Learning curves (15 page)

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Jen started.

“Is that your phone?” Daniel murmured. “Why don’t you turn it off?”

Jen nodded as Daniel released her, and she picked her mobile out of her coat pocket. Then she frowned.

“It’s Dad,” she said, intrigued. “Why would he be calling at this time?”

She hesitated. It was strange—she’d only plugged his number into her phone the other day and it felt odd and exciting to see DAD flashing on her phone’s display. But she was here with Daniel. She’d had enough of family in the past few days. This was her time and she wasn’t going to let him intrude.

Purposefully, she pressed END on her phone, then switched it off.

“Everything okay?” Daniel asked gently, and she nodded, letting him scoop her up in his arms and half carry her into the bedroom. Then she let him undress her completely, and she helped him out of his clothes, too. And minutes later they were writhing on the bed, Jen pressing herself into him and trying to remember the last time she felt so exhilarated.

“I want to make love to you,” Daniel whispered, and Jen nodded, maneuvering him on top of her and allowing him to take complete control. As he entered her, she gasped, and as they rocked back and forth she felt her world drop away. Nothing mattered more than the here and now. Daniel inside her. On top of her. All around her. She felt herself rising, falling, spinning, and then at last she gasped, pulling Daniel into her, squeezing him with a strength she didn’t know she had, then, afterward, she didn’t know how long afterward, loosening her grip, lying back in wonderment.

“Fuck me.” Daniel sighed, and rested his head on the pillow next to hers.

“I think I just did,” Jen said dreamily, her limbs entangled with Daniel’s, as she floated off to sleep, flushed, exhausted, and deliriously happy.

Jen awoke to someone stroking her hair, and immediately opened her eyes to see that there was a cup of tea being thrust in her direction.

“I didn’t know if you took sugar,” Daniel said apologetically. “So I put one in—I thought after last night you might need the energy.”

Jen allowed herself a little giggle, then pulled herself up to a sitting position. “You’ve made toast!” she exclaimed and Daniel shrugged.

“There wasn’t much bread left. And you’ve got absolutely bugger-all in your fridge. But yes, I managed some toast if you’re hungry. And I bought a newspaper as well.”

Jen reached up and kissed him. “You are perfect,” she said happily. “This, all this, is just completely perfect.”

Daniel got back into bed and Jen greedily wolfed down a slice of toast dripping with honey, opening up the newspaper and scanning it for interesting stories. Snow was expected in London that week. There had been widespread criticism of transport problems on New Year’s Eve. And Bell Consulting was implicated in the Tsunami corruption scandal according to sources . . .

Jen stared at the page. Bell implicated? How? Why?

She read quickly. A source close to Bell Consulting had uncovered a letter that the newspaper had seen, which suggested that Bell played a role in securing valuable contracts for its client Axiom Construction. A letter thanking George for his help!

She frowned. They couldn’t be referring to the letter she found, could they? Impossible. She still had it. And no one else had “uncovered” it. No one else had seen it.

No one except Gavin.

“Now, I don’t know if you’ve got plans today,” Daniel was saying, “but . . .” He paused. “Is everything okay?”

“Um, no, no, not really,” Jen said, her heart pounding. “I . . . oh, fuck.” Her brain was going into overdrive. It had to be Gavin. That stupid prick had gone and leaked it to a journalist! It was exactly the sort of thing he’d do. Why on earth had she even mentioned it to him? Oh, God, how could she be so stupid? Was that why her father had called last night? Had the journalist called him? Her heart was thudding in her chest. She’d only just got her father back and now she’d betrayed him, all because she hadn’t been able to stop herself wanting to impress Gavin, to let him know just how important she was. Would he ever forgive her?

Her landline phone started ringing, and Jen thought about ignoring it, then changed her mind. If it was going to be her father again, disowning her, then she may as well get it over and done with. With any luck it would be Gavin instead and she could tell him exactly what she thought of him.

She looked at Daniel apologetically and scrambled for the phone, getting there just in time.

“Hello?” she asked tentatively.

“Is this Jennifer?”

Jen frowned. She didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes. Who’s this?”

“Oh, good. Jennifer, this is Emily, your father’s personal assistant. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

Jen realized guiltily that she was speaking to the woman whose every move she had tracked in order to sneak into her father’s office. “Right,” she said resignedly and braced herself. She was being booted off the course, she thought to herself. Her father never wanted to see her again.

Daniel watched curiously from the bed as Jen’s face went from a guilty red to absolute white in the space of a few seconds.

“Right. Okay, then. Yes, immediately,” he heard her say, and frowned.

“Everything all right?” he asked, getting out of bed and sitting on the side as she walked back toward him as if in a dream.

She looked at him vaguely and pulled a sheet around herself as if suddenly noticing her nakedness. “Um, no. Not really,” she said, turning slowly to meet his eyes. “Emily, my dad’s personal assistant, is coming to pick me up in about five minutes. He’s . . . he’s had a heart attack.”

17

Jen stared at the body of her father, limp and still, connected to tubes and machines that beeped and flashed protectively around him, and felt inadequate. Her mind was full of ifs, unable to focus on one before another pushed its way into her consciousness. If only she hadn’t spoken to Gavin about Bell Consulting. If only she hadn’t screamed at her father that she hated him and never wanted to see him again when her mother had told her he was leaving. If only she’d found out the truth earlier. If only she’d answered the phone when he’d called. If only she was a better person, a better daughter. If only she wasn’t so utterly selfish that even now she was picturing Daniel in her bed and wishing that she was there with him and that none of this had happened . . .

It was all her fault, she knew that. And yet all she wanted to do was blame someone else. Gavin, mainly, for talking to the newspapers. It had to be him, she reasoned; it had his name all over it, he was the only person she’d told about the letter. Plus he was the biggest opportunist she knew—doubtless this little leak would earn him brownie points with the journalist and get him coverage of his latest escapade. But did he even stop to think about the impact? Did he ever worry just a teensy bit what might happen to her? Of course not. Bastard.

Well, now he could add giving George Bell a heart attack to his list of achievements. No doubt her father had heard the story was going to run, and it sent him over the edge. She wondered whether it was the story itself or the fact that he thought he’d been betrayed by his own daughter that had caused the attack.

No matter. The point was that Gavin was going to get it. He was going to be so sore by the time she’d finished with him that he’d spend the rest of his life apologizing and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Who else, she wondered, now in her stride. Who else could take some of the blame? Well, there was always her mother—she’d been responsible for sowing the seeds of suspicion in the first place, after all. She’d forced Jen into spying on her own flesh and blood. The man who wanted to be a father to her and whom Harriet had lied about all along. Yes, it was all her fault. Well, hers and Gavin’s.

And then there was Daniel. If he hadn’t asked her out, if he hadn’t
been
there, it might have been different. She’d have picked up the phone, she’d have been there when her father called . . .

Jen felt a little tear trickle down her face and she wiped it away. She was seriously losing the plot here if she was attempting to somehow finger Daniel in the culpability stakes. Him of all people. The loveliest person in the world. She seriously needed to get a grip on herself. It was entirely her fault anyway—she’d been showing off to Gavin, and she’d allowed her mother to talk her into doing the MBA because she was bored, because she wanted something else to do, and spying on her father seemed as good an idea as anything else.

Didn’t mean Gavin wasn’t going to pay for going behind her back, though. Jen had already left one shitty message for him on his mobile phone, and she was planning to leave another one every day until he called her back and apologized. She wanted to know how he’d managed to take a copy of the letter, too. She’d checked, and the letter was still where she’d hidden it, so how would the newspaper have seen it? Not that it mattered now.

Slowly, she moved toward her father’s bed and sat down in the chair next to it. She stared at him, trying to memorize his face, trying to make it fit with the face she used to know so well. The doctor had only said that he would probably pull through; there was no guarantee that he actually would. And even if her father did get better, if he was as angry as she expected him to be, this might be the last chance she got to look at him close up.

As she looked at him, she made a little promise to herself. If he pulled through, she was going to be the best daughter ever. She was going to spend time with her father, make him proud of her. It would be like one of those slow-motion film sequences where they’d run down the beach together, build sandcastles, and have long chats about life and the universe. Maybe not the running bit—he had just had a heart attack, after all. But definitely the talking bit. She looked at her watch. Eleven-thirty A.M. Right, from now on, she was going to look after him. From now on, things would be different.

“How long have you been here?”

Jen was startled to hear her father’s voice, and opened her eyes quickly. She stole a quick look at the clock on the other side of the wall and realized that she must have been asleep for a couple of hours. Okay, so the good-daughter routine started from one thirty P.M.

“A while,” she said tentatively. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I’m so . . .” Without meaning to, she started to cry, all her frustrations and guilt pouring out of her in warm, saltwater tears that clung to her eyes and nose.

“Come on, now,” George said quickly. “There’s no need . . . I’ll be right as rain soon enough. Come on, Jen. Come on, sweetheart.”

“I thought . . . I thought I might lose you. Again,” Jen blubbed, sniffing loudly and taking a tissue from her father’s bedside table. “And I’m meant to be strong for you too, and look at me. I’m hopeless. I’m a terrible daughter.”

“No one’s losing anyone,” George said, his voice weak and breathless.

Jen nodded seriously. “You’re right. Of course, you’re right. So, what happened?” she asked, wiping away her tears and frowning to make herself concentrate on the present situation instead of contemplating her many failings as a human being. She was going to be strong, take whatever her dad had to say to her on the chin.

“Bloody nuisance, that’s what happened,” George said, attempting a wry smile. “Sooner I get out of here the better, wouldn’t you say?”

Jen nodded silently, wondering whether he was talking about the article or his heart attack. “But what . . . what prompted it? The heart attack, I mean,” she asked tentatively.

You,
she imagined him saying.
You were responsible for that article, weren’t you? The one that’s going to ruin my business? You prompted my heart attack . . .

But instead, George shrugged. “I expect it’s my fault for not eating rabbit food and running mindlessly in the gym for hours on end. Bloody waste of time. Can’t abide the places. So, Jen . . .”

She looked at him nervously. “Yes?”

“How was your Christmas? Have you been doing lots of work on your MBA studies? I meant to call, but you know how it is . . .”

He doesn’t know,
Jen realized.
He hasn’t seen the papers yet.
The thought filled her with relief for a second— the heart attack wasn’t her fault! But then she realized that it wasn’t the great news she’d thought it was. He was bound to find out anyway—the word
yet
was a bit of a killer. And when he did find out, he’d probably have a relapse.

She smiled hesitantly, remembering that she was meant to be having a normal conversation. “Oh, you know what Christmas is like,” she said, trying to sound as cheerful as she could. “Too much time spent with family for my liking . . .” She blushed, realizing too late what she’d said. For so long she’d only thought of her mother as family. “I didn’t mean . . . I mean . . . ,” she stammered and George grinned.

“Couldn’t agree more. So, your studies?”

Jen shrugged and smiled slightly. “It’s my holidays, Dad. I don’t want to work.”

The words echoed the conversation they’d had the Christmas before he left. Perhaps
argument
would be a better word for it. She’d slammed a door, he’d threatened to dock her pocket money, and all because he wanted her to study more for her GCSEs.

George smiled in recognition. “How did your GCSEs go, by the way?” he asked softly.

“Straight As,” Jen said, choking slightly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment or two, then George smiled cheerfully. “Good thing I made you work through the school holidays, then, isn’t it?”

“You’re late.”

Jen looked at her friend guiltily and gave her a quick kiss. “Angel, I’m sorry. I’ve been at the hospital. I’m only ten minutes late, though.”

They were at Shepherd’s Bush tube, an outpost of West London that housed the BBC, a small amount of gun crime, increasing numbers of London families who couldn’t afford to live in Notting Hill or Holland Park, and Shepherd’s Bush Market, where you could buy everything from sweet potatoes and plantain to boot-legged DVDs and outfits with more bling than anything in R Kelly’s wardrobe.

Jen had promised Angel two weeks before that she’d be there, and after five reminder phone calls and two text messages, she hadn’t had the heart to cancel, even though going shopping for wedding outfits didn’t quite chime with her new “perfect daughter” routine, especially as she’d only been doing it for two days. Still, she supposed that being a good friend was probably pretty important, too. And anyway, her father had spent most of the day before sleeping, so with any luck he wouldn’t notice that she wasn’t there.

“Fifteen. You’re fifteen minutes late, I have eleven outfits to buy and we only have one afternoon, so fifteen minutes matters, you know?”

Jen nodded seriously. “You really need eleven outfits? I thought you ‘viewed arranged marriages with suspicion and disagreed with the cultural paradigm behind them,’ ” she said, quoting directly from Angel’s own tirade a few months before. “How come you’re so keen to conform now?”

Angel narrowed her eyes. “I am not conforming; I’m supporting my brother in his choice. Life is not black and white, Jen, as you well know—there’s a lot of gray, and the trick is to navigate it without losing too much integrity along the way. I do not want an arranged marriage or to spend my life cooking curry for five children. If my brother’s happy to live that life, then it’s fine by me.”

Jen lowered her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know,” Angel said briskly. “So anyway, to answer your question, yes, I do need eleven outfits, and that’s quite an achievement seeing that I’ve got it down from sixteen. Honestly, Jen, you have no idea. The pre-engagement party, the engagement party, the welcoming her family into our family party, the welcoming our family into hers party, her formal hen party, her real hen party, the pre-wedding dinner . . . and so it goes on. Believe me, eleven outfits isn’t bad for an Indian wedding.” She stopped talking suddenly and looked at Jen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask—how is he?”

Jen smiled. “He’s okay, actually. I mean, the doctors say he’ll be absolutely fine. Another week or so in hospital, a strict diet of lentils and vegetables, and he’ll be back to normal.”

“You’ve been to see him a lot.” Angel asked the question without inflection, almost as a statement. But Jen knew what she was getting at. “A lot” was an understatement, actually—she’d been there for two days straight, telling him all about her life, refusing to buy him chocolate muffins and bringing him bananas and apples instead. It felt almost like it used to when she was younger. Just a bit more self-conscious.

“I guess,” she said noncommittally. “So, where are we doing all this shopping?”

“Follow me.”

Angel led her down through the market to Goldhawk Road and into a shop with silky-looking fabrics adorning the window. Angel grinned at Jen. “This is where we buy the official stuff.”

She raised her eyebrow at the assistant who came wandering over to them. “I need to order five saris,” she said firmly, putting on her mother’s strong Indian accent. “None of your rubbish fabrics, I want pure silk only. And I don’t have much time. Okay? Well, go on then!”

As the assistant ran off obediently, Angel winked at Jen. “I’d make a great Indian matriarch, no?”

Two hours later, they finally left Shepherd’s Bush and made their way down toward Kensington High Street.

“And now,” Angel said, “we go to Karen Millen.”

Karen Millen’s windows were glitz city. It was the January sale and the end of the Christmas party season, and the displays were full of skirts with glittery patterns, bejeweled corset tops, and jackets covered in sequins. Angel’s eyes lit up and Jen rolled her eyes. She could never understand Angel’s fascination with gold and shiny things. She was a vegetarian yoga teacher, which in Jen’s book meant that she should be wandering around in the sort of things that Christie Turlington wore—long lean lines, flowing and natural looking, and not looking like she’d raided J-Lo’s wardrobe.

She trailed after Angel, watching wide-eyed as her friend descended on rack after rack of clothes, taking one of nearly everything and handing it to a rather bemused sales assistant.

Finally, Angel reached the end of the shop and sighed. “Well, that will have to do for now,” she said with a little sigh, and disappeared into the changing rooms, leaving Jen sitting on the chairs usually reserved for bored boyfriends and husbands. She was beginning to understand why men weren’t so keen on shopping—it wasn’t anywhere near as fun when you weren’t buying anything yourself.

She found her eyes wandering to a rack positioned near the changing rooms, on which navy pin-stripe suits were hanging alongside sparkly hot pink vests and silk leopard-print tops. Jen could almost see them on a magazine page explaining how to dress work clothes up for an evening do with a deft change of top and the use of accessories, something she’d never exactly seen the point of since she’d never really distinguished between day-and nighttime dressing. Sure, she’d put on high heels if she was going out, maybe a bit of lipstick, but she found that jeans had a wonderful way of moving seamlessly from work to play. They could be worn to an evening out, but were equally at home slobbing out in front of the television. A perfect combination, she felt.

She looked away again and Angel came out of the changing room in Outfit Number One: the official hen night. Top: not too low, but glitzy enough to say “I’m making an effort.” Skirt: just below the knee in a silk bias cut with enough sequins to look worth the £85 price tag, reduced from £150. Shoes: ridiculously high, but then Angel didn’t seem to have a problem with heels. She was only five-foot-three and had spent her teenage years practicing walking in her mother’s shoes until her feet were almost shaped diagonally. Maybe that’s why she was such a yoga fiend, Jen thought to herself. It was a chance to straighten everything out again.