A Compromising Position by Carole Matthews
‘Yes.’ Adam looked slightly surprised. ‘I know.’
Chris came blundering up to them. ‘They want you to cut the cake, mate.’
Adam laughed. ‘Feels like I’m getting married!’
Cara felt her smile stick to her teeth as Chris dragged Adam away from her. She had to do something to sort this situation out. There must be a suitable spell in one of her books somewhere. She looked at Adam’s retreating back. Or maybe there was another way.
Chapter One Hundred
I’m going to write a book called Depilating for Fun. After years of tweezing, ripping and coaxing unwanted hairs from my bodily parts, I’m probably a world expert. And it really is so much fun, isn’t it? I’ve now decided I’m going to spend every Saturday night doing it. After watching Cilla and Matthew until my eyes were square, I indulged in my second favourite pastime apart from watching telly. Shaving my legs. Ha! You can keep your trendy wine bars and your swanky Michelin-rated restaurants. Give me a Bic razor and some soap any day of the week. Staying in and shaving is the new going out and getting lashed. Aren’t I the biggest party animal ever? Is this all I have to look forward to for the rest of my life? Well, at least I don’t have a hangover. Unlike some.
I don’t know where Declan and Cara went last night, but Cara was in a very strange, gushing mood when she got home. She did another one of those IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou – Youaremybestfriendintheentireworld I’vehadtoomuchtodrink speeches that are becoming a regular part of her repertoire while Declan stood and swayed like a birch tree in a stiff breeze. I blame myself for encouraging Cara’s consumption of the demon drink. She’ll probably go on the wagon the minute I depart. I’ve no idea what she was rambling on about, but I lost interest after the first ten minutes and just nodded politely before I escaped off to my bed. I think this spell is the mystic equivalent of being knocked on the head with a very heavy frying pan. Their brains are both definitely doo-addled. Perhaps when Cara eventually sobers up and returns to her natural state of detoxification, she’ll dump Declan.
This morning they’re not a lot better. Declan is sitting at the table, thankfully reunited with his boxers, eating muesli. I think that must be a first for him. Cara’s staggering round in a post-drunken state, trying to aim toast at her mouth. I sit down opposite him.
‘Morning, Emily,’ he says and this is too, too weird for so early on a Sunday.
‘Morning,’ I say and fight the urge to grab a cup of tea and rush out again.
Cara joins us at the table. Her hair looks like she has spent the night being shagged and her skin is all pink and scraped by stubble. I didn’t hear a thing. My ears were jammed full of cottonwool and I had my shower cap on. In fact, I’m amazed that I did sleep so well last night. Apart from the fact that the two people in the world closest to me were enjoying Biblical knowledge of each other in the next room, I did start to get the late-night collywobbles about my photo-session. I know it’s a bit tardy to start thinking that this may not have been a very good idea – but I am.
My friend and my ex-boyfriend exchange a furtive glance. I think I might be sick.
‘We’re going out to lunch today,’ Cara says. ‘Come with us.’
‘No, thanks,’ I say and try to smile. I think I’d rather have my bikini line waxed in full public view on So Graham Norton.
‘We really want you to come,’ she insists. ‘Don’t we, Declan?’
‘We do,’ Declan says, and looks like he doesn’t give a toss what I do any more.
Cara scribbles the name of a restaurant down on a Post-It note and shoves it into my hand. I glance at it and think that I’d actually quite like to eat there. I’ve never been before, but I’ve heard it’s good. ‘Be there, Emily. Please. It’s important to us. Isn’t it, Declan?’
‘It is,’ Declan says, although it clearly isn’t.
Cara looks very anxious and I think she’s feeling guilty about nicking my boyfriend. That’s all I can put it down to. I think it should feel more strange, seeing her with Declan, especially as they seem to be existing in a lovey-dovey glass bubble which contains only the pair of them at the moment. I shall have to make an effort to go to lunch with them, otherwise they’ll think I’m sulking.
‘Yes, OK,’ I sigh. ‘I’ll come.’
Cara gets up and kisses me. Her breath smells like the back end of a brewery. ‘I knew you would.’
‘Grand,’ Declan says, examining a raisin suspiciously before popping it into his mouth.
Cara appeased, I want to shoot out to the newsagent’s at the end of the High Street and buy up all the copies of the News of the World before anyone else can see them. I suspect though, that Hampstead isn’t a News of the World enclave. I’d hazard an educated guess that there are more readers of the Observer and the Sunday Times here.
When Cara and Declan have finished their breakfast, they shoot upstairs holding hands. I do hope they’re not going to have another sex session. But I needn’t have worried. A few minutes later, they’re back down again.
‘Don’t forget to be at the restaurant,’ Cara says.
‘No.’ I’m not likely to, am I? How many offers am I going to get between now and noon?
‘See your later,’ she says and before you can say let’s-have-another-snog they’re out of the door and off in Declan’s Ford Ka to who knows where.
There’s one good thing about going to lunch with Cara. I can show her my newspaper spread in public, thus reducing my chances of getting knifed by my best friend.
I think we get more than our fair share of sunny days in Hampstead. Even though it’s still technically winter, there’s a milky warmth to the sky and everything looks quite perky. I have a perfect excuse for my sunglasses, and I can justify my beanie hat too, at a stretch.
I sidle into the newspaper shop, furtively grab three copies of the News of the World, queue up behind three Independent on Sunday readers, and pay up. Then I dash outside and rifle through the top copy with fingers that have all the strength of a feather cushion.
And there I am on page thirteen. Bottom-bared in my Saucy Santa outfit. My heart is pounding like an unfit jogger, but suddenly it stills. Alongside the original image, three of the photographs that I viewed on the computer in Sebastian’s studio grace the page and I look great. I look great in all of them. They are sexy, but sophisticated. And though I haven’t got a stitch on, I’m completely covered up. I quickly scan through the story and it is fairly and squarely reported, albeit in a sensational way. I can feel the relieved grin spread across my face.
Sticking the newspaper under my arm, I dial Jonathan Gold’s number.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ I ask as soon as he answers.
‘It’s great, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Yes.’
‘I knew it would be.’ I can hear his confident smile. ‘Do you want some more good news?’
‘Go on.’
‘Foxy Frillies have been on the phone. They want you to become the face of naughty lingerie.’
The power of speech has deserted me. The face? I think Jonathan just might mean ‘the bottom’.
‘I’ve said we’ll meet them for lunch one day next week.’
‘Fine,’ I somehow manage.
‘I’ll fix something up,’ he says in the cool, unruffled manner of a man who is accustomed to doing this sort of thing every day.
I, on the other hand, want to run up and down the High Street cheering and showing everyone my knickers. This could be a good qualification for my new job.
‘I’ve just been offered a job as the arse of Foxy Frillies,’ I want to shriek. ‘Do you know what that means to me?’ But I don’t. I stand gawkily on the street corner, grinning to myself like an idiot.
‘Well done, Emily,’ he says. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow.’
Hanging up, I wonder whether Jonathan Gold will be the only person congratulating me on my good fortune. A rumble in my tummy makes me realise that it’s time to meet Cara. I rummage in my bag and find the
Chapter One Hundred and One
I recognise Adam immediately. And I feel like I’ve had all of my breath knocked out of me. He is sitting at a table by the window with a boy who is bound to be his son, as he is a miniature version of him, but I can’t remember what Cara said his name was. They are chatting and laughing and take no notice of me.
This is actually the first time I’ve seen Adam in broad daylight and he looks even more fantastic than I’ve remembered/dreamed/fantasised. This man could feature in the Boden catalogue, no trouble. No wonder Cara was besotted. No wonder I’m besotted. At least Cara can now speak in the past tense.
Luigi’s restaurant is buzzing and busy – but then, where isn’t on a sunny Sunday lunchtime in Hampstead? There appear to be more people than there are tables for them. A fat, grinning Italian woman comes over, bearing paper menus.
‘Is there a table booked in the name of Forbes?’
‘Si, si,’ she says and guides me to the one vacant table, which happens to be adjacent to the love of my life. I sit down and squeeze into the corner furthest away from Adam. This is dreadful. Where the hell is Cara? It’s not like her to be late. The girl is pathologically punctual. All this sex is making her sloppy.
‘Drink now?’ the waitress asks, her accent veering between the rolling hills of Tuscany and the back streets of the East End.
‘Red wine, please.’
‘Glass?’
No, just bring the bottle and a straw. ‘Yes. A glass.’
She looks at me strangely. Perhaps she thinks I should take off my hat and sunglasses now that I’m indoors, but she clearly doesn’t appreciate that we minor celebrities like to retain our privacy. I notice with a shiver of shock that Adam has a copy of the News of the World folded on the chair next to him. Oh bugger.
I suppose I could brazen this out and just go over and introduce myself and congratulate him on his forthcoming nuptials and ask him what the hell he thought he was playing at giving me the glad eye in Temptation when he was already betrothed . . . but not before I’ve had a lot more to drink.
The waitress delivers my wine and sneaking a look in Adam’s direction, I catch his son’s eye and the little boy smiles at me. What a sweetie he looks. GodGodGod. I am smiling at other people’s children. Clearly, I’m not a well woman. I ferret about in my handbag – I really must springclean it this year – and find my phone. I hate people who inconsiderately use mobile phones in restaurants, but tough titty, this is an emergency. I dial Cara’s number.
‘It’s me,’ I hiss.
‘Are you in Luigi’s?’ my friend says.
‘Yes! Where the hell are you?’ I check round to see that no one – i.e. Adam – is listening. ‘Adam’s here.’
‘I know,’ Cara says.
That takes the wind out of my sails. ‘You know?’
‘I wanted you to bump into him,’ Cara explains.
‘Why?’ I lower my voice. ‘Why?’
‘He isn’t getting married and he’s in love with you,’ she says in rather too matter-of-fact a way, I believe, for such an announcement.
‘Oh.’ I can’t think of much else to say.
‘Talk to him, Emily.’
‘He’s got his son with him,’ I point out.
‘Josh,’ she says. ‘That’s all right. Josh wants a stepmum.’
A stepmum! I lower my voice even further. ‘So when are you getting here?’
‘We’re not,’ Cara says. ‘Declan and I are on Hampstead Heath having a picnic.’
‘A picnic?’
‘We thought it would be romantic.’
Nice! ‘I hope you both get frostbite.’
Cara laughs weakly. ‘Don’t be like that.’
‘You’re a cow!’ I slink down into my seat. ‘Why did you tell me he was getting married?’
‘I lied, Emily,’ she admits. ‘It was wrong of me.’
‘How could you do this to me?’ And I know the answer to that. Because Cara, too, was in love with Adam – before she got zapped by whatever she got zapped by.
‘I’m desperately trying to make things right,’ Cara says sincerely. ‘Don’t miss this opportunity, Emily. Just go over and say hello.’
My friend . . . friend? . . . hangs up. It’s all right for her to say just go over and talk to him. She doesn’t know that the restaurant’s packed and I feel like everyone, everyone, is watching me.
The Italian waitress appears again. ‘Ready to eat?’
‘Yes,’ I say and point at the menu. I have no idea what I’ve ordered.
I risk a furtive glance towards Adam again and his son is still smiling at me. I’m going to kill Cara when I get home. But that still leaves me with one quandary. What the hell am I going to do now?
Chapter One Hundred and Two
‘The woman on the table over there keeps looking at you,’ Josh said.
‘Eat your spaghetti,’ Adam instructed.
‘She does,’ Josh insisted. ‘The one with the funny hat. Look.’
‘I’m not looking.’
‘Go on,’ Josh pleaded. ‘Just a quick one.’
‘No. Eat your spaghetti before it gets cold.’
‘Look!’
Adam tutted. There would be no more eating done until he looked. Josh had definitely inherited his mother’s stubborn streak. Adam swivelled in his seat. ‘That one?’ he said.
‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ Josh observed.
Adam turned back to his pasta. ‘She looks mad.’
‘How can you tell?’ Josh frowned. ‘She’s wearing sunglasses and a hat.’
‘Exactly,’ Adam said.
‘I think she fancies you.’
‘I think I’d rather go on Blind Date than let you fix me up.’
‘Wasn’t there anyone nice at your party last night?’ his son continued.
‘They’re all people I’ve worked with for years,’ Adam said. ‘I wouldn’t touch any of them with a barge-pole.’
‘You’re too fussy,’ Josh told him.
‘And you’re too young to be telling me how to run my life.’
‘Did you have a lot to drink?’
‘Yes,’ Adam admitted. ‘Too much.’
‘Uncle Chris threw up in the bathroom this morning,’ Josh said brightly. ‘I heard him.’
‘Nice.’ The vision reduced Adam to prodding at his pasta listlessly with his fork. It had seemed a good idea to let Chris sleep on the sofa at the time. ‘Did you behave for Toff?’
‘Yeah,’ Josh said, returning to his own food. ‘He has loads of women.’
‘I know,’ Adam said and wondered why there was a hint of envy in his voice.
‘Do you think you’ll have loads of women when you starting working for Toff?’
‘Probably.’
Josh cheered up considerably. He gobbled down his spaghetti. ‘She’s looking at you again.’
‘Josh,’ Adam warned. ‘Leave it out.’
‘Just do a quick, sneaky look,’ his son urged. ‘Go on. Now.’
Adam turned and came to an abrupt halt halfway round. Josh was right. The madwoman in the hat was, indeed, looking straight at him.
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Oh my God. He caught me looking at him. I bury myself in the remains of my seafood pasta. That’s what I ordered. It serves me right, because I’m not a great fan of seafood. Molluscs and me do not agree. I push the plate aside just as the waitress returns.
‘Finished?’
‘Yes. Thanks. I’ll just have the bill.’
She is smiling a serene, secret smile. It’s a now or never moment. I root round in my handbag for a piece of paper, thanking God that I haven’t yet spring cleaned it. I find an appointment card for my hairdressers and on the back of it hastily scribble my name and mobile phone
The waitress returns and gives me the bill. I clear my throat and decide to take her into my confidence. I hand her my note. ‘When I’ve left the restaurant, could you possibly give this to the man at the table by the window?’
She looks up at Adam. ‘Si.’ She grins at me. ‘You think he look nice?’
I feel myself blush. ‘Yes. I think he look very nice.’
I pay her, leaving a disproportionately large tip considering I’ve hardly touched my food, and busy myself collecting my newspapers. As I look up, I see that the waitress has wandered over to Adam’s table and has handed him the note already. Ohshitshitshit.
I stand up and make a dash for the door. Adam stands up, knocking his wine over, the waitress has blocked the door and I’m standing there quaking like a hedgehog trapped in the path of a speeding ten-ton truck. Adam looks like he’s been hit over the head by a cricket bat.
‘Emily,’ he says. There’s a note of laughter in his voice. ‘The Emily?’
I nod, wordlessly.
Adam’s full, soft lips break into a wide grin. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says. ‘At long last.’
This is ridiculous but I want to cry. I want to fall in his arms and cry. Clutching my newspapers tighter, I take off my hat and my sunglasses.
‘Bloody hell,’ Adam says, his grin suddenly frozen. ‘It’s you. Woman-from-the-wine-bar.’
‘Yes.’
The whole of the restaurant is basking in a stunned silence. The hush of paused cutlery pervades. Josh comes up behind Adam and slips under his arm. ‘This is Josh,’ Adam says softly. ‘My son.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Josh.’ I do my best children’s smile. I used to be a teacher. I have years of practice.
Josh’s eyes pop out on stalks and his face takes on an expression of awe. ‘Crikey, Dad,’ he says in a very loud voice. Every head in Luigi’s whips round to stare at us. ‘It’s the Saucy Santa!’
‘So it is,’ Adam says as he tenderly takes my hand.
~ The End ~
Chapter One Hundred and Three