To Have and to Hold (6 page)

“Would you come into town even though it’s on a Saturday night? Should we go somewhere special?”

“Of course we’d come into town, just as long as it’s not too expensive. Dog trainers aren’t investment bankers, you know.”

“I know, I know. Of course it won’t be expensive. Let me have a think and I’ll let you know.”

“
H
i, darling.” Joe phones while Alice is crawling along Baker Street, sitting in the car at a standstill while throngs of shoppers rush from Selfridges to Marks & Spencer, intent on a bargain. “Where are you?”

“Nearly home. I’ve been with Emily and Humphrey.”

“That’s nice. I’m just phoning to say that tonight’s canceled. Eddie’s got flu. Do you want to go anyway? Just the two of us?”

“You know what I’d really like? I’d really like it if we stayed home tonight. I’ll make something lovely for dinner and we can have an early night.”

“Sounds perfect,” Joe smiles. “There’s nothing I like more than an early night with my wife. I’ll be home by eight. I love you.”

“I love you the
most.
”

“I love
you
the most.” Alice smiles.

“Okay.”

Joe laughs, and puts the phone down, turning to watch a pair of long legs cross the office floor. A tall woman, perhaps in her early thirties, glides in front of his desk, golden hair in a tight chignon, voluptuous curves squeezed into a fitted chocolate-brown suit. She has a mixture of sensuality and confidence, and absolute knowledge that every man on the floor is watching her, given away only by the fact that she refuses to take her eyes off the middle distance as she disappears out of the double doors to the lifts.

“Je-sus.” Joe swivels round in his chair and lets out a long, low whistle. “Now who was that?”

Dave looks up from the phone just in time to see the back of the blonde before the double doors swing shut. “That is the new office ball-breaker. Josie Mitchell. Used to run Risk Arb at Goldmans, is here to be COO of Equity Capital Markets.”

“
That’s
Josie Mitchell? Christ, I always pictured her as a frump. She’s not the new office ball-breaker, my friend. Did you see those legs? She’s the new office babe.”

Dave raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You mean Joe Chambers’s new office babe. Careful, Joe. She’s not some bimbo. You want to be careful with this one. You know what the Goldmans bonuses were last year, so you know we must have paid a fortune to tempt her over here.”

“Maybe she heard there was a better class of man at Godfrey Hamilton Saltz.”

Dave snorts with laughter. “She’s not some bimbo you can screw and forget. That’s all I’m saying. Be careful.”

“Careful? It’s my middle name. Anyway, I have no intention of screwing her. I’m a reformed man, not to mention a married one. Which reminds me”—Joe checks his watch and picks up the phone again—“I have to call the travel agent before I leave.” He punches the number in and sits back on his chair.

“Jackie? Hello, darling, it’s Joe. Did you manage to get a room at the Lygon Arms? You did? Oh, that’s great, you’re an incredible woman, did anyone ever tell you that before?”

“
W
hat’s this?” Alice looks down at the white envelope Joe has just slid on to her pillow. They have feasted on minted lamb salad and tabbouleh, on succulent fresh raspberries and homemade vanilla ice cream. They have drunk a 1990 Bordeaux and two espressos each. They have undressed in the privacy of their dressing rooms and have met again in bed, where Joe has smiled his come-to-bed smile and reached out for her to come into his arms.

And now Joe is lying on his side of the bed reading the
Financial Times,
and Alice is lying on hers, reading the latest novel that everyone is talking about.

“Open it.” Joe puts the paper down and watches her with a smile.

Alice tears the envelope and pulls out a brochure for the Lygon Arms and a faxed piece of paper confirming a reservation for two in the Charles I suite for Friday, April 15, and Saturday, April 16. The coming weekend.

“What’s this for?” She’s smiling.

“For us to have a romantic weekend away. I thought you could do with a rest from our hectic London life, and I know how much you love the country so I thought I’d surprise you.”

“Oh, it is lovely.” Alice grins and rolls over to kiss him. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I can’t wait. Oh no.” She groans, remembering that Saturday night is dinner with Emily and Harry. “What shall I do about Saturday? Emily and Harry.”

“Cancel them,” Joe says. “They won’t mind.”

“But I’m always canceling Emily,” Alice says, “and she’s so excited, and anyway, I want to meet Harry. Can we change our booking? Could we go the weekend after?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve already arranged everything and I’m not changing it.” Joe crosses his arms. “I’m telling you, Emily will understand.”

“No. She always understands and I promised her I wouldn’t do it again. We won’t be able to go.”

“Alice, you’re being completely irrational. If we canceled now we’d still have to pay for it, which is crazy. I’m not going to cancel it.”

“Okay. Then let’s bring them with.”

“And who’s going to pay for it?”

“You are. This will be my birthday present.”

“Your birthday isn’t until May.”

“I know. Consider it an early gift.”

“Alice, the point of this weekend is to have time together.”

“But you love Emily, and anyway, don’t we always have much more fun when we’re with friends?” This last isn’t strictly true in Alice’s case, but she knows that Joe is almost always happier in a crowd, and sure enough, Joe shrugs in agreement.

“Go on then,” he says, seeing how happy it makes her. “You can phone her tomorrow.”

“I hope they come,” Alice says happily. “They haven’t even had sex yet. It might be a bit awkward.”

“They haven’t had sex yet? Well, this will be a golden opportunity for them. She ought to be paying me, not the other way around.” Joe folds up the paper and stretches over to turn off his bedside light.

6

J
oe pushes through the City boys crowding round the bar and manages to catch the attention of the bartender.

“Two Cosmopolitans, two single malts, no ice, and a pint of bitter,” he shouts slowly, enunciating carefully so as to be heard over the Friday night din.

As usual for six
P.M.
on a Friday, Corney & Barrow is packed. Jackets are slung over the backs of stools, ties are being loosened, and the men and women who keep the money pumping through the financial heart of the country are finally able to have a few drinks and relax.

They deserve it. Most are at their desks by six
A.M.
Monday to Friday, and many are lucky if they make it home before ten. Long hours are made bearable by the promise—not always fulfilled—of absurdly large January bonuses and the knowledge that working hard guarantees early retirement and the ability to play even harder.

Joe takes the drinks over to a noisy table in the corner. Dave drains his old pint glass to make way for the new, and the others follow suit, all except Josie, who didn’t want another Cosmopolitan, doesn’t really want to be here at all, but has to get to know her colleagues, can’t be seen as standoffish or distant, and knows the Friday night drink after work is the best possible place to prove she is one of the boys.

That Josie Mitchell is one of the boys is the very last thing on Joe’s mind. He’s been watching her for the last couple of days, looking up from his phone calls with interest as she passes his desk, more interested because she has not noticed him, has not even looked his way.

He had finally found himself in a meeting with her this afternoon, mustering all his charm to introduce himself, and had been surprised by her coolness and lack of interest, so that he was even more surprised when she agreed to join him and a few of the others for a drink.

Naturally Joe is inspired by her apparent lack of interest. He likes cool women, sees them as a challenge, and has maneuvered the seating so he is sitting next to her. Right now he is ignoring her, chatting with other colleagues, biding his time, for he is quite sure that his time will come later that evening, that he will manage to melt her icy exterior, discover whether she is as intriguing as she looks.

“Right, I’m off.” Dave drains his third pint and stands up, reaching for his jacket. “Need to get home to the wife,” he says. “You coming?” He looks at Joe, a hint of a smile, for he knows what Joe is up to.

Joe gestures to his full glass of single-malt whisky. “Not yet,” he says. “I still need a drink or two to relax.”

“I’d better get going too.” Sarah stands up, and within a few minutes the only people left at the table are Joe and Josie.

“I should leave,” Josie says, standing up and offering a smile to Joe for the first time that week.

“At least finish your drink.” Joe nods to her untouched Cosmopolitan. “Can’t let a decent Cosmopolitan go to waste.”

Josie checks her watch and sighs. She has nothing to rush home for, after all, just a stark empty flat in Chelsea, a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, and
Patrick Kielty Almost Live.
And it is quite nice sitting in this cozy corner in this busy bar on a Friday night, and it is only one Cosmopolitan, and she’s curious to see if Joe Chambers really does live up to his reputation.

Hell. It’s only a drink. What harm can it do?

         E
mily has refused point blank to let Joe pay for her and Harry to go to the Lygon Arms, particularly as she has a perfectly good cottage in the country that the four of them can go to. As she said to Alice, it’s not very grand and the food probably won’t be Lygon Arms quality—unless of course Alice decides to take over on that front—but it’s certainly cheaper and they’ll have just as much fun.

And so here they are, Emily and Harry, on a Friday afternoon, standing just inside the foyer of Alice’s house, on their way to driving down to the country, and Harry’s jaw is almost on the floor as he looks around, taking in the vast ceiling, the walls of glass, the sheer size of the place.

“Bloody hell!” he says.

Alice starts to laugh. “I know. Welcome to my museum.”

“It’s amazing,” Harry says, when he finally recovers the power of speech. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“You get used to it after a while,” Emily says. “So now say hello to my best friend, Alice.”

“God, I’m sorry.” Harry grins as he extends a hand. “That was incredibly rude. It just took my breath away for a minute. I’m Harry. Hello, Alice.”

“Hello, Harry.” Alice likes him immediately. He has kind eyes, she thinks. Good teeth. A strong handshake. Yes. He’s good enough for Emily. “Would you like a coffee or something before we go?”

“Do you want to see the house?” Emily nudges Harry, who is again gazing around. “Alice will give you the guided tour if you want. The dogs will be okay outside for a few minutes.”

“We only charge five quid for the tour, or six if you include the coffee.”

Harry laughs. “I’ll do a deal with you. If you give the house tour I’ll do the driving.”

“You mean I should waive the five-pound fee?”

Harry looks indignant. “My chauffeur fees are usually twice that.”

“Okay. Done!” Alice smiles, walking up the stairs and beckoning for them both to follow.

“See?” Emily scoots up behind Alice and whispers in her ear. “I told you you’d like him.”

         A
lice is not what he expected. Emily has spoken of her glamorous best friend and shown him pictures of the two of them together. He has seen a pictorial history of Emily and Alice throughout their lives—the two of them as beaming little girls holding on to each end of a skipping rope, Emily and Alice sitting on a beach, clutching their knees and grinning, their eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses.

And then more recently Emily with the same wild hair, the same wide smile, but Alice looking completely different. “This is the same girl?” he’d asked in amazement, looking at pictures taken at Emily’s birthday dinner last year, staring at the glossy beautiful woman, immaculately made up, her smile for the camera doing a bad job of hiding the sadness in her eyes.

He had known he would like the woman in the earlier pictures, had been able to imagine exactly what she was like. “You’ll love Alice,” Emily had said excitedly, but then, when he’d seen what she’d become, he’d had an abrupt change of mind.

He knew high-maintenance women like Alice. They were the ones who bought designer dogs from breeders, then farmed them out to dog trainers, refusing to have them in the house until someone else had trained them. They treated them as accessories, buying them the very latest in designer dog gear, but didn’t spend any time getting to know them, or understanding the unique relationship between a dog and its master. Or mistress.

If Alice had a dog, he had already decided, it would be a bichon frise. Or a Maltese. Not a dog like Humphrey, whom he already adored. Nor a dog like his own collie cross, Dharma, also from a shelter.

He thought he knew what to expect, and was beginning to dread this weekend. Joe sounded like a first-class wanker, and Alice looked like a snotty cow, even though Emily had sworn blind she wasn’t, had said he mustn’t judge a book by its cover.

On the whole Harry tried not to get involved with his students. Most of the time he managed to be friendly while maintaining his reserve, but there had been the odd slip, and there was something about Emily he just found incredibly appealing.

He’d never admit it, but he was immediately more inclined to like those students of his who had rescued, rather than paid for, their dogs, and Emily seemed like such fun, had laughed uproariously as Humphrey created chaos in the class, and he was delighted when they ended up having coffee together.

She made him laugh, and he found he couldn’t wait for the next lesson, to see her again. He had finally kissed her last week, catching her unawares as she was making coffee in her tiny galley kitchen, a mug of Nescafé Gold Blend in each of her hands as he reached down, seizing the moment, knowing that he couldn’t wait any longer.

She had stepped back afterward, smiled up at him while still holding the coffee. “I was wondering when you were going to get around to that,” she said, and they spent the next couple of hours kissing on the sofa.

“Not yet,” she whispered when he had tried to take it further. “I’m not ready yet.”

He had seen her all day Thursday, and on Saturday night they went to a movie and grabbed a pizza, then a coffee back at his place. Most of Sunday they spent walking the dogs on the heath, and Monday, when Harry was planning on taking a break, he found himself phoning Emily to see what she was doing for lunch. The deadline could wait, she said with a laugh, rushing out the door to meet him at Nando’s for grilled chicken and more frozen yogurt than she’d ever eaten in her life.

Monday night they had agreed to have an early night. Respectively. So instead of meeting for supper, they sat on the phone for two and a half hours, reluctantly yawning good night at a quarter to midnight. Which was when Emily—nervously—invited him to Brianden for the weekend.

Harry had immediately said yes, laughed long and hard at how the name Brianden came to be conceived (the poor man’s Cliveden, Emily had said), and had already organized other trainers to take over his weekend classes.

While Harry didn’t want to jump in too fast too soon, he was having too good a time to play games or pretend to be less interested than he was. He hadn’t had a serious relationship for a while, but he hadn’t met a woman like Emily for a while either. He couldn’t wait for this weekend, for their relationship to be consummated, and couldn’t wait to open his eyes in the morning and see Emily lying beside him.

         A
re you sure you don’t mind?” Harry is nervously eyeing the floor of the trunk, which is already being covered in large muddy footprints. “Your car’s getting filthy. I’ll clean it up when we get there.”

“Don’t be silly.” Alice climbs into the driver’s seat. “It’s a Range Rover. It’s supposed to be dirty.” Emily and Harry start to laugh, the Range Rover being immaculate, not a speck of dirt anywhere other than the floor of the trunk, thanks to Humphrey and Dharma discovering a large puddle outside Alice’s house.

“I’ll sit in the back,” Emily offers. “Harry’s got longer legs and needs the room. But”—she holds up a warning finger—“I must have equal say in terms of what radio station we listen to, and if you ignore me I will refuse to give you directions.”

“Kiss FM?” Harry offers.

“No!” Alice and Emily shout in unison.

“I thought you said I’d like him?” Alice turns around to Emily. “You didn’t say anything about him liking Kiss FM.”

“I don’t,” Harry grumbles. “I was just trying to be trendy. Magic?”

“Yes!” the girls shout, as Harry groans.

Five minutes later Humphrey and Dharma are lying panting on the floor of the trunk, Harry is leaning his head against the window groaning, and Alice and Emily are singing
“I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name . . .”
at the top of their voices.

Fifteen minutes later, as they get on to the A40, Alice, Emily, and Harry are all screaming along with Marvin Gaye:
“Let’s get it on . . . mmm I love ya . . .”

“If the spirit moves you, let me groove you,”
Harry croons, closing his eyes and really getting into it. He opens them again to find the girls laughing at him.

“Oh, he’s good,” Alice laughs. “Have you ever considered a career alternative?”

“You know,”
Harry sings in a loud falsetto,
“what I’m talking about!”

“
Y
ou have a reputation for being exceptionally bright”—Joe pauses—“and a ball-breaker.” He wasn’t sure whether to say beautiful or not. She is beautiful, of course, but something tells him she is used to hearing she is beautiful, and that he will score more points if he focuses on her other qualities.

“A ball-breaker?” Josie smiles as she raises an eyebrow. “That’s the first time anyone’s had the temerity to say that to my face.”

“I didn’t say
I
had said that,” Joe says smoothly. “But that is your reputation. Does it bother you, or do you, as I suspect, quite enjoy it?”

“Let’s just say I’d rather walk over than
be
walked over.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“And what about you?” She turns to face Joe, three Cosmopolitans emboldening her. “You have a reputation for being a serial adulterer. Does that bother you, or do you quite enjoy it?”

“Christ.” Joe is genuinely taken aback, liking to think of himself as a ladies’ man, heartbreaker perhaps, but serial adulterer? That sounds far too sleazy, plus it implicates his marriage, and as far as he can he likes to keep Alice out of his extracurricular activities. “You’re not serious, are you? Serial adulterer? That’s terrible.”

“I agree. It is terrible. Is it true?”

Joe sighs, not quite sure which tack to pull. Does he go for the charm offensive and tell her he’s faithful but he’s never met anyone quite like her before? No. He suspects she’d be out the door before he even started.

Does he go for honesty and say that he loves his wife, but sex was sex, and the two were distinctly unrelated?

Or does he tell her he’s unhappily married, he and his wife don’t sleep together anymore, and he’s only with her because he can’t face hurting her, but that it’s just a matter of time?

He can see she’s interested. Look how the Cosmopolitans have loosened her up. Watch her body language, see how she’s twisted her body to face him now, notice how she’s circling the top of her cocktail glass with her index finger, giving him a come-on smile.

Christ. He could fuck her right now.

He can see she’s interested but he has to play his cards right, has to make the right choice or he’ll blow it forever.

“I’ve been married for five years,” Joe says slowly, careful not to look at Josie, trying to sound as sincere as possible, “three of which were fantastic. My wife is an amazing woman, but the last two years we’ve both been incredibly unhappy. It’s not that I don’t love her, I do . . .”