Champagne Friday
Shelley Costello
Copyright © 2012 by Shelley Costello
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Smashwords Edition: January 2012
CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9
10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19
20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29
30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39
Acknowledgements
I WOULD LIKE to thank you, for picking up (virtually that is) this book. I hope you feel as though you are there in the story and that it makes you smile.
Thank you to Nicola Kirby for unknowingly creating the book title several years ago…‘that would make a great title for a book!’ and here it is.
A huge thank you to Meryl Trussler for her first class editing service. Thank you for bringing the story to life - www.textlaundrette.com
I am grateful to have met Gail Bradley who designed the cover for Champagne Friday. Thank you for knowing exactly what I wanted and creating it effortlessly - www.gailbradleydesign.co.uk
Thank you to 52 Novels for preparing the internal formatting. Thank you Amy for all your help and advice - www.52novels.com
Thank you to my two charming and beautiful children, Whitney and Joel. The list of things I have to be grateful to you for is infinite.
for Whitney
Chapter One
‘If you think that you’re going to make me sell the house that I have poured all my hard-earned cash into, so that you can swan off into the sunset with Little Miss Trollop, then you have another thing coming!’ Sarah yelled into her phone before throwing it across the room. ‘Arrrgh!’ she cried, venting her frustration and anger as she went to retrieve her much-loved BlackBerry from where it had fortunately landed – for once – on the sofa.
Sarah Tennyson had just celebrated her 38th birthday, miserably. It had been two months since she discovered her husband, Chris, had been having an affair (for the past six months) with a girl at his office. Despite being a successful beauty editor for the prestigious health and beauty magazine Femme, Sarah’s confidence had been rattled. She was struggling with the fact that not only was the ‘other woman’ thirteen years her junior – Chelsea, just 25, boobs the size of bowling balls to Sarah’s modest, 34B, tennis-ball chest – but she now faced the very real possibility of having to sell their beautiful home here in Brighton, and the shared holiday home in Portugal. She realised now that she had put her whole career on hold for her husband, having passed up a golden opportunity when she was headhunted for an editor-in-chief position at a top beauty magazine in New York.
Sarah flopped down onto the cream leather sofa and stretched out her long, tanned legs. At 5’10”, she could easily have gone into modelling, but instead opted for a degree at London’s Camberwell College of Arts, before interning at a fashion magazine, working her way through the editorial department, and eventually moving onto Femme. She was rarely described as pretty; more attractive, and striking in appearance, with poker-straight, rust red hair that fell to her shoulders, and a fringe that stopped abruptly above almond–shaped green eyes. Like most natural redheads she had a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, which sprinkled their way down her cheekbones towards the jaw line. Her skin was just barely tanned, emphasising her full crimson lips and bright white Hollywood smile.
Her phone bleeped. She picked it up with one French-manicured hand. She wasn’t surprised to see a message from Chris: Will speak to you when you are calm. C. She resisted the urge to throw the phone again – she seriously had to stop taking these situations out on expensive gadgets.
Usually Sarah’s life was the opposite of stressful. She was highly organised, super efficient, and never late – and although her job was hectic, this usually just spurred her on. Frustration and anger weren’t the most familiar emotions to Sarah, and in the past few weeks she had mostly dealt with them by throwing far too many innocent objects about the house. Currently the BlackBerry was taking the brunt of it. Still, she found herself more concerned with the phone’s welfare than her husband’s. Forgiveness was not something she felt she could exercise where Chris was concerned – even though the magazine’s astrologist had just told her that week about Leos being ‘naturally forgiving’.
She had another hour before she needed to leave for work, and decided to stay where she was. Relaxation didn’t come easy to Sarah either. By this time of the morning she was usually taking a post-gym shower, but the previous, very late, night convinced her to work out later. Besides, she didn’t really need to go to the gym every day to stay svelte. Mostly it made her feel good, and gave her time to switch off thoughts of work – and, more recently, of Chris. She rested her head back on the sofa and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of her breathing. Her personal trainer had assured her this was the best way to invoke an immediate feeling of calm, something she currently needed in great quantities. She raised her eyebrows and relaxed her forehead; lately she seemed to be permanently frowning, and felt increasingly intrigued by the wealth of anti-wrinkle creams delivered daily to her office. Being the beauty editor had its advantages, she mused, but it also meant that no one would excuse you for looking like an old hag. She sighed and let her thoughts be dragged back, once again, to the Sunday afternoon when it all happened.
Sarah and Chris had spent a nice morning together before heading over to her parents’ house in Surrey. They had set out shortly after lunch, Chris volunteering to drive. As they meandered through the country roads, Sarah’s impromptu duet with Alicia Keys was abruptly interrupted by a burst of Rihanna’s ‘Na Na What’s My Name’. Quite puzzled, she turned down the stereo and looked over at Chris, whose face was set. The song, which appeared to be coming out of her seat, was actually blaring from a mobile phone jammed between the seat rails. Chris continued to act baffled until Sarah began to read the text messages, which described in great detail what Chris would like to do the owner of said phone (who later turned out to be a girl called Chelsea). Unsurprisingly, that phone didn’t have a chance either – it was propelled with such great force at Chris that he swerved the car off the road. She slapped him, also with great force, before delivering an ultimatum along the lines of, ‘get out of the car, or lose your balls’. He sheepishly chose the former. She left him stranded (though genitally intact) and drove to her parents’ house alone.
The following day, after several very heated discussions, and a few more slaps, he moved out, claiming that he was in fact in love with the Trollop (though he probably said ‘Chelsea’). Furthermore, he wanted to sell the house as soon as possible so that they could set up their little Love Shack (though he probably said ‘domicile’) together.
The matter was now in the hands of two very expensive solicitors, but the phone calls between Sarah and Chris continued on an almost daily basis, with Chris wanting to chivvy the matter along and Sarah holding fast to the house. The problem was: even with her very decent salary, she couldn’t afford to keep it by herself. The house was now worth around £450,000 and, with a mortgage of just £350,000, Chris seemed desperate to get his half of the profit and move on. Chelsea wanted to move nearer to London, and the smitten Chris could do nothing but follow. Although the flat in Portugal was largely bought using an inheritance Chris received shortly after they were married, they would legally split any profits from its sale. No matter how keen Chris was to sell, Sarah was determined to discuss the matter like adults.
In truth, Sarah just could not come to terms with it: her husband, to whom she had devoted herself for the past eight years, had been cheating on her. Worse still, he still didn’t appear to be at all sorry, or begging her for forgiveness; instead, he actually wanted to sell everything they had worked for together – and start a new life with some girl! Some girl thirteen years her junior! With bowling balls for boobs!
Chapter Two
The bell trilled through the halls of The Gables. It was the first morning of the new school year, and students were making their way to registration, excited to be meeting up with their friends. The new entrants were pale and timid as they tried desperately to navigate the maze of corridors and floors that made up one of the best private schools in the south of England. Built at the dawn of the 20th century, The Gables spread across Brighton’s countryside, flanked by spectacular views and costing a mere £3000 per term for the privilege.
Alison Griffiths stepped out of a convertible VW Beetle and fluffed out her blonde, naturally curly, Monroe-style hair. With buzzing thoughts of the term ahead, she gathered up her satchel and crunched across the gravel in black stilettos, hips swinging with every pace. She looked impeccable, as usual: dressed in a straight black pencil skirt and fitted white shirt, she was the epitome of the 1950s blonde bombshell – exactly as she liked it.
She felt her petite, curvaceous body drawing gaze after gaze as she moved (not least that of the female French teacher). Alison was The Gables’ 35-year-old, drop dead gorgeous English teacher. Most of her peers had been so transfixed by the boobs and blonde hair that they were surprised to discover she had graduated from Brighton University with a first class honours degree in English. She had gone on to complete a Masters degree, before moving into her first teaching post at an all girls’ school just outside of London. By now she had been working at The Gables for two years, and had just recently bought a converted barn five miles from the school. It warmed her to live close to the place where she was so beloved, where her students were always delighted by her relaxed teaching style and adolescent sense of humour.
‘Morning, Martin,’ Alison purred as she walked past the science teacher in the entrance hall.
Martin, struck dumb as usual by her voice, turned to watch Alison walking down the corridor. He shook his head as though to break a spell.
Alison made her way to her office on the ground floor, and drank in the view of the wildflower meadows beyond the grounds. She dropped the books onto the desk and smiled to herself as she thought about the year ahead, mentally noting to make a morning appointment with Gillian Knightley, the head. She had received an email suggesting they meet as soon as possible to discuss the finer details of the field trip – and the interviews later in the week for the new PE teacher, for which she would be sitting on the panel.
Since working at The Gables, Alison had remained single, though not for want of offers. She had indulged in the odd fling here and there, but nothing serious. Prior to that she had been in just a few relationships since university, two of which were longer term, and one that resulted in a lukewarm engagement that she soon called off. For the first year, and for a while after the engagement, everything had seemed perfect – till he had begun to pick fights. He finally admitted that the retro style that Alison adored had begun to annoy him. He was loath to pretend to share her love for old movies, for Marilyn Monroe and Audrey Hepburn, for Grace Kelly and Sophia Loren, for Marlon Brando and Charlton Heston, for any of it. She also had a complete stash of I Love Lucy episodes, and when he requested she move them to make way for his own Only Fools and Horses and One Foot in the Grave box sets, well – that really was the last straw.
***
Alison sat down at her desk, started up her computer and began to sort through the pile of post on her desk. There was a gentle knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ she said cheerily.
‘Welcome back,’ Bronwyn, the head’s secretary, beamed as she came in.
Next to Alison, Bronwyn Thorpe was the image of the plain Jane, but no less appreciated for her own sweet nature. Dressed in her usual tweed skirt and jacket ensemble, she was like a miniature version of Gillian. Alison often wondered whether they were secretly related, but was assured by Marian Timpson, the Geography teacher, that they most definitely were not. Apparently, Gillian had a distant relative, thrice removed from royalty, who was in fact a Lord somewhere – though the way she told it, she seemed to think that was royalty enough. Bronwyn, on the other hand, came from Wales, though she had escaped the accent by some unknown means. Bronwyn also wore her mousy brown hair in a straight bob, while Gillian fashioned her naturally wavy, honey-toned tresses into a shorter style. Both, however, appeared matronly and spoke as though trying to swallow a plum.
‘It’s good to be back,’ Alison replied. ‘I can’t believe how much I miss this place when I’m not here.’
‘It has that effect on me too,’ Bronwyn said. ‘Gillian suggested I pop along and give you the details for the interviews. They’ve been brought forward to Wednesday.’ She handed Alison a manila folder. ‘She said she’ll meet with you at lunchtime to go over the candidates and to discuss the field trip. Does that work for you?’
‘Perfect. I have a class first thing, but I can look over these before lunch.’
‘Great. Well, have a good morning.’
‘Thanks, you too,’ Alison said, opening the folder.
Inside she found a typed sheet detailing the timings:
3:00pm Nigel Hall
4:00pm Philippa Shaw
5:00pm Will Hunt
***
Alison flicked through the attached paperwork, tempted to read more but knowing she really had to check her timetable and get her thoughts together for the first class which started in – she checked her watch – ‘Ooh, fifteen minutes,’ she said aloud, hastily closing the folder and setting it on the desk.
Chapter Three
The blender whirred into life, turning the strawberries, natural yoghurt and pineapple juice into a delicate pink liquid. Kelly Reynolds was in her kitchen preparing breakfast, having finished the morning’s yoga practice, showered and dressed for the day. She wore only the sparest make-up, her round, dark brown eyes and thick lashes needing little emphasis. Her long, glossy, chocolate brown hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders, spilling down the sides of her arms. This morning she was dressed in a simple red wrap over a knee length dress, her own compromise between glamorous and casual. If she was a domestic goddess, this kitchen was her temple; it was her favourite place to be, and she could often be found there stirring up something deliciously Italian (her favourite) or baking her signature cupcakes. She switched off the blender and began to sing along to her CD player while she poured her drink into a glass: ‘I’ve got lucky in life, I’ve had plenty to eat, and I saw this world as one big pool of opportunity…’
The sun shining in through the blinds threw bright horizontal lines across the buttermilk walls and onto the limed oak table in the dining room. French doors led onto a long patio and a large garden surrounded by Japanese dwarf willow trees. Many other charming and colourful flowers and shrubs framed the garden, all chosen by Kelly when it was re-landscaped two years ago. The modern five-bedroom house, new when they bought it, sat picture perfect in an acre of land, with a heated pool and stunning views of the surrounding countryside.
She took a sip of the smoothie, enjoying its chilled sweetness. She set it down and took eggs from the fridge, then popped some bread into the toaster. She beat the eggs, added a little butter and milk, and set the pan on the stove to make scrambled eggs. Next she filled an ornate white vase with water and filled it with fresh-picked flowers before placing it in the centre of the table.
She liked such things: fresh flowers and light, airy rooms. They kept her feeling the age she looked, rather than the age she was (39). Her appearance had barely altered since she married Henry thirteen years ago, after they met at a party of a mutual friend. Their romance had blossomed quite quickly, as she had found him so irresistibly handsome and charismatic; and it must have been mutual since he asked for her hand in marriage just six months after they met. They had a traditionally huge, white wedding, single-handedly organised by Kelly down to the napkins, and tainted only by the fact that her parents couldn’t be there to see it. (They had died in a car accident when she was only thirteen, leaving her and her brother and sister orphaned. Their mother’s sister took them under her wing and raised them as she would have raised her own.) Henry had established a success career in investment banking, and accordingly they began their married life in London. A year later, Jasmine was born, and when she was two the family moved out of the city and bought a large family home in Brighton. Before meeting Henry, Kelly had launched herself as a journalist, but since their marriage, apart from some freelancing, she had spent most of her time nurturing their home life. Jasmine was now twelve, and still took up a lot of attention; she was involved in many after-school activities, and demanded regular sleepovers and constant amusement. Kelly also liked to be an active presence at Jasmine’s school, somehow fitting in meetings between holding luncheons and fundraisers for two local charities. Henry often needed to entertain at home to keep up appearances with his employers, too. Considering all that, it was no surprise that she relished these rare moments to herself.
Jasmine appeared in the doorway. ‘Morning, Mum,’ she said, making her way to the stove and peering in the pan. ‘Mmm, scrambled eggs. My favourite.’
Kelly watched her fondly. She had grown to be very pretty, and with her long dark hair looked much like her mother. Judging by how she had already reached her mother’s shoulders, she was destined to be tall like her father, giving her an air of maturity beyond her years.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Jasmine asked, buttering the toast while Kelly served the eggs onto two large white porcelain plates.
‘He already left; he has a breakfast meeting. He wrote you a note – it’s on the table in the hallway.’
Jasmine disappeared from the kitchen and returned with a small blue note card, which she read aloud. ‘“Morning, Princess. Left early and you were sleeping soundly so didn’t want to disturb you. Have a wonderful first day back at school. Love, Dad. X.”’
Satisfied, Jasmine sat down at the breakfast table and helped herself to some toast. Kelly brought the orange juice and sat down next to her daughter, thinking how grown-up she looked.
‘So, are you excited about the new school term?’
‘Very! Charlotte is back from Italy, and Lydia will have returned from Cornwall. It’s so exciting, I can’t wait to see them,’ Jasmine thrilled, the sunlight dancing off her blue eyes. ‘Charlotte said that her mum let her wear a thong this summer. Everyone’s wearing them, you know.’
Kelly stifled the loud ‘No!’ that immediately sounded in her head. Dealing with a twelve year old sometimes felt like dealing with someone with a personality disorder. One minute they could be having a perfectly rational conversation and the next it all went pear-shaped. After countless discussions with other mums at The Gables who had more than one, it turns out that this was quite normal behaviour for a teenage daughter: the mood swings, the irrational requests, the occasional wailing fit, and so on. Jasmine was a pleasant, demure child but in the last twelve months she had changed somewhat. Unfortunately, she was well informed about of the sudden onset of hormones during puberty, and found it a very convenient excuse for bad behaviour.
Kelly was far from prudish, but to her Jasmine was still very much a little girl, not ready to discuss such things – despite the obvious bodily changes, which again had been discussed quite openly, and often in far too graphic detail for Kelly’s liking.
‘A thong?’ Kelly exclaimed, as calmly as she could. ‘Don’t you think you’re a little young to be wearing thongs? I mean, they’re hardly practical for school, are they? And think of the chafing.’ Kelly realised immediately how utterly uncool that had sounded.
‘Chafing? Mum, you wear thongs, and you don’t complain of chafing!’ Jasmine blurted. ‘And they’re far more practical – you can’t see the outline of your underwear,’ she explained, as though this were a recent scientific breakthrough. Although to her, Kelly supposed, it was.
‘Quite,’ Kelly said, trying to formulate an argument to put her daughter off wearing thong underwear at the age of twelve.
‘Perhaps we should just wait a while. And Lydia, how is she?’
Jasmine rolled her eyes and swallowed another mouthful of scrambled egg. ‘Lydia is going to get a thong too,’ she mumbled, undaunted by Kelly’s attempted change of subject.
‘I’m surprised Amanda would allow Lydia to wear a thong. She always insists that her skirts reach her shins,’ Kelly retorted. She was fairly sure that Jasmine was trying to pull off the usual ‘all the other mums let their daughters do it’ strategy.
‘Darling, you know I just worry about you, and don’t want you to grow up too fast. Just enjoy being twelve for now, and we’ll talk thongs when you’re thirteen. Or maybe fifteen,’ Kelly added quickly. Perhaps any age would seem too young.
‘It’s only a thong, Mum, it’s not like I want to wear my bra on the outside of my top or anything ridiculous,’ Jasmine said nonchalantly.
‘I should hope not!’ Kelly said. ‘Anyway, I look forward to hearing all about your first day later – and don’t forget we have a dinner guest this evening.’
Jasmine rolled her eyes again, then said, in a suspiciously rehearsed manner, ‘You’re having dinner guests, Mum… Do I really have to be there?’ She clasped her hands together and gave her best puppy-dog look, which usually worked a treat on Kelly.
‘It’s just one guest. And yes, you do, for dinner at least. You know how your father likes you to be there when he’s entertaining his colleagues – especially this one, because he’s quite a key figure at the bank, apparently.’
‘Okay then,’ Jasmine relented, having achieved a partial victory.
‘Thank you, darling. Now eat up, and let’s get you off to school.’
Chapter Four
Will Hunt drove slowly along the driveway of The Gables, feeling suddenly intimidated by the sheer size of the place.
‘Impressive,’ he murmured, pulling in next to a Beetle.
He adjusted his mirror and checked his hair, which looked suitably effortless. The short, dark hair and olive skin gave him a Mediterranean look, despite his Irish heritage.
It was strange to imagine working back in Brighton after his stint at Kingston University, personal trainer jobs, and teacher training elsewhere. And in such a prestigious position! He could barely believe his luck even getting the interview.
In his last spare moments he looked over the paperwork for what felt like the hundredth time and scanned through the criteria, which he was confident he fulfilled exactly. He certainly looked the part, having led a very healthy lifestyle for most of his 37 years. It was evident from his tall, athletic body that he practised what he preached.
With one last tuck of his light blue shirt, he made his way to the front entrance.
***
Alison tapped her pen idly against the table as she waited for Peter Bengtsson, the maths teacher and deputy head, to return with Gillian for the final interview. She glanced down at her notes from the first two. Philippa Shaw was clearly winning at this stage. At that moment Peter and Gillian entered the room followed by Bronwyn, who announced that the final candidate, a Mr Hunt, was waiting in reception.
It was Alison’s turn to collect the interviewee. She followed Bronwyn out of the room, her heels clicking and resounding loudly as she made her way through the long empty hallway towards reception.
***
‘Mr Hunt,’ Alison smiled, extending her hand. ‘I’m Alison Griffiths, one of The Gables’ English teachers, and one third of your interview panel today.’ This is awkward, she thought, I have to interview someone who looks like a young Marlon Brando. How terribly inconvenient. She then realised she had been gazing into his dark eyes for a moment too long.
Will stood and shook her hand, trying to feign a professional demeanour, while undeniably bewitched by Alison’s beauty.
‘Nice to meet you,’ he managed to say.
‘Shall we?’ She began to walk back down the corridor, moving as swiftly as humanly possible without actually breaking into a run.
‘It’s an impressive building,’ Will said, at length, trying to distract himself with the less arousing subjects of bricks and mortar.
‘Yes, it is,’ Alison replied, relieved by the small talk. ‘It takes a while to get to know your way around, too, with all these floors and rooms. It was built at the turn of the century, and has only ever been a school. The tennis courts are more recent, of course, and there has been extensive building work over the years to add the indoor swimming pool, squash courts and the state-of-the-art gym facility beyond the west wing.’
Will nodded at the floor. ‘That is impressive,’ he said, hoping that he could get through the interview without turning into a drooling, bug-eyed cartoon. Focus, he told himself inwardly. He tried to remind himself of the air hostess he was dating (though, as with previous girlfriends, he couldn’t imagine it lasting more than a few months).
‘Here we are,’ Alison said, opening the door to the Oak Room where the interview panel sat, waiting.
***
‘We’ll be in touch,’ Gillian Knightley said afterwards, her chair screeching backwards as she stood to show Will out.
‘I’ll walk you back to reception,’ Alison offered. She was glad that the interview was over, though it had gone well – mostly she was embarrassed at finding herself so lost in the contours of Will’s face that Gillian had to repeat her name twice to get her attention. Even objectively, disregarding her obvious attraction to him, she was sure that Will Hunt would be perfect for the position, far exceeding the other candidates. He lacked in experience but certainly had the knowledge – and, as he had said himself, he was excited to start his teaching career.
They walked in silence back to reception. Neither had any inkling of just how similar their feelings were.
‘Well, it was a pleasure to meet you,’ Alison said, as they emerged onto the outside steps.
Will went to ask her what she was doing later then held back, keenly aware that he’d need to keep things professional if he was to get a follow-up interview. Besides, even with no ring to be seen, she must have had a serious boyfriend, at least. A woman like that cannot be single. He had forgotten to think of anything else to say.
Alison smiled, wishing she could talk to him and find out more about him, beyond his CV and his knowledge of sports. He really does look like a young Marlon Brando, she thought, dreamily.
Suddenly his mouth seemed to engage itself before his brain, and he spluttered out, ‘The pleasure was all mine.’ He had a strange urge to throw himself off the steps. The pleasure was all mine – what am I thinking? She’s an English teacher, I’ve just had an interview, and here I am talking about ‘pleasure’, like we just spent the last 90 minutes chatting intimately over dinner! he ranted to himself.
Alison blushed. ‘Thank you,’ she said, unable to add anything else for fear of calling him a dreamboat and swooning like a teenager. If they stood on these steps for much longer, Peter – or, God forbid, Gillian – might appear and ask what the hell was keeping her.
‘I must be going. Thanks again,’ Will choked out, trying to regain his composure as he descended the steps.
‘Bye,’ Alison said, hurrying back inside reception. Her cheeks felt hot, and she hoped against hope that it wasn’t visible.
‘Everything okay?’
She jumped, startled to see Bronwyn standing right in front of her.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ She took a breath. ‘Better get back and finish up.’
***
Alison returned to the Oak Room to find Gillian and Peter deep in conversation about Will Hunt. As it turned out, her judgement wasn’t entirely clouded by lust. They thought he seemed perfect for the job, and were determined to extend an offer after a second interview – just to take him through the curriculum, and to tour the school and sports and gym facilities. Alison agreed, wondering if this turn of events was for the best or the worst. It was difficult to tell, with her cheeks flushing madly and a somersaulting stomach. Gillian wrapped things up, saying that she would inform the other candidates and have Mr Hunt invited back for a second interview next week. She added that, as she and Peter would be up to their necks in paperwork, perhaps Alison would like to take him through the curriculum and conduct the tour, with them joining her for the last twenty minutes?
Unable to find more tactful words for, ‘Absolutely not,’ Alison just nodded.
Chapter Five
‘So the agent from Portugal called yesterday afternoon, and confirmed that they’ve had an offer on the apartment,’ Sarah was saying, sounding quite unlike her usual collected self. ‘Since yesterday evening I’ve had six calls from Chris wanting to discuss the sale, but I just can’t bring myself to talk to him.’
It was late on Saturday morning, and Sarah, Alison and Kelly were sitting side by side on the sun loungers next to the pool. Summer had been exceptionally hot and was persisting into September. Forecasters said an Indian summer was most definitely on the cards, and so, rather than going out to lunch as usual, they decided to enjoy the sun and eat outside in Kelly’s opulent garden.
Sarah and Alison had been good friends since Alison dated Sarah’s brother at university. Kelly’s daughter Jasmine went to school at The Gables, leading Kelly to meet Alison at one of their charity fundraiser; and later, when Kelly invited Alison to a barbeque, Alison brought Sarah along. All three hit it off in an instant. They had since become the best of friends, and they tried to make time to meet up at least once a week, even if it was just for a drink. It helped that Sarah’s job allowed her to try out a variety of beauty, spa and wellness packages, so the three of them could escape frequently on spa weekends, retreats and days out – all in the name of beauty journalism!
Sarah sighed and took a long sip of Pimms. Her face softened. ‘Mmm, this is delicious. Just what I needed,’ she said, smiling at Kelly.
‘I thought you might need it. And I know it’s your favourite,’, Kelly said, having made up a jug with the customary lemonade, ice, mint, cucumber, orange and strawberries.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Alison said, looking across at Sarah. ‘I mean, you’ve got those big shades on but you can’t fool us, you know – we can hear all the sleepless nights in your voice.’
‘I really don’t know,’ Sarah faltered. ‘I mean, you think you have it all: the dream job; the gorgeous guy; the lovely house. And then bam, it’s gone. Overnight.’
Kelly leaned across to Sarah and gave her a hug. ‘It’s okay to cry. I know you rarely do, but you are human, and you can cry. I once read this beautiful poem – I can’t remember who it was by, and it was quite long – but it was about a boy who wanted to know why his mum cried sometimes. Anyway, I don’t remember all the verses, but it said that God gave tears as something special, just for women. I think that’s quite a lovely thought, really, and it makes crying seem more positive than the sadness that usually surrounds it. So you go ahead and cry,’ she urged.
Sarah smiled and leaned back on the lounger, sinking into the cushion beneath her. ‘That’s a nice thought. I just want to get to a point where I have accepted it, because I am sure then I could think about getting another house and moving on – but right now, I’m just finding it all quite hard to take in. The fact that he is in love with someone else, and that he wants to sell everything we have built together, and expects me to just go along with it all…’
‘I think you’re doing great,’ Alison said, firmly, but with an edge of concern to her voice. ‘And you should just take as much time as you need. In the meantime, try and focus on work, and what you can do, rather than what you can’t. You just need a little time to get your head around it all. And he needs to accept that and back his big arse up a bit.’
‘He does have a big arse,’ Sarah said. ‘I used to think it was quite attractive but I think now he’s getting older, it’s more of a… bubble butt.’ Kelly and Alison laughed. ‘Seriously though – aside from his arse, which, yes, he does need to back up – I don’t know what I’d do without you two, honestly,’ she said, pointedly. ‘Now come on, let’s get off the subject, or you’ll have me bagging on The Trollop again, and we don’t want to go there. What’s been going on with you two?’
‘Bag on The Trollop all you like, we don’t mind,’ Kelly insisted. ‘If it were me, I’d be doing more than just bagging on her,’ she continued. She was trying to make Sarah feel better, but quickly remembered that dwelling on this woman was probably not going to help her get over anything.
Alison sensed the need for a change of subject.
‘I have met the dreamiest man,’ she abruptly announced.
Kelly and Sarah both sat up, agog.
‘When? Where?’ Kelly grilled her.
‘You dark horse, you,’ Sarah chuckled. ‘Come on then, details, please.’
‘It’s not that exciting, really. I mean, I have met him, but not in the romantic, “met someone” sense. Actually, he came for the PE teacher interviews. Gillian Knightley wants to hire him and, worse still, she wants me to do the second interview by myself!’
‘Hang on a minute – you’ve lost me. Start from the beginning,’ Kelly said.
Alison swung her legs over the side of the lounger and took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ she said theatrically, as Kelly and Sarah sat on the edge of their loungers in thrall. ‘I was picked to help interview for the new PE teacher. I got the list on my first day in, flipped through it, and got on with my work. Then, on Wednesday afternoon, Gillian and Peter – you know, maths teacher slash deputy head?’
‘Oh yes, I remember him,’ Kelly interrupted. ‘Doesn’t he have one leg shorter than the other and walk with a sort of hobble?’
‘No, that’s Martin Hawthorne. Science teacher. Peter is the quiet blonde one. Tall, Swedish,’ she went on.
‘Oh him, with the surname I can never pronounce. I always call him Peter Ike,’ Kelly said.
‘Ike?’ Sarah raised an eyebrow.
‘You know, as in IKEA.’
Sarah laughed. ‘You and your word association.’
‘I’m sure I’ll call him that one day by accident. Anyway, sorry, side tracking, carry on.’
‘So Gillian and Peter Bengtsson,’ Alison smiled as she enunciated the name, ‘had already fetched their two from reception, so it was my turn to get this one. I couldn’t believe it when I rounded the corner and lay eyes on him. He must have thought there was something wrong with me. I couldn’t stop staring at him.’
‘What’s his name?’ Sarah asked.
‘Will. Will Hunt,’ Alison said, gazing skywards for a moment to recollect his face. Those gorgeous eyes, that tousled hair. She sighed at the mere thought of him.
‘Even his name sounds attractive,’ Kelly remarked.
‘He is dreamy. Just like a young Marlon Brando,’ Alison said. ‘Tall, dark, and handsome.’
‘What are the chances of that? Your new PE teacher looking like one of your favourite movie stars!’ Sarah grinned at Alison.
‘So how did the interview go?’ Kelly asked.
‘It was… hard,’ Alison said.
It takes mere seconds for Sarah and Kelly to erupt into giggles.
‘Oh honestly, you two. Minds in the gutter,’ she pretended to scold them. ‘It was hard to concentrate, is what I was going to say. When Gillian handed me the questions I was so lost in thought that she was just sitting there, prodding me with the paper – “Alison? Alison!”’
Kelly and Sarah laughed again.
‘I can just imagine it,’ Sarah said. ‘I remember having this interview once, before I met Chris, and having the biggest crush on the guy who was interviewing me – it was awful. I spent the whole interview planning about our life together, losing my train of thought entirely.’ She cringed – she just had to mention Chris and remind herself all over again. ‘Perhaps I should have told that guy how I felt, and then I might have married him rather than the two-timing git I ended up with,’ she said, venomously.
‘Well, you didn’t know that at the time,’ Kelly said. ‘And he has obviously had some late-thirties crisis or something, because he has been a model husband – right up to the point of growing a bubble butt and being a two-timing git,’ she added.
‘Yes, quite right, you weren’t to know. As for this interview,’ Alison said, rapidly switching back to the safer subject: ‘Somehow I managed to ask my questions without gazing too adoringly into his eyes, and to walk him back to reception without throwing myself into his arms, either. But we did stand awkwardly for a few minutes on the steps like the end of a first date, or something. I almost jumped out of my skin when I finally went back inside and Bronwyn the secretary materialised right in front of me!’
‘Not the most appropriate moment to ask him out, then, really,’ Kelly said.
‘There isn’t going to be an appropriate moment to ask him out,’ Alison corrected her. ‘He is going to get the job, and you know how The Gables view relationships between the staff. Remember the last PE teacher?’
‘What? What happened with the last PE teacher?’ Sarah gasped. ‘Honestly, here I am thinking you work at some stuffy crypt of a private school, and yet you’ve got more gossip than any columnist I know!’
‘Butch Barb,’ Alison said, giggling. ‘Oh, honestly, we are so mean sometimes – but seriously, she was built like some discus-throwing, Olympian hulk. And when I say “butch” I mean just that.’
‘Ah,’ Sarah said, winking at Kelly, ‘I get your meaning. Who did she sleep with, then?’
‘Why, Aurore Bouvier, the French teacher, of course. It was just a broom-cupboard rendezvous waiting to happen. I think it was Bronwyn who caught them at it the first time, and she kept it quiet – well, she did tell a couple of us, but kept it quiet from Gillian, anyway. The second time it was a student, who then told her parents, who then obviously called the school, and Barb ended up leaving. I’m not sure if she was dismissed or they were told one of them had to go and they should decide between themselves. No idea. But she left, and since then Aurore has had the hots for me.’
Sarah and Kelly burst into surprised laughter.
‘It’s no laughing matter. I can feel her eyes burning through my skirt as I walk down the corridor,’ Alison said, soberly.
‘Well, if I were a man, or on the other side of the fence, I’d be looking at you as you walked down the corridor too. Have you seen yourself walk?’ Sarah asked incredulously.
‘It’s the shoes! I can’t help it! They just make my bum wiggle,’ Alison protested, affecting innocence.
‘Yeah, like you don’t know about it,’ Sarah smirked.
‘Like Marilyn always said, blondes have more fun,’ Alison said.
‘It certainly sounds like this blonde is about to,’ Kelly said cheekily.
‘I wish,’ Alison said. ‘By the time I got back to them, Gillian and Peter had decided he was definitely the one for the job. Which I can’t dispute, as he has all the necessary attributes.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ Sarah said knowingly.
‘Oh, stop it,’ Alison laughed. ‘So now he’s coming back on Friday and I have to go through the curriculum with him, take him on a tour – not of the broom cupboard, mind,’ Alison said, before Sarah could make a comment – ‘and then Gillian is going to join us at the end, at which point, presumably, I offer him the job.’
‘What a dilemma,’ Kelly mused. ‘On the one hand, it’s been a while since a gorgeous man came into your bed – I mean, your life,’ she giggled. ‘And he sounds difficult to pass up. But, on the other hand, you love your job – and there aren’t many English teacher positions with the kind of salary and benefits you can get at The Gables.’
‘She does have a point,’ Sarah said. ‘I mean, you have a great job, and you just got your new place. Is he really worth it?’
‘Firstly, nothing has happened. And secondly, we are missing one important detail here: I haven’t said that he is even remotely interested in me. It’s highly likely he already has a girlfriend.’
‘Good point,’ Sarah said, with mock gravity. ‘Or a boyfriend. Or both, if he’s that handsome.’
‘I just can’t see how someone so attractive and successful can be single.’
Kelly chimed in: ‘Er, hello! Look in the mirror!’
‘Exactly!’ Sarah said. ‘Besides, if he is single, then he is definitely going to be interested in you. No straight, single man in his right mind would not be interested in you.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Alison said graciously. ‘Once I bring myself back down to earth, I’ll have to ignore my attraction to him somehow, and keep things professional between us. I love my job. No man, not even the reincarnation of Marlon Brando, is going to jeopardise that.’
‘Well said,’ Kelly said. ‘Now, I’m going to leave you two ladies here and rustle up some lunch. If we run out of Pimms I can bring out some wine.’
‘Do you want any help?’ Sarah asked, already knowing the answer.
‘No, but thank you. Just enjoy the sun and save any hot gossip until I get back,’ Kelly said, slipping a long, coral summer dress over her swimsuit and putting gold sandals on her pedicured feet.
‘The only thing hot about me at the moment is my temper,’ Sarah muttered.
‘It just needs a channel,’ Kelly suggested. ‘Imagine all that fiery passion going into a torrid love affair – how much fun would that be?’
‘Such a vivid imagination,’ Sarah said, laughing. ‘I should get you a regular column.’
‘What are we having today, then, Nigella?’ Alison asked. She always looked forward to Kelly’s cooking, being both unwilling and unable to ever do it herself.
‘Asparagus and lemon carbonara.’
‘Yummy,’ Alison said. ‘You are such a great cook,’
‘Cooking is all the better when you have friends to cook for,’ Kelly replied warmly.
‘We appreciate it,’ Alison said.
‘Yes, we do. And I brought wine with me, I put it in the fridge when I came in,’
‘Okay, I’ll open that one then. Back in ten.’ She turned and vanished into the cool darkness of the house.
Chapter Six
‘Okay. No, I understand. That’s fine. We can go next week. I’ll see you tomorrow – I hope it goes well. I love you,’ Kelly said softly into the receiver.
Henry had called to say that he had a late meeting with a business associate at the bank, and would need to stay overnight in London. He and Kelly had made plans earlier in the week to go out for dinner, which had become a rare occasion since his things got hectic at his job. Although Kelly was grateful for the lavish lifestyle they were able to lead, she would happily have traded a little luxury to be able to see her husband more often. After Sarah’s revelation, she had wondered, vaguely, about her own husband’s fidelity; but she quickly felt ashamed for even thinking it. It was a ridiculous notion – Henry was the most loving, attentive, affectionate man she had ever known, and they had been devoted to one another for over a decade. He never took any interest in other women, unless she was pointing someone out to him – and even then, he would only nod with disinterest, barely looking in their direction. No, Henry was not the cheating type, and she could see herself that he was genuinely busy. He was always getting calls, especially from this new business associate, with whom Henry was bringing in major new clients. She had met him over dinner and he attested to the incredible pressure he and Henry were facing. She had finally decided that she was being paranoid, trying to make her best friend’s problems her own.
Kelly picked up her mobile to read a message from Sarah, who was convinced that her boobs had shrunk, and no wonder Chris ended up with a trollop who has enormous boobs. Kelly messaged her back to say that her boobs were just perfect, and that a nice bum was much better than comically oversized boobs, which would be keeping her waist warm in a few years’ time. She asked her whether she wanted to meet up later for dinner, having already arranged for Jasmine to stay over at her friend’s house, and with Henry having to work, again. She leaned back on her white desk chair looking out at the cherry blossoms, missing the abundance of softest pink and purest white that filled their branches in the spring. She had designed the garden with a distinct Japanese theme, and so that each season would bring its beauty to a different part of the garden. During summer, the dwarf willow trees presented their tiny green leaves and delicate pink petals. The foliage was punctuated with explosions of colourful flowers and exquisite marble sculptures – more objects of Kelly’s curation. To the left she could see Venus, the Roman goddess of love and beauty. It was easy to lose herself in the romance of her own private Garden of Eden; when her mobile phone rang, she leapt in her seat.
‘Hello?’ Kelly answered.
‘I thought I’d ring rather than text back.’ It was Sarah. ‘Thanks for your message. All those hours in the gym are paying off,’ she added, seeking further bum-related reassurance.
‘Yes, they are – but you had a great bum anyway. Forget about that woman, I’m serious – those boobs will migrate south by the time she’s 30, and she’ll have a hunchback from the sheer weight of them,’ Kelly concluded.
Sarah laughed. ‘I have a meeting with the solicitor today, and then a work meeting, but I’m not sure whether it will run on – so I should probably say I can’t make it, sorry,’ Sarah said, with a sincere tone of disappointment.
‘Oh, that’s okay. It’s late notice. I was going to call Alison and ask her too.’
‘You should, she’ll need it. She’s doing the second interview today.’
‘I totally forgot! I’ll text her now.’
‘Okay. I’d better get back to work. As usual, we’re frantically trying to finish the issue in time,’ Sarah said. She tended to act more or less manic as the magazine’s publishing schedule dictated.
‘I’ll speak to you later – and hope the meetings go well.’
‘Thanks – same to you, for the dinner. Bye.’
‘Bye.’
***
Meanwhile, Alison was pacing her office, trying to calm herself down.
‘I can do this,’ she said to the wall, an affirmation to help her through her second meeting with Will Hunt.
She hadn’t slept at all well last night, throwing herself about under the blankets as she imagined the day unfolding again and again. She was just as agitated today, and it showed.
She heard her phone bleep, a welcome interruption. She dove her hand into her bag to find a text message from Kelly, wondering whether she wanted to meet for dinner. Most definitely, she replied. By the time this is finished I’ll be in serious need of alcohol. Suggest I stay over? Her reply went through and she resumed pacing the floor.
She had chosen a pinstriped navy trouser-suit today, painstakingly tailored to her curves, and her most prized pair of Christian Louboutin caramel leather ‘Décolleté’ heels – a gift from her mother. Being an only child, especially the only child of very wealthy parents, did have its advantages. Mr and Mrs George Griffiths lived in Hove, just a few miles from their daughter, in a street dubbed ‘Millionaire’s Row’: unsurprisingly, one of the most expensive addresses in the Brighton and Hove area. Despite living in the midst of several celebrities, in a huge Victorian house with alluring sea views, they were an introverted couple and maintained a relatively normal existence. George, having built his fortune on his inheritance of classic cars, was now able to spend most of his time with Caroline travelling, enjoying early retirement, and spoiling their beloved daughter.
Alison took out her compact and obsessively reapplied lipstick to her already flawless, soft, pillar-box red lips. She reached for her Chanel No. 5 – which always brought to mind Marilyn Monroe, and her coquettish response when asked what she wore in bed: ‘Why, Chanel No. 5, of course!’ – and dabbed a little on her wrists and behind her ears. She shook out her curls and smiled to herself. It was just a routine interview. How hard could it be?
***
Will Hunt arrived with five minutes to spare, but decided to go straight in and wait. Although he was delighted to get the call back from The Gables, he was beyond nervous at the thought of meeting that Alison Griffiths again. She hadn’t left his mind since they parted ways on the steps. His mind kept replaying the moment they met, and nothing else. It was a completely foreign feeling for him, considering his usual indifference towards women - even Katy the air hostess, who had called him several times over the last five days trying to meet up, entirely in vain. He knew that he should tell her he was no longer interested, but he couldn’t gather his thoughts for long enough to make the call. Going to bed at night he thought of Alison: her hair (beautiful, downy blonde curls that bounced when she walked), her perfect features, her lips… at which point he fell straight into dreaming about her, and woke into thinking about her once more. He decided that it was a schoolboy crush – somewhat literally so. He had his heart set on working at The Gables, and knew that entertaining these fantasies could only lead to trouble. On the other hand, he thought wryly, if he didn’t get the job he would most definitely be asking her out. Assuming she was single, of course.
***
Alison rounded the corner to reception just as Will entered the building. Her heart and stomach did synchronised flips at the sight of him. Was it possible that he looked even more handsome now than he did before?
Will looked smart in navy trousers and a white shirt that complemented his tanned skin. He smiled, even while thinking, No, she’s not single – impossible.
‘Hello again,’ Alison said breathily, returning the smile.
‘I was delighted to be asked for a second interview,’ Will said, honestly. And to get a second chance to see you, he thought, startled at how close the words came to leaving his lips.
‘I understand Bronwyn gave you the gist of it: we’ll go through the curriculum, do the tour, then meet with Gillian and Peter to sum up. Shall we begin?’ Alison felt dizzy already, leading the way towards the Bay Room – a small, more informal space selected by Gillian for the second interview. Alison had cringed when Bronwyn told her where they’d be, thinking it far too intimate a setting. It was a pleasant enough room, not claustrophobic at all for two people – but she was still concerned, given the particular two people that would be in it today. At least in the Oak Room one could create some distance!
Alison opened the door and offered Will one of the chairs by the bay window, which overlooked the tennis courts below. All that separated them now was a small round table. She took the other seat and began to describe the PE provisions offered to students at The Gables. She avoided looking him in the eyes for fear of giving her feelings away – or throwing the table aside and jumping into his lap. Get a grip, she told herself.
Will gazed intently at Alison while she went through the facets of the PE department. He was listening more to the timbre and rhythm of her voice than to the words, enchanted by the movement of her lips, the way she bit them softly when she paused to think. He began to imagine kissing them and immediately willed the thought away. I will never get this job, or probably any other for that matter, if I throw myself at an English teacher from one of the most highly-esteemed schools in the country, he told himself sternly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and wrenched his attention back to tennis and netball.
There was a knock at the door and Bronwyn entered, bearing a pot of tea.
Alison felt her body relax slightly as Bronwyn busied herself around the room, shuffling papers around to make room for the tray.
‘Thank you,’ Alison said as Bronwyn slipped out. She turned to Will. ‘Tea?’
‘That would be great, thank you,’ Will answered, and watched Alison pour it out into a cup.
They drank their tea over talks of the examinations; Alison blushed and apologised when her knee bumped gently into his.
With the curriculum covered, Will began to discuss sports in general with a fondness that made Alison feel weak. Suddenly the room was stifling her, and with a growing sense of unease she leapt from her seat, knocking the tray and sending a shiver through the chinaware in the process.
‘Shall we start the tour?’
Thank God for that, Will thought. If I stay in this room for another second, I swear I’m going to tell her the truth – that I can’t stop thinking about her, and that I’m, I’m – he searched for the right word – crazy about her.
Alison reached for the door and took a deep breath of air, which seemed much fresher and cooler in the corridor.
‘Would you mind if I used the restroom first?’ Will asked, needing some time to collect himself.
‘No, of course not – this way.’ Alison waved him through, grateful for the opportunity to stall before wandering the beautiful grounds of The Gables with the man of her dreams beside her. Except he isn’t the man of my dreams, he’s the new PE teacher. He’s off-limits for dreams.
Inside the quiet restroom Will stood before the sink, staring into the mirror.
‘Why?’ he mouthed, as though expecting his reflection to answer. ‘Why send me the best job ever – and then this?’ he pled.
He ran his hand through his hair, leant over the sink and turned on the cold tap to splash his face, careful to keep his shirt dry. He reached for a paper towel and patted his face, morose.
Alison sat on the magenta tub chair in the corner of the ladies rest room in a slump, as if entirely deflated. She sighed deeply. This is just hopeless. He makes my heart feel like it’s going to beat right out of my chest. At least he’s not an English teacher, she supposed. That would be much worse. But PE and English are chalk and cheese – we won’t come together much at….
‘Oh my God, no!’ she gasped, realising that the new PE teacher would be accompanying her on the residential field trip. How could I have forgotten that? How? She stood up and paced the room once more, out of nervous habit. No point in deliberating now. I have been in here for far too long already.
‘Behave!’ she hissed to herself in the mirror, hoping that the admonishment would hold.
Will was standing patiently by the window. Anywhere else, she thought, I could just walk up behind him, slide my hands around his waist, and melt.
‘Hi,’ he said, stirring her from her fantasy. ‘I thought you’d started without me.’