Prime Time (31 page)

‘I'll be with you in a minute,' he called.

‘You need to let me do it my way,' I heard him say to her.

I didn't catch her reply but it sounded suspiciously as if it included the word “bastard”.

By craning my neck and shifting my chair along a bit I could just about still see them, through the open doors. Tanya's arms were waving about and Cal was standing with his hands stretched out, as if trying to appease her.

Then she disappeared from view and a few minutes later he came back in and sat down beside me, sighing.

‘Everything OK?' I asked, throwing wheat-free caution to the winds and eating a bit of bread roll.

Cal shook his head wearily. ‘We're disagreeing on a few technical issues,' he said. ‘Tanya's gone home.'

‘Oh dear,' I said, gravely, thinking it might not be tactful to toss my napkin in the air and begin whooping.

‘Well, we've more or less finished,' said Cal. ‘She doesn't need to be here.'

‘Are you still going to stay?' I asked casually.

‘Oh yes,' he said, suddenly looking more cheerful. ‘I'm all booked in – why not? It's great here, isn't it?' He poured some more wine into my glass.

I buttered the rest of the roll.

‘I'm very excited about this project,' he told me, as we drank the coffee I'd thought it prudent to order. ‘It's a big thing for me. OK, so it's not on a major channel but it's on a Saturday night. So it will get noticed. Who knows one of the big boys might pick it up. Someone might pick you up!'

‘Do you really think so?' I said, hopefully.

‘Yes, I do.' His face was serious. ‘You're a natural.'

‘Will I be able to see it before it goes on TV?'

Cal shook his head. ‘I doubt it. We're going to be cutting it pretty fine with the edit – we've only got a few days. And I'm not really allowed to give out DVDs before it goes on air.' He took my hand again. ‘But I shall really look forward to hearing what you think of it.'

We sat for a moment, gazing at each other. Then he gently let go of my hand, slowly unwrapped one of the chocolate mints, and pushed it against my mouth, watching intently as my lips parted.

‘Mmm,' I said, unable to take my eyes away from his. Was this really happening? Was I sitting in a posh London hotel being fed chocolate by a gorgeous young hunk, who'd just put his hand back in mine and was looking at me as if I were beautiful?

‘You're beautiful,' he said. ‘Want to go swimming?'

What?

‘The pool closes at ten,' Cal was saying, ‘but if I tell the management we need to film in there, they'll let us use it as late as we want. They've been absolutely fantastic – given us all the rooms and everything, for a credit.'

‘I haven't got any swimming stuff.'

He smiled slowly. ‘Doesn't bother me … No, I'm only joking. They've some gear for sale up there – we'll get you a bikini.'

I looked at him suspiciously. ‘I don't want to be filmed in it!'

‘You don't have to be – though I don't know why not. You've got a fabulous body.' He stood up and gave me a boyish grin. ‘Come on. I love swimming – it's such a great way to unwind.'

I vaguely wondered if leaping into water was a good idea when we'd both had so much alcohol, but I obediently got in the lift with him to the top floor and 15 minutes later, the sight of Cal in a pair of swimming shorts banished all thoughts of health and safety. His body was smooth and muscular, lightly tanned even in December. I looked at his long limbs and strong chest and my heart gave a little skip.

He walked to the far end of the pool, did a perfect dive and swam a length under water, coming up in front of me – still perched on the side in a red and white polka dot bikini – and putting his hands on my knees.

‘Come in, it's wonderful. So warm!' His hair was plastered against his head – his blonde streak standing out against the darkness of the rest, his muscles glistening. I slid into the water. His hands went around my waist. Suddenly I really wanted him. Wanted to put my arms around him, put my hands up and pull his face down onto mine …

He kissed me briefly and slid back under the water again, emerging at the far end of the pool. ‘Swim,' he called. ‘It's fabulous!'

I swam slowly down after him, stretching out my fingers and toes in the balmy water, enjoying the sensation of weightlessness. ‘It's ages since I did this,' I said, when I reached the other end. ‘It's lovely.'

He nodded. ‘Shame it's not the Caribbean, but still …' He suddenly submerged himself again, coming up behind me, kissing the top of my neck and sending ripples all the way down my back. I turned over and floated, feeling relaxed and sensual. Cal cupped the water, sending a stream across my stomach, and I flipped back again, watching him glide along with long, languid strokes till he too spun over and drifted, lazily supine, hands trailing beside him.

I forgot all sense of time as we circled each other, turning and revolving in the oily warmth, my body light and free beside his, mind empty except for the lapping of the water against us, the soft splashes as we broke the surface. I felt as though we were suspended there for ever, until movement at the side of the pool caught my eye.

I came abruptly out of my dreamlike state to see Matt and Russ in the far corner, the camera trained on the water.

‘Cal – you said you wouldn't!' I cried, but I couldn't be cross. My body was heavy and warm. I smiled at him.

He held out his hands in contrition. ‘Just a bit of you swimming – that's all, babe. They're packing up now.'

He swam right up to me and put his arms around me. ‘Unless you'll just walk along the side for me? Just from here to the steam room?'

I shook my head, embarrassed. ‘No thank you. I'm too old for that sort of thing. I don't want the whole world seeing my bottom.'

‘But what a very lovely bottom it is.' He ran his hands lightly down the sides of my waist, resting his fingers on my hips. Sending shoots of desire right through me. ‘Please, Lala?'

I looked at him helplessly.

‘Just for me,' he was saying. ‘Just a few metres. It will be so empowering – other women will see you being bold and unashamed and will feel inspired. Look at how Helen Mirren went down a storm. She's much older than you.'

‘She's also got a much better body than me.'

‘She hasn't!' said Cal vehemently. ‘I've been looking at you under water and you have an amazing body and I'm not even going to add that insulting tag – for your age. You look great, babe. I think you're fantastic.'

His hands were still on my hips. He was so close to me, I could feel his breath steamy on my face. I was melting inside.

‘Go for it,' he murmured. ‘Show them all how beautiful you are …'

I wanted to please him – I wanted to feel wild and high. I wanted him to touch me all over …

‘OK.'

Cal threw up a jubilant hand and put a thumb up toward Matt. ‘Just one take of Laura and then pack up, OK? You can go and get some beers.'

‘It will only take seconds,' he said to me. ‘Go up the steps, look across at Matt and then walk down to the steam room and go in.' He lowered his voice. ‘And then I'll join you …'

I swam up to the steps and got out of the pool, telling myself I was that beautiful, confident woman Cal had described. I could still feel his hands. As I stood up straight, I felt suddenly lighter and slimmer than usual. I glanced back at Cal who was smiling from the middle of the water.

He blew me a kiss. For a moment I hesitated. Then I blew him one back. And, filled with reckless abandon, I tossed back my wet hair, beamed at the camera, and sauntered down the side of the pool, even giving a small, triumphant wiggle of my hips as I opened the door to the steam room.

Moments later Cal sat down on the wooden bench beside me as the steam swirled around us, sending streams down my chest. Droplets ran down his face as he took me in his arms, murmuring as his mouth found mine, ‘La, I want you …I want you now.'

The rest was a blur. I could only remember him unhooking my bikini top, stepping out of his shorts, his body hard and urgent against mine in the rising steam.

And later, in my hotel room, my legs wrapped around his waist while he filled me up, holding me tightly to him, as we rocked together in the centre of the huge bed, lost in pleasure.

And his mouth on my face, feathering it with tiny, fervent kisses while he groaned over and over. ‘You're amazing, Lala. You're fantastic. Oh God – La. Oh
yes
…'

I woke in the early hours, head pounding. I saw Cal's shape in the darkness – at the end of the bed, putting on clothes. As I sat up, he leant over me and kissed my mouth. ‘I'm sorry – I've got to go, babe.'

I looked at the clock – it was only 5.30.

‘We've got to start the edit today to get the film put together in time,' said Cal in apology. ‘They're expecting me at the studio first thing. And I need to go home first.' He began to button his shirt. ‘I'll see you really soon though.'

‘How about the weekend?' I said impulsively.

He nodded. ‘We'll work something out.'

‘My son is away with his father next Saturday night. If you came down to Broadstairs, I could cook you dinner.'

I held my breath, waiting for him to make an excuse, telling myself not to feel crushed. But he put a hand out and touched my face. ‘I'd like that.'

‘We can watch the programme together?'

He nodded. ‘That'll be great.'

I hugged him, feeling suddenly bereft as he gently disengaged himself and picked up his jacket from the floor. I'm sorry, La – I really do have to go.'

I hugged my knees instead. ‘I'll see you next Saturday then.'

He bent down again and softly kissed my cheek. ‘I can't wait.'

Chapter Thirty-five

‘I can't wait!'

Mike, in full heart-attack mode, was speaking in a voice several octaves higher than usual. ‘I've promised their MD that I'll deliver by tomorrow lunchtime. You cannot let me down, Laura, the entire campaign depends on it. And I need to see it first. I can't hold on till the morning.'

‘Well you're just going to bloody well have to,' I said cheerfully. ‘Why do you make these ridiculous promises? I'm doing my best but, quite honestly, with the dog's breakfast you sent me, you're lucky I can do it at all in this tight time scale.'

A time scale, I thought, as Mike hyperventilated, that would be not quite so tight if I hadn't spent the previous weekend in London with Cal but I wasn't going to let Mike know that.

My skin still leapt with delectable little shocks every time I thought about Cal's hands on mine. The way he had looked at me before he left. I'd gone back to sleep until late morning and it had taken several ibuprofen tablets to get me in a fit state to hail a cab to the station, but I'd texted him when I'd got home, telling him how wonderful it had been and had got two kisses back.

I hadn't heard anything from him since, but he'd told me he'd be required in the editing suite almost 24/7 till they delivered later today, Thursday, so I assumed he was too busy for anything else.

I was in much the same position myself. Some of this work had come through from Mike a couple of days before Stanley's birthday but what with that, and Charlotte, and my bloody mother, and then the filming – pause for the luscious memory of Cal's fingers moving up the inside of my thigh – I hadn't even looked at it. Hadn't even remembered, in fact, that the deadline was this Friday morning.

Now, in addition to another dreadful script to rewrite and some brochure copy, Mike also wanted me to come up with a series of ad captions and was screaming for the whole lot to be ready by five tonight. No chance.

‘I will keep going until it's done,' I told Mike soothingly, thinking that if I didn't have any wine and just sat here, doggedly ploughing my way through, I could probably get it done by late evening. ‘And I'll email it tonight so it will be waiting for you by the time you get to the office tomorrow. Then you'll have all morning to print it up and get copies made.'

When he'd finally rung off I got the wretched video script up on my screen. This was intended as a sales tool with which to persuade every DIY store and garden centre in the land they should be stocking large quantities of Paradise Gardens' unique range of gnomes, and had been written by Martin, the Paradise Gardens' Gnomes Sales Manager, who I'd met weeks back in Ashford.

A sales manager who, unfortunately, might be good at flogging diminutive outdoor figures with rods, on a face-to-face basis, but who couldn't write for toffee. I would have expected Stanley to come up with more original phraseology and certainly better spelling.

As morning slipped into afternoon and I read of yet another gnome described as “unique and witty”', just to ring the changes from “original and witty” or Martin's ground-breaking “witty and original”, I began to realise it could be a long night.

My progress wasn't helped by the way my brain would keep sliding away from the job in hand and back to Cal. I wondered if he was thinking about me too. He'd been so passionate on Saturday night – he'd really made me feel beautiful and sexy and even though I'd had a mega-hangover, the endorphins had still been surging through me the next morning. Even now, I felt a rush of pleasure every time I thought about it.

It was amazing, I thought, that a man like him could feel like that about a woman like me, and gratifying too. So Daniel wasn't the only one who could pull a younger model, after all!

I wanted to text Cal but didn't know whether I should or not. He was up against a deadline too and might not appreciate being interrupted. On the other hand, I'd left him alone all week and I wanted to be sure he was still on for Saturday. I'd have to go shopping tomorrow if I was going to cook dinner for him.

I wanted to show I was thinking of him without being pushy or needy. I tried out various word combinations before finally settling on
Looking forward to cu Sat. What time you get here? Hope edit go well xx

That should do it – not too heavy, not demanding, but a question in there so he would answer at some point. Or should I demonstrate an appreciation of the time pressure he was under too – he'd said he might be up all night. Show that I knew how busy he was and that he couldn't just drop everything to text me?

I vaguely remembered him making an impromptu speech in praise of older women when we were back in my hotel bedroom, devouring each other. Hadn't he said that older women were easier company because they were more laid back, more accommodating? I inserted
no rush to reply
and pressed
send
before I could change my mind.

By the time Stanley got home from school I was beginning to see a glimmer of light at the end of the video script tunnel. ‘I can't stop now, darling,' I said as my son appeared in the doorway. ‘Let me just finish this.'

In the end, it took another two hours and we had to have a thrown-together supper of eggs, bacon, beans, and toast, which got Stanley's seal of approval but left me fretting about his five portions.

‘Please eat an apple,' I said, as I made my way back to the computer with a cup of coffee. ‘And perhaps you'd better bring me one too.'

Three a.m. when your eyes are gritty from lack of sleep and your limbs are twitching from caffeine overload, is not the best time to be creative with gnomes.

Some bright spark at the agency had come up with the brilliant idea of a series of magazine ads which would feature a full-colour photograph of gnome in amusing position, with amusing play on words beneath it. Mike, naturally, thought this was pure genius. Guess who had to come up with the words?

So far I'd managed
Gnome Sweet Gnome
(gnome standing outside chocolate-box style cottage with roses round door) and
Gnome on the Range
(gnome perched on top of bucking bronco; gnome in dust cloud behind herd of rampaging cattle) and was just considering
Honey Gnome
(gnome standing proudly by beehive) and wondering if that was a tad obscure, while questioning how much longer I could keep my eyes open.

Yawning, I went down to the kitchen for my 17th coffee of the evening and looked for the umpteenth time at my mobile phone. No word from Cal. Perhaps he was up against the clock too. ‘What else rhymes with bloody gnome?' I asked Boris, who was yowling about my feet.

He didn't know. Just yowled a bit more.

‘You are not hungry,' I told him. ‘You are supposed to be asleep. Or out hunting or something.' He looked at me appealingly. I gave him some fishy-shaped, vitamin-enhanced cat biscuits. At least someone in the family might be properly nourished.

It was 6.20 a.m. when I emailed off the final gnome witticism –
When in Gnome?
(gnome standing at the foot of the Spanish Steps). Mike phoned five minutes later, sounding as if were finally having that coronary.

‘What does number five mean?' he shrieked. ‘
London Gnome
?'

‘He's standing outside the O2 Centre,' I explained patiently. ‘It used to be called the London Dome, didn't it?'

‘No, it didn't,' said Mike tetchily, ‘It was the Millennium Dome. You're thinking of the London Eye.'

‘OK, well, we'll call it
Millennium Gnome
then.

Mike's hiss of exasperation reverberated around my left ear. ‘I don't think so! That was over a decade ago. It's got to be now – happening – this year's must-have! Not something associated with the turn of the century.'

‘OK, I'll think on.'

‘Yes, do that – I've had everyone up all night working on this presentation and they'll be flat out till the client gets here.'

I forbore to say I hadn't exactly had any sleep myself and if he didn't promise everything yesterday, they wouldn't have to. I knew it would only elicit the “this-is-what-puts-us-apart-from-the-crowd” speech, about fast turnarounds and lightning response being what clients wanted in our uncertain, credit-crunched world.

Instead I ran a bath, poured large quantities of invigorating foaming bath essence into it, and lay there struggling to stay awake.
Gnome Bath
? I thought as the bubbles rose up around my neck.

That would work. A gnome's hat appearing above a sea of bubbles in a sumptuous bathroom. Right up Mike's street …

I was still thinking as I made Stanley's toast in a trance, barely hearing what he was saying to me, and waved him off to the bus stop.
Dome, Rome, foam, comb, tome …
By this time, I was so bloody tired I was barely functioning.

Still, oddly, I didn't feel like going to bed. I was in that strung-out, slightly manic state, on a curious, shivery high from lack of sleep, with my brain running in strange circles. Cal still hadn't replied to my text – maybe he'd been up all night too – and, as I tried to get my head round what I needed to do today – apart from come up with some inspirational word play about gnomes in the next 10 minutes – I felt oddly in limbo.

I don't know whether the words or the image came first but I grabbed the phone, feeling that rush of excitement I used to feel in my 20s when I was working with Mike in the office, and all-night sessions at the desk, propped up with thick, syrupy coffee and endless cigarettes, were regular events.

Mike answered immediately. ‘Gnome standing on desolate wasteland, with barbed wire behind him,' I cried. ‘
Gnome man's land
.'

‘Genius!' shrieked Mike. ‘Provocative, controversial, edgy. I love it!' He sighed happily. ‘Soldiers in the distance. Maybe some blood. This could be our Benetton ad – I'm thinking shock factor.'

I listened while he shouted the good news round the office – smiling as I imagined the sheer joy of those faced with producing more lightning artwork when they'd already been up all night – then said goodbye before he could think of anything else to pile on me.

The day passed in a bit of a haze. I drove carefully to the supermarket thinking I may as well assume Cal was coming tomorrow – he was too considerate not to have let me know if he wasn't – and shop for that as well as find something for Stanley and me to eat tonight.

I then carried out a series of mundane and mindless tasks involving the washing machine and the iron, while drinking lots of coffee and slapping myself regularly around the face so I would stay conscious long enough to greet and feed my son and then fall into bed the moment
EastEnders
was over. Which was pretty much what I did.

Waking in a fog 12 hours later, I staggered downstairs, fed Boris, drank several cups of tea while listening to the latest gloom and doom on the radio news and then, seeing the clock creeping its way round to 10 a.m., made my way back upstairs to see what my son was up to.

Stanley was sitting on the edge of his bed, still in pyjamas, his hair uncombed. ‘What are you doing?' I asked unnecessarily.

Stanley did not look up. ‘Nothing.'

‘Have you packed your bag to go to your father's?'

‘No.'

‘Well, you'd better get a move on – he'll be here soon. You need to get your school uniform ready and your books for Monday if you're staying with him on Sunday night as well.'

Daniel was taking Stanley to a football match and had suggested that as he hadn't seen him on his birthday, they made a longer weekend of it than usual. Stanley had seemed pleased with this arrangement at the time.

‘Emily's going away,' he'd told me, ‘so Dad says it's just him and me.' He'd lowered his voice, ‘We're going to have pizzas.'.

‘How lovely,' I'd trilled, thinking it was all rather fortuitous too, what with the romantic weekend I had planned.

Now, though, Stanley stared miserably at the wallpaper and I felt a frisson of foreboding. ‘What's the matter?' I asked cautiously.

‘I don't want to go to school.'

‘Well, darling, it's only Saturday and you're not going to school till Monday so don't think about it now. Think about the lovely time you're going to have with Dad.'

‘I've still got to go after.'

‘Well, yes,' I conceded, ‘but we all have to go to school. It's never that bad when you get there, is it?'

‘It is,' said Stanley mutinously. ‘I hate it.'

I felt my phone vibrate against my thigh through my dressing gown pocket. Cal – it must be Cal. ‘Hold on, darling.'

I fished it out just as it burst into song, anxiously scanning the screen for the number calling.

It was Clara, talking about our gym challenge and wondering when she was next going to see me. I walked into my office and shut the door so I could whisper to her about Cal's impending visit. She was suitably agog.

‘You lucky thing,' she said. ‘That will burn off heaps of calories. I've got a week left and I still can't do the bloody zip up. In fact I was so worried about it last night that I ate a whole packet of tortilla chips and then a tub of Ben and Jerry's. And I've got to see Vicky tonight – I can't put her off again.' Her voice rose to a wail. ‘What am I going to
do
?'

By the time I'd calmed her down by promising that I'd join her in a three-day starvation diet of hot water and lemon and would accompany her on the body wrap offer she'd found – buy one, take your fat friend for half price – on which she was pinning her final hopes, Stanley had at least got dressed and was throwing things into a bag.

‘Got everything?' I asked cheerily.

‘What do you care?'

I looked at him, shocked. ‘Don't be like that! Of course I care. What‘s the problem?'

‘I've told you. Except you never listen.'