Sleeping Arrangements (15 page)

The music stopped, and a few people around the restaurant applauded. Neither Chloe nor Hugh moved. A waiter came to take Chloe's glass; she didn't notice him.

At last, Hugh rose to his feet. He folded his paper, dropped it on his table and walked slowly round the bar, to Chloe's table.

'Hello,' he said gravely, and held out his hand. 'I'd like to introduce myself. My name's Hugh Stratton.'

Chloe stared up at him, her heart thumping faster and faster, like a rabbit's. 'Hello,' she said at last, in a cracked voice. Slowly she reached out for his hand; as his fingers closed over hers, her body began to prickle all over. 'My name's Chloe. Please . . . sit down.'

Philip sat at a café table in Puerto Banus, drinking an overpriced cappuccino and watching the well-dressed crowds as they sauntered up and down the sundrenched street. Some gazed into glossy shop windows, others stared at the yachts which lined the marina. A fright-eningly low-slung red Ferrari was moving through the pedestrians, not impatiently but in a leisured, laid-back way, as though the car itself was enjoying the view.

He had not wanted to come here; he had wanted to drive up into the mountains and ex-plore some of the Andalusian villages in his guidebook. He had imagined sitting in a shady courtyard, under an olive tree, soaking up the Spanish smells and sights and language. But the boys had wanted to go to the coast. Sam, in particular, had demanded to see a bit of life after the boredom of the villa. So here they were, under the searing white-hot sun, surrounded by glitz and glitter and Eurobabble. The boys had finished their drinks and wandered over to the yachts; any minute now, he knew, they would be asking to go into one of the amusement arcades.

A woman walked past in a cloud of strong perfume, and Philip pulled a face. He wished Chloe was here. She would have sat, people-watching with him; nudging his foot to point out that man over there with the paunch and the toupee and the diamond-encrusted Rolex. She would have smiled and he would have smiled, and they would have said nothing.

Automatically Philip felt again for the small paper package in his pocket. He had bought Chloe a present from one of the shops which he and the boys had wandered into. A slender gold chain, with a drop like a tear suspended from the end. He had not been planning to make a purchase—but he had seen it and had suddenly thought of Chloe's slim neck, her finely modelled bones, her milky skin. And her furious anger with him last night.

Philip closed his eyes and massaged his brow. He wanted to make amends; to make things right again. The uncertainty of his job was pushing them in different directions, putting a strain on both of them. He shouldn't have said the things he'd said last night. He shouldn't have attacked her; shouldn't have got drunk. At the same time, he'd meant some of what he'd said. He dealt with problems differently from the way she did. He wasn't as strong-minded as Chloe. Few people were.

The first time he'd met her, she had shone out like a beacon. He had agreed to take an evening class temporarily as a favour for a friend—and had found himself welcoming in a brand new intake of pupils.

'I won't be your regular teacher,' he'd announced, 'but for the first few weeks I'll be starting you off on this fascinating—and underrated—topic.' He'd smiled, and an appreciative titter had gone around the room. The only person who had not smiled had been a girl sitting near the front with fair hair and clear blue eyes. She'd raised her hand and he'd nodded to her, glad to have an excuse to look at her.

'You do know what you're talking about?' Her eyes had met his, rather fiercely. 'I'm paying a babysitter so I can come to this class. I don't want some substitute who can't teach me what I need to know.'

Philip had gazed back, impressed by her spirit.

'Let me reassure you,' he'd said. 'I have a degree in accounting and I've worked in a bank for four years. The one thing I do know is how to keep books. But if you'd prefer to wait for your permanent teacher, or take another class . . .'

'No,' the girl had interrupted coolly. 'That's fine. Let's get on with it.'

After this initial exchange, he had found it hard to keep his eyes off her. Under the pretext of finding an example to use in the lesson, he had asked her why she wanted to learn book-keeping and had learned that she was a dressmaker, setting up her own business from home.

Later on, in the coffee break, he'd discovered that she was single and that she had a degree—a better degree than his—from the Courtauld Institute.

'You could get a well-paid job somewhere,' he'd said cautiously. 'Afford a nanny, or a nursery . . .'

'I expect I could,' she'd replied, shrugging. 'But what would be the point in that?'

'Fair enough,' he'd said, and had taken a sip of coffee, wondering how soon he could ask her out.

In the end, he'd left it until his final lesson to suggest a pizza together one night. She'd looked at him consideringly for a while—then nodded. Philip had felt a flicker of amusement pass over his face.

'Are you sure about this?' he'd said jokingly.

'Yes, I am,' said Chloe seriously. 'That's the point. I have to be.'

Sam had been a part of their relationship right from the start. At the pizza restaurant she'd slightly defiantly produced photographs of her little boy and he'd admired them with more sincerity than he might have expected of himself. When, towards the end of the meal, he had asked her if she'd like to meet up again, she'd nodded, and said, 'On Sunday.' She'd flushed slightly. 'At the park. I'll bring Sam.' And her blue eyes had met his, daring him to disagree.

A few months on—by which time he was practically living at her flat and they were planning a holiday together—he'd jokingly reminded her of her eagerness to introduce Sam to him. To his surprise, he'd found himself touching a raw nerve.

'I didn't want to spring him on you,' she'd said stiffly, looking away. 'I didn't want you to think he was some kind of . . . secret.'

'Well, you did the right thing,' he'd said, coming forward quickly to hug her. 'All second dates should have young children as part of the cabaret.' He'd shrugged, deadpan. 'To be honest, you on your own can get pretty boring.'

'Shut up,' she'd said, half smiling. 'You creep.'

The truth was, Philip had fallen in love with Sam almost as quickly as he had with Chloe.

Who could not fall in love with such a friendly, energetic, good-natured three-year-old? A three-year-old who came to Sunday league matches and roared with excitement every time you kicked the football; who asked for ice cream in the middle of winter; who clung to your leg affectionately every time you tried to leave? The first time he'd called Philip 'Daddy', Philip had stiffened and glanced at Chloe. But she wouldn't meet his gaze, wouldn't provide him with the answer. Her face had been rigid; breathless; waiting.

'Daddy?' Sam had said again.

'Yes?' Philip had found himself saying to Sam, his voice slightly heightened by emotion.

'What is it, Sam?'

'Look.' Sam had pointed to some nameless thing in the distance, and Philip had pretended to follow his outstretched finger. But his eyes were on Chloe; on the pink gradually suffusing her cheeks. She'd looked at him and he'd raised his eyebrows questioningly. And, very slowly, she had nodded.

They rarely talked about Sam's real father. They rarely talked about the past, full stop.

There must have been other lovers, but they had never discussed them. All he knew was that there had been a lot of pain in Chloe's life. She had once told him that she wanted to start again with him—to wipe the slate clean. He had not argued. Whatever he could do to help her, he would.

A familiar, raucous laugh interrupted his thoughts and he looked up. At first he couldn't see his boys—then, as Sam laughed again, he spotted them. To his astonishment and slight horror, they were deep in conversation with a woman of about forty. She was dressed in a tight white suit with bleached blond hair and a gold handbag on a chain, and looked as though she belonged on one of the larger, shinier yachts.

As Philip watched, Sam grinned, then pulled up his T-shirt, pointing out the logo on the waistband of his surfing shorts. Hastily Philip got to his feet and crossed the road.

'I'm sorry,' he said, as he approached the woman. 'My sons have been bothering you.'

'Not at all,' said the woman in a Scandinavian accent. 'They have been charming. Most amusing.' She smiled at Philip.

'Well, I'm glad to hear it,' said Philip awkwardly. 'However, it's really time that we went, so—'

'I was just offering Agnethe a drink,' said Sam boldly. 'Shall we all have one together?'

'Sam!' exclaimed Philip, half horrified, half wanting to laugh. 'I really don't think . . .' He glanced at Agnethe, expecting her to chime in with a refusal; a dismissal which he could thankfully use to prise the boys away. But her mouth was curved in a smile and as he looked at her, she raised her eyebrows invitingly. In spite of himself, Philip felt himself flushing slightly. 'We really do have to go,' he said brusquely. 'Come on, boys.'

'Bye, Aggie,' said Nat as they walked away, and Philip gave him a despairing look. 'She said I could call her Aggie,' Nat retorted defensively. 'I couldn't say her proper name.'

'Agnethe,' said Sam with relish. 'Agnethe the angel. I chatted her up.'

'I hope you did nothing of the kind.'

'Well, I did. Didn't I, Nat? She was well on for it,' he added with satisfaction.

'Sam!' said Philip.

'He did chat her up,' confirmed Nat. His gaze wandered to a nearby plastic sign and his steps began to slow down. 'Dad?'

'What?' Philip looked down at his son, wondering if one day Nat, too, would be approaching strange women twenty-five years older than him, and offering them drinks. Somehow he couldn't see it.

'Can I have a bag of chips?'

'OK,' said Philip. 'One bag of chips each.' He fingered the package in his pocket. 'And then let's go back and see Mum.'

Chloe sat opposite Hugh, barely able to breathe, her heart thumping hard. She felt almost dizzy from the sun on her face; from the three glasses of wine she had drunk; from the feel of his eyes, fixed on her like silent questions. Every time his hand brushed against hers, her heart gave a little flurry. Deep inside her, she could feel a more basic, primitive beat. An ebb and flow of desire, growing more powerful by the second.

They had exchanged barely three remarks since Hugh had sat down. In the still air between them, a wordless, silent dialogue had grown, which had gradually become more in-timate, more intense. Every gesture, every look, had a meaning. And there was no doubt what it was.

Hugh had ordered some food. It lay between them, untouched.

The restaurant was filling up with people, and out in the courtyard a group of guitarists had begun to play a new, pulsating rhythm. The air was an intoxication against Chloe's skin: a cocktail of heat and light and thrumming, sensuous music which made her body want to move in time. When she closed her eyes and inhaled, she could smell an aromatic mix of garlic, thyme and rosemary. And, from across the table, the faintest hint of Hugh's aftershave. After all these years, his skin had the same dry, musky scent.

The thought sent a dart of longing shooting through her, so strong it frightened her. She took a sip of wine and another, then as she looked up, saw that he was watching her. Their eyes locked as though in acknowledgement. Chloe tried to swallow and found she couldn't.

Silently, Hugh replenished her wine glass. A waiter removed the untouched plates of food: neither of them even looked up.

'It's difficult to talk,' said Hugh after a while. 'With the music, and the . . .' He tailed off vaguely and stared, frowning, at the table, as though working out a mathematical problem.

Then he looked up. 'I could ask them if there's anywhere . . . more private.'

There was silence. Then very slowly, Chloe nodded.

As the car headed back up into the mountains, Sam's spirits descended into gloom. He had enjoyed the morning strolling along the seafront, eyeing up all the Eurotrash women and coveting their husbands' cars. Now it was back to the pool and the pitiful selection of cable channels.

'Can we go to San Luis?' he said as they passed the sign. 'See what it's like?'

'Not right now. I want to get back to the villa.'

'But it's boring.'

'If you find it boring, Sam,' said Philip, 'I can easily find you something to do.'

Sam scowled and sank back in his seat.

They approached the iron gate leading from the road into the dry field and he glanced idly out of the car window. To his surprise, through the iron grille, he saw Jenna's face. She was throwing back her head and laughing and . . . smoking? And there was another head with hers. She was with people.

Bloody hell, thought Sam, sinking back into his seat. Something's going on. There's a good time going on. And I'm bloody well going to be part of it. As Philip parked the car in the drive, he glanced at his watch and looked at Nat.

'I think The Simpsons is on, Channel 9,' he said casually. 'Double bill.'

'Cool!' said Nat.

'Television?' said Philip incredulously.

'The Simpsons, Dad,' said Nat, rolling his eyes at Sam, and scampered out of the car.

Sam got out too, but did not follow Nat into the house. Casually he bent down to retie one of his trainers and watched as Nat disappeared through the door. A moment later, Philip wandered off, round the side of the villa towards the pool, and Sam stood up. He checked his appearance briefly in the car window, then turned his steps towards the field.

He saw them immediately. Jenna and that Spanish bloke who'd spat at the gate, sitting on the ground, sharing a cigarette. And with them—Sam's heart quickened slightly—a girl. A Spanish girl, about sixteen years old, dressed in tight blue jeans and a black T-shirt.

As he approached he felt a little apprehensive. Both the Spaniards were looking at him with slight smirks. What had she told them about him?

'Hi,' said Jenna as soon as he was within earshot. 'Where've you been?'