Young Wives' Tales (8 page)

‘Coming to the pub after the game, Craig, mate?’

‘Definitely, if we’ve got time for a quick one.’I look confused, so Craig tries to explain. ‘I thought we were going shopping for new clothes.’He looks embarrassed and so he should be. Luckily none of the lads have heard him.

‘Mate, we do need to get you some new togs but no self-respecting bloke goes shopping on a Saturday afternoon. The shops are full of women.’

‘But I thought we wanted to meet women.’

‘We do. But we want to meet them in bars, pubs and clubs. Ideally when they are half cut and frisky. Not in queues at Top Shop. Besides, there’s the game.’

‘The game?’

‘The footie game.’

‘But we’ve just played footie.’

‘The game we
watch
. On the big screen, in the pub, with a pie and a pint. Well, several pints to be accurate. Don’t worry, I’ll lend you some gear for tonight.’Craig looks doubtful.

‘It won’t be a problem.’

‘Nothing ever is, according to you,’mumbles Craig.

We stayed in the pub until after six, dashed home, quickly showered and then went back out by eight. Some drinking time was lost as my mate Oscar and I spent a good forty minutes trying to persuade Craig that real men do wear pink. In the end he still opted for blue; he can be quite stubborn.

It was a wild night. Pub, bar, club, back to mine. Craig buggered things up a bit for Oscar though. Think Os was pissed off. We’d cracked off with these three birds. All clearly available and gagging for it. Met them at the bar and they came on to the club with us. There’d been lots of drinking, flirting and dancing and it was agreed that we were all going back to mine, where a full on sesh was all but promised, when suddenly Craig refused to get in the cab.

‘Er, mate. What are you thinking of? Clearly it’s
everyone
back to mine.’I nodded to the gaggle behind him, to give him a hint. I know he’s not as well practised at this sort of thing as you’d hope. My girl was draped around me, hugging me closer than an Hermès tie. Oscar’s bird was doing this flirty bump and grind dance just in front of him, claiming that she was teaching him
the steps, when in fact it was obvious that she was demonstrating the pleasures to come. And the other bird, the one that was earmarked for Craig, was hovering nervously in the background. OK, she wasn’t quite such a looker as the first two. Funny teeth and she needed to cut back on the pies, but she had great tits and besides, it’s a numbers game, isn’t it? Three plus three. It doesn’t work so well if one drops out.

‘Not me, thank you. I’m tired and more than a bit woozy,’smiled Craig. ‘I think I’ve drunk too much.’

‘There’s no such thing, mate.’

‘What’s going on? Why aren’t we getting a cab?’asked Goofy-Pie.

‘I’ve had a lovely evening, thank you,’said Craig, turning to her. He held out his hand for her to shake. She stared at it, insulted. ‘I’m just rather tired now and have lots of work to do tomorrow morning. I need to get to grips with the amendments to the maths curriculum for year sevens.’

‘What? You can’t go home now. The party’s just getting started.’Goofy-Pie flashed a wide grin; she was trying to be seductive but, as I mentioned, her teeth were not her strong point. Still, the woman could hardly be expected to flash her boobs in the high street, could she? ‘We’d all miss you so much if you left now. Especially me.’

Goofy-Pie had not been particularly interested in Craig up until this moment. But as he was evidently giving her the brush-off, he’d instantly become the most desirable man in the UK. Why do women hunt out hurt?

‘Can you give us a minute, Sweetie-Pie?’I pull Craig out of earshot. ‘Mate, you are on a promise. We all are.’

‘I’m aware that there is opportunity here,’said Craig.

‘I thought you were looking to pull.’

‘No, I’m looking for someone special. Linda is a nice enough girl, but she’s clearly not my soulmate.’As Craig pointed this out, Goofy-Pie began to yell to her mate that she needed a curry or a kebab. I noticed that she was wearing a leopardskin skirt, how had I missed that? I could see the evening falling apart in front of my eyes.

A cab pulled up beside us.

‘After a ride?’yelled the cabbie from an open window.

‘I am. He’s going home,’I replied, giving in to the inevitable. I’d seen how awkward Craig was about the pink T-shirt; I knew I wasn’t going to win this one. Besides, if we argued about it for too long in the cold night air, the moment might well be lost for all of us if the girls started to sober up and rediscover their shady morals and consciences.

‘I couldn’t possibly take the first cab,’objected Craig, ever the gentleman.

‘Mate, I’ve got some damage limitation to do here. If you’re going, get in the bloody cab and get out of here. Talk later.’

The consequences were predictable. Goofy-Pie got stroppy and insisted on going home. Oscar’s bird said she couldn’t let Linda go home alone. My chick didn’t seem to have any scruples on the matter, which boded well – I like a girl with as few scruples as possible. In
the end, Oscar got a cab with the other two as he was still hoping to get lucky. Perhaps very lucky – I know he’s still waiting to tick off a three-in-a-bed romp. All he got was left with a hefty taxi fare. My bird, Gillian, came back to mine and was as devious and lacking in scruples as I could have hoped. I didn’t surface until Sunday teatime. Result.

‘Good weekend, Lucy?’

‘Not especially,’I reply with unprecedented honesty. Mick asked the question. He’s a rare breed on the trading floor because he is not a total arse. We have worked together for about six months and during that time I have seen evidence of genuine humour and the occasional flash of intelligence. I yawn, ‘You?’

‘Split up with the girlfriend, so it wasn’t all bad.’

‘At least splitting up with someone creates a diversion, some excitement.’

‘Oh dear, oh dear. Is all not well in the Hewitt-Jones slash Phillips palace? Is Princess Lucy a little bored by chance?’

Princess is his private nickname for me. I don’t find it quite as offensive as he intended.

Mick has walked up to my desk and he’s now sitting on it so that, despite my efforts to focus on my screen and my e-mail inbox, all I can focus on is his thigh. He’s wearing a Paul Smith wool suit. It has a little more kick to it than most suits sported on the trading floor.
I suddenly have an inexplicable urge to stroke his thigh. The suit I mean. I want to touch the wool. Must be. I look at Mick; he has green eyes, they are a bit like mine, i.e. arresting. He has very black hair, and for the first time I notice his lips. I can’t get carried away, as I note they are on the thin side.

Most of the PAs want to sleep with Mick. The only ones who don’t are the ones that have already done so. Which, I understand, is not a reflection on his prowess in the sack, just a realistic appraisal of the situation. Mick is clear; he doesn’t want a relationship with anyone who can see which sandwiches he chooses for lunch. Despite his commitment issues, ladies line up, each hoping they’ll be the one to change his mind. I suppose I can see what they see in him. Trouble.

‘Yes, I’m a little bored.’I stare squarely at him as I reply. I’m not in the slightest bit intimidated by or attracted to him, and the clearest way to demonstrate this is by not issuing an official denial that domestic bliss can, at times, be domestic dross. We’re both clever enough to know that it is; a denial on my part would be positively flirty. ‘Still, Pete reads me like a book. Next weekend he’ll probably whisk me off on some fabulous break.’

‘Romantic time in Paris, perhaps?’says Mick.

‘I was thinking more of a kinky romp in Amsterdam,’I reply, smartly stepping back into the role of hard-nosed bitch with three-inch-thick steel shutters firmly pulled down around my private life. ‘Can you move your butt? You are sitting on my BlackBerry.’

Mick flashes a grin (good teeth, I wonder who his orthodontist is?). He slowly gets up off my desk and saunters back to his own bay. ‘Nice talking to you, Princess Luce.’

‘Thrilling,’I neatly bounce back.

Before I started my relationship with Pete I had more than my fair share of interludes with sexy, wealthy, good-looking men. One or two of them even managed to be interesting as well. Mick’s gentle flirting is nothing new. A man trying his luck with me is as natural as breathing. I don’t believe in false modesty, it’s tedious. The thing is, I’m one of the most aesthetically appealing women most men ever come into contact with. It’s just something I’ve learnt to get used to. Like all blessings it’s mixed, not that I’ve ever met a woman who would believe me. The issue is my blonde hair disqualifies any gravitas that my first class degree in economics and my immaculate, record-breaking career might afford a plainer woman. I’ve had to work bloody hard to overcome the allocated role of office totty. Still, can’t gripe, I’d die rather than have fat ankles.

Frankly, Mick is overshooting by flirting with me. He’s overrated as the office Lothario, particularly by himself. OK, he is rich enough, good-looking enough and bright enough. This means he simply wouldn’t ever have been enough of a man for me to date. I always specified that at least one of these attributes was rated ‘exceptional’. Not that there’s even the question of my dating now. I’m married. I have Peter. I spent a long time wanting Peter and waiting for Peter.

Peculiar then that my La Perla scanties are fluttering. I send Peter a messenger note, which is safer and more immediate than e-mail.

Sex God,

My La Perla scanties are fluttering thinking of you. Don’t be late home tonight.

Kitten

Well, my knickers
are
jumping – it’s just a
little
white lie. I do not believe that honesty is always the best policy. Seconds later he replies.

Kitten,

Sadly, I think I do have to work late tonight. Did you manage to call a plumber about that leaky tap in the cloakroom?

For a moment I wonder if I’m missing something coded. Can a leaky tap have a cheeky connotation of which I am ignorant? But sadly, it’s not coded; we do need a plumber. I reach for the phone and call my PA to instruct her to deal with this. She waves to me from her desk, which is opposite mine. I note this as the criticism she intended but I’m unmoved. I don’t do friendly. Fraternizing with the staff simply confuses things.

It is some relief that the markets are buoyant today and I have to concentrate quite hard so as not to make any mistakes. I do concentrate and I don’t make any mistakes, but I do make quite a few killings and
I feel somewhat brilliant by the time I close down my computer at the end of the day.

Mick drifts by my desk and asks if I want to join him and some of the other guys for a well-deserved drink. I meet his eyes and search for the spark of chemistry that I felt this morning. Nothing. No flutters or shudders. He does look cute with a six-o’clock shadow but he’s once again retired back to his appropriate box, the one labelled ‘colleague’. What a relief.

‘Thanks for the offer, Mick, but I think I might have an early night tonight. I have a big presentation to a pissed-off client tomorrow.’

‘Unlike you to upset clients, Lucy.’

‘I didn’t. I’ve inherited this mess.’

‘Who from?’

I check my notes. ‘Joe Whitehead. Do you know him?’

‘Yes. He’s a tosser. He’s just joined our team, although I have no idea how he got a job here.’

‘Perhaps he’s the Chairman’s godson,’I suggest.

‘Maybe. I’m struggling to find an alternative explanation. He’s rather stupid and the most dangerous sort of stupid because he thinks he’s a genius.’

‘Obviously the client is expecting full-on suck-up. I’m going home now but I want to run through the figures again later on tonight.’

‘Fair enough, see you in the morning, Princess.’

His easy acceptance of my rejection of his offer of a drink underlines the fact that Mick has no serious intentions on me. This morning’s mild flirtation may
not even have registered on his radar. I’m a married mother and a colleague – there are less complicated fish for him to fry. Mick likes his sex to be hot, frequent and self-contained.

The disappointment stings me deep in my gut. How can that be? I don’t even want him. Why do I want him to want me? How very ordinary of me.

I get home in time for Auriol’s bath but don’t interfere as Eva has already drawn it; I don’t want to upset their routine. I pour myself a gin and tonic and go to my bedroom where I lie on my bed. I can’t be bothered to fire up my laptop just yet, so I pick up
Vogue
and carelessly flick through the pages.

The magazine is a long-term favourite of mine. I’ve subscribed to it since I was a fresher. As usual, the magazine is crammed with picture after picture of breathtakingly beautiful girls. I jot down the details of a new lingerie brand that is just being noticed and the address of a perfume store that an A-list actress has opened in Covent Garden.

Auriol bursts into my bedroom armed with her teddy and a book. It’s remarkable to me that whenever she bursts into my consciousness I am freshly aware of her brilliance, vibrancy and beauty. It takes my breath away every time. It’s not that I forget how gorgeous she is in between times, it’s just that one’s own child is exquisite beyond memory. She rather reminds me of some of the models on the
Vogue
pages. She’s probably closer to their age than I am. This thought is brutal.

I read two chapters of
Alice Through the Looking Glass
to Auriol. The illustrations are delightful and, for once, she doesn’t keep interrupting me with ridiculous questions about unrelated subjects, like ‘What’s your favourite colour, Mummy?’or ‘Did you have a pet when you were a little girl?’

I bundle her off to bed as soon as possible. When her light is off I realize I’ve forgotten to ask her how school is going. Still, she’d tell me if she had any issues, wouldn’t she?

Instead of supper I take six different vitamins and drink a glass of green wheatgrass tea. It tastes foul but my homeopathic nutritionalist swears by it. Then I dash back upstairs, flop on to my bed, and turn my attention to the suck-up presentation.