked wretched, and her face was blotchy and raw from crying. John's mouth was twisted with anger. He looked over and saw Maggie.

‘I bet you knew, didn't you?' he asked Maggie. ‘You did. About this bloke.'

‘I, I . . .' Maggie stuttered, wondering how he'd found out. ‘John, please . . .'

‘Ah, forget it,' he said, roughly casting off Rachel's outstretched, pleading hand. ‘We're done, Rach. You can pick up your stuff tomorrow.'

He shoved past Maggie and made his way noisily down the stairs.

Rachel collapsed on the end of the bed, like a plush toy suddenly devoid of its stuffing. ‘Oh, Maggie, what have I done?'

Maggie turned around to look for Michael, and caught his eye. Silent acknowledgement passed between them and he melted away down the stairs, giving her a tactful wave goodbye.

Her feelings in turmoil, Maggie crossed the room to comfort Rachel. ‘Sweet, what happened?' she asked, sinking down next to her on the bed, guessing the answer as she saw Rachel clutching her phone.

‘He read my texts,' she said, heaving with sobs.

Maggie patted her friend's back, trying to soothe her. She felt utterly ineffectual. ‘It'll be okay,' she murmured, not believing it at all and feeling a twinge of shame at her own hypocrisy.

Struck by a sudden thought, Rachel looked up. ‘What were you doing?' she asked, her eyes glistening with tears, but still sharp. ‘Who was that? Where's Tim?'

Maggie flushed. ‘Nobody. He's nobody. Tim's taking his parents back to the hotel.' She changed the subject. ‘What are you going to do?'

Rachel's face crumpled and she buried it in her hands again. ‘Oh hell, Maggie, I don't know!' She burst out with gusty sobs, her back heaving.

Feeling dreadful for Rachel, and trying to comfort her as best she could, Maggie couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief. It was as though some temporary madness had come over her, a strange dislocation from herself. Had Rachel not been in the bedroom, Maggie
thought, anything could have happened . . . And she would have let it. Welcomed it, in fact.

It took Maggie almost an hour to calm Rachel down and put her in a cab to a friend's house. When she finally made it back to the garden she saw, with a pang of disappointment, that Michael had gone. The crowd had thinned a little but the party had taken on a manic life of its own. Their smallish backyard was now a temporary dance floor, heaving with people. Everyone was having a good time – empty bottles and half-full glasses littered all available surfaces, and the noise level was still rising. Stella was at the centre of the dance floor, arms raised above her head, her hair fanning out wildly as she twisted from side to side. Maggie stood by the courtyard wall, watching Stella dance, her mind a tangled knot of worry and confusion.

She started to feel the beginnings of a headache throbbing in her temples. The balls of her feet felt bruised in the too-high heels, and her lower back had started to ache. She told herself that Tim couldn't possibly suspect her feelings for Michael, but she couldn't forget the look he'd given her when he'd seen Michael approaching . . . Maggie turned that moment over and over again in her mind, worrying away at it.

There was a sudden blast from the speakers and Maggie's head jerked up. She saw Stella dancing away from the stereo, back to the dance floor. Maggie winced and quickly turned down the volume, wondering if anyone could possibly be asleep next door. Poor Pearl.
Even if the neighbours had complained, we wouldn't hear . . . I hope no one calls the police!
She took another look at Stella gyrating on the dance floor.
Oh, to hell with it . . . I'll talk with her in the morning
, she thought, picking up a tray.
Let her have her fun.

Filling the tray with empty glasses, Maggie fought a yawn. As she wandered around the messy guests, picking up glasses and empty bottles, she felt like she was moving in a daze. Stella bopped over to her and languidly plucked the coronet from her head. Maggie was too stunned to raise a hand or even protest. Putting it over her damp hair, Stella pulled the ribbons into place.

‘How do I look?' she asked, twirling around. With her long legs, black leather shorts and skimpy singlet, the coronet made her look like a glamorous Amazon queen about to declare war. She looked young but dangerously beautiful. Maggie could see her pinpoint pupils and smell the sweetish marijuana smoke in her hair.
So beautiful
, Maggie thought to herself,
and so careless with the power she wields. Why do we never realise that, before it's too late?

Laughing now, a bit manic, Stella disappeared into the writhing mass of people, and Maggie spied Kate and Lola dancing away at the fringes, staring into each other's eyes. She regretted not having had a chance to speak to them all evening. The sound of Stevie Wonder's ‘Signed, Sealed, Delivered' blasted Maggie's ears – the stereo had been turned up to top volume again.

In that instant, Maggie wondered where the hell Tim was. She ached for his solid, reassuring presence. Pulling out her phone she hit his number, but there was no answer. She tried again and again, listening to the dial tone and wondering whether she'd just put in jeopardy the most precious thing in her life.

As she closed the front door behind Kate and Lola, Maggie let her bright smile fall away, and checked her watch. Almost 2 am. When was the last time she'd been up this late? Years, Maggie reckoned. God, she felt so old . . .

Music drifted in from the garden now, but it was much quieter. There were a few people left – hardcore stayers and old friends – and from where she stood in the hallway, Maggie could hear the steady murmuring of their voices in the backyard, and the occasional drunken burst of raucous laughter. As she leaned her back against the cool wood of the door in the darkened hallway, she tried to stop the black thoughts from rushing in.

Tim still wasn't home. Maggie was getting really anxious now. Had he been in an accident? Or had he . . . left? Panic was starting to
set in. She'd held her worries at bay for the past few hours, but now a deep wave of regret and shame hit her.
He knows, of course he knows . . . What was I thinking?

More than anything, Maggie was furious with herself. Why had she nurtured such a stupid crush on Michael? How had she let this, this . . .
infatuation
even happen? She saw now how her feelings had blinded her to Tim over the past few months. She'd been remote and distant, using the busyness of her work as an excuse to rush away, or to resent him when he told her truths about Pearl. Her attraction to him had waned a little, with the weight he'd put on and the comparison she'd made to Michael. Solid, loving Tim, who always meant what he said and was loyal to a fault. Thinking about it, Maggie realised there was something undeniably selfish about a man who would pursue a married woman – with children. And he had been pursuing her, that was obvious now.

Maggie squeezed her eyes shut, hot shame sweeping through her body. What a fool she'd been. Even now, she could feel the vestiges of the thrill that had gone through her when he'd touched the small of her back. Just like that, he could have had her. Maggie felt a corrosive bitterness in her mouth. How was it that she hadn't seen through his surface charms?

Maggie wondered at how easily it had happened, the blinding spotlight of Michael's attention shining through the chinks in her armour – the armour she'd always worn against other men.
Vanity
, she thought, cringing.
It was all my vanity. You foolish, foolish woman.
It had been so long since anyone had paid her that kind of attention – she'd been completely seduced by it. Blinded.

Maggie rested her hot forehead against the door, trying to swallow the sob rising in her throat. It was then that she heard it, a muffled commotion, coming from the other side. Stiffening, she pressed closer, listening to the noises in the street.