Confessions of a Serial Dater Page 16

  I squirt more cleaning spray between the tiles as I try to focus. My bathroom is actually spotless, but it’s a week since I did this, so it won’t hurt to do it again, and besides…I just can’t settle.

  Not after last night.

  Last night…

  So far this morning I have (a) vacuumed the already spotless carpets, (b) dusted the dust-free surfaces, (c) cleaned the immaculate kitchen floor, and (d) replayed last night a gazillion times in my head.

  Last night…

  God, I blush even thinking about the things we did.

  Oh, but he was so lovely, and sexy, and vulnerable, and tender, and passionate and just so…everything.

  And then, when I first woke up this morning, and he was gone, I immediately jumped to the conclusion that it was just for the night. I mean, he didn’t make any promises to me, or anything, but when I found myself alone in bed I thought that maybe he regretted it.

  Or that maybe I was a disappointment.

  Not that I’m exactly inexperienced in the sex department, but I bet that the kinds of women he’s usually attracted to are far more—inventive. God, I should have borrowed that sex book Jess was nattering on about.

  But then I found his note. I’ve read it a million times already, but I just can’t help reading it again and again. Yes, pathetic of me. This is what it says:

  Baby Jackson has decided that 4 A.M. is a very good time to enter the world.

  I must have been very soundly asleep indeed not to hear his beeper. But then, we did have a very hectic time, and we didn’t get any actual sleep until around 2 A.M. My face is hot just thinking about it.

  A tragedy, because I had plans for breakfast in bed (although your grill might be too sophisticated for my toast-making skills).

  Oh, but that toast comment makes me smile. He remembers our conversation in December. Every little mundane bit, just like me!

  Back to the point, because I’m wandering away from it—I had a good time last night. And no, I don’t just mean what you think I mean, lovely though it was.

  I want very much to see you again, but my life is pretty complicated. We should have talked last night.

  It’s your call. But I hope you do call.

  Luke

  PS I’m free tonight.

  He wants to see me again! Tonight!

  So, of course, I’m going. I know I like my routine, and that I’ve got my admin and bills to do, but I don’t care. In fact, I wanted to call him as soon as I found his note at six this morning, but didn’t, on account of him probably still delivering Baby Jackson.

  Have to admit that I’m just a bit worried about his complicated life….

  I wonder how long I should leave it before I call him? I mean, it’s only eleven in the morning. Is Baby Jackson with us yet? Would I seem too eager, too keen, if I call now?

  Wonder what he means about his life being complicated?

  God. I was so mean to poor Charlie yesterday when he was obsessing about Lewis, and now I’m doing it myself.

  Carmen, I know, has a game plan. At least she used to, in the old days, before she met Paul. Apparently, one should always leave it for two or three days before calling the object of one’s desire, no matter what the temptation. Rather like Granny Elsie’s advice about keeping them keen, now I come to think about it.

  And then I remember my advice to Charlie—not to play games. I’m definitely not going to tread that slippery slope toward misunderstanding and dishonesty.

  I pick up the receiver of my telephone and stop, placing it back on its stand. I’ll just wait a bit longer…

  Complications. What could that mean? Possibly his job? I mean, he probably works long, odd hours, and I’m sure I read somewhere that doctors are high up on the list of divorce rates. Maybe he’s divorced? Or what if he has some kind of life-threatening disease? Or…

  You know what? I think I worry too much, sometimes. For once, I’m not going to borrow trouble. This time I’m going to just think positive thoughts. I mean, what complications could there be in his life that we can’t overcome together?

  And I can’t help it. I fall instantly into daydream land.

  It features me, all gorgeous and demure (but in a sexy kind of way) in a long, white dress, and Luke, all tall and sexily rumpled in a morning suit.

  No, I am not picturing the wedding. I’ve bypassed the whole wedding to the honeymoon. To the hotel room, to be exact.

  My blood is pounding so loudly in my ears that I can’t even hear the background music.

  Unable to wait a moment longer, we are tugging at each other’s clothes the minute Luke carries me across the threshold and shoves the door closed with his foot.

  Before we can make it to the bed we’re all over each other like a rash. In frustration, because his fingers are shaking so badly that he can’t undo the tiny pearl buttons on the back of my dress, Luke slides his hands under my skirt and pushes it up to my waist, and then he’s—Oh. My.

  And then the telephone rings.

  Oh, what if it’s Luke? I think, taking deep breaths to still my beating heart. I pick up, my fingers shaking, my whole body shaking.

  “Hello,” I say, trying for sexy, but instead my voice comes out as a shaky croak.

  “Are you coming down with a cold? Only you sound like you’re coming down with a cold,” Mum says. “I knew something was wrong when you didn’t call.”

  “No, no, hahaha,” I say, convinced that my mother will be able to tell what I’ve been up to merely from the sound of my voice. “I’m absolutely fine, Mum. Never been better.”

  “Oh. So you’re not ill at all?”

  Only a massive dose of desperately in love-itus, I think, but don’t tell her this. I cannot believe that I’ve missed out on this all these years. All I had to do was trust myself, take a risk and leap in with both feet. But then I hadn’t met Luke.

  All my other encounters were just me practicing for Luke, which is why I always backed out when things got too serious. But I don’t tell Mum any of this. I want to keep it to myself for a bit. My Secret Love, just until I get used to the idea of Luke and me being together, and then I’ll shout it from the Highest Hills…

  “Rosie? Are you there?”

  “Sorry, Mum, the line went all fuzzy there for a moment,” I lie.

  “Oh. Only I was wondering why you didn’t call me to let me know you’d arrived home safely,” she says, building up for a panic. “Especially after you promised. I was going to call you earlier, but you know how I hate to intrude on your life, I don’t want you to think I’m one of those mothers who can’t manage on their own, or anything—”

  “I was just tired,” I jump in again. “I went straight to bed when I got home,” I say, which is, actually, the truth. I just didn’t go to bed alone.

  “Granny Elsie thought you’d got lucky,” she sniffs. “But I know you’re not the kind of girl who casually picks up a man for the night.”

  “Nope. Not me,” I say, because it’s true. Because I’m seeing Luke later, therefore am not a one-night stand. I can’t believe this is happening. I wonder what I should wear. Something sexy, yet casual. I wonder where we’re going for dinner. Maybe I should just invite him over here and order takeout food?

  But then again, if we stay in, one thing will lead to another, and we won’t get much talking done. And if we’re going to have a proper relationship, then I at least ought to know more about him. His family, his hobbies, his background. What his favorite movie is…and his life complications, whatever they may be…

  “I just thought you might like to know that Elaine’s fine. I just called Auntie Pat, and she had a comfortable night—they’ve just brought her home now.”

  “I know,” I say, instantly guilty, because in my happiness I’d forgotten all about Elaine. How could I be so callous and unfeeling?

  “Oh. So I take it you’ve already called her?”

  “No,” I say, crossing my fingers. “Um, I spoke to one of the doctors,” I tell her,
which is the truth, after all.

  “Well I’ve promised that we’ll call around to visit her. We should visit her, because she’s family, and we have to make an effort.”

  “Right,” I say, because Mum has a point. I know that a duty visit is in order, and I can be magnanimous in my happiness.

  “So, I thought we should take something. Some flowers, maybe. And some chocolates—some Godiva chocolates, because they’re Elaine’s favorites.”

  What Mum actually means is that I should procure them. Although from where is a mystery, since they don’t exactly stock Godiva chocolates in my corner shop.

  “Right. I’ll see what I can do.” Pointless telling her that—I’ll just pick up whatever is handy.

  “So you’ll be here in an hour? I thought we could walk up to the house before coming back here for Sunday lunch together.”

  “Right,” I tell her.

  An hour will be a bit of a rush, but at least it will while away some of the long hours before tonight.

  God, I can’t wait to see him.

  I think I’ll call Luke after lunch. That way, he’ll have had time to finish delivering Baby Jackson…

  “How lovely of you, you really shouldn’t have,” Elaine gushes at me an hour and a half later as she accepts the bunch of daffodils I picked up from the corner shop. “They’re very nice,” she says. “I’m sure we can find space for them in the kitchen. As you see, people are so very kind.” She sweeps her arm around the living room. It is filled with expensive floral tributes.

  The daffodils were all I could find, but it is nearly spring, and daffodils are so cheerful and fecund, with the big, fat trumpets sticking out from the center of the petals.

  “They made me think of spring and new birth,” I tell her sincerely, so happy am I that even her insults cannot pierce my euphoric glow. If, in fact, she is insulting me. Think it’s just (a) my suspicious mind, and (b) previous dealings with Elaine that have made me cynical. In my current euphoric glow I must attempt to let bygones be bygones.

  Elaine, pale and elegant in white, is lounging on the chaise longue with a silk blanket draped across her legs. Despite her indisposition, her hair and makeup are immaculate. Everything about her is immaculate. Including her taste.

  “Oh, you brought me Dairy Box, how thoughtful you are,” she simpers, placing my chocolates next to the several boxes of Godiva offerings currently inhabiting the coffee table.

  “So you’re feeling all better?” I ask her. “You gave us all quite a shock yesterday,” I add, because in my happiness, I love the world.

  “The doctors said that everything’s going to be alright,” she says rather pitifully. “Although it was touch and go for a while.”

  Um, that’s not what Luke said. He said she was fine, it was just a false alarm. But if Elaine wants to play the part of a heroine in a Victorian melodrama, then let her have it, I think—after all, single motherhood is a scary thing, so a bit of melodrama is only to be expected.

  “Well, I expect they told you to take it easy for a few days, then?” I really am trying hard to make polite conversation. I think I’m doing rather well, too. Only another twenty minutes or so and we should be able to escape back to Mum’s.

  Actually, I might slip upstairs and give Luke a call on my cell phone. I brought his number with me. And his letter. I mean, if I leave it any longer he might think I’m not interested, or playing games or something.

  “They want her to take it easy for longer than that,” Auntie Pat says. “One just never knows what can go wrong with a pregnancy. Sandra, please don’t put your cup down on that table—you’ll mark it.”

  “Oh, sorry. I—” Mum flusters.

  “Can you get a coaster for the table, please, Auntie Pat?” I ask sweetly, because although I’m feeling love for the whole human race, it doesn’t mean I’m letting Auntie Pat get away with that, and where the hell else is Mum supposed to put her cup down? And then, “Hospitals these days have all the latest electronic equipment, and the best doctors.” I smile, thinking of my best doctor. Even Auntie Pat can’t ruin my good mood today.

  “The Lindo Wing at St. Mary’s is very nice,” Elaine says.

  No National Health Service for Elaine.

  “Only the best for our girl,” Auntie Pat adds, smiling benevolently. “And Luke is such a lovely man,” she says, and my heart pitter-patters. And I can’t help it, I’m beaming at the mere mention of his name.

  “He seemed, um, very capable,” I say, which is a bit naughty, because I’m thinking of his capability in bed rather than on the ward.

  “Yes. A dear, dear man,” Elaine says, watching me thoughtfully. “He made a point of coming to see me this morning before I left.”

  “I’m sure he is.” I know he is. I smile even more widely, hugging my secret close.

  And then my world comes crashing down around me at Elaine’s next sentence.

  “And his wife is charming, utterly charming,” Elaine says.

  Wife? Wife? Nononononono.

  “Yes, Elaine worked with her on the fund-raiser for the homeless last spring,” Auntie Pat says, and my stomach lurches wildly, because this is all wrong.

  This must be a mistake. Surely she’s talking about a different doctor. Definitely a different doctor.

  “I didn’t realize that Rowan Smythe-Lawrence was actually married to him before he left, or I would have mentioned the connection to him,” Elaine says, her words smashing through my euphoric happiness. “I found out from the nurses. The nurses, of course, all drool madly over him, but he’s not interested. Apparently he only has eyes for Rowan. A pity, because I quite fancy taking a shot at him myself. But of course I’d never betray another woman that way by stealing her husband,” Elaine adds, full of self-righteousness.

  It all falls into place.

  Rowan Smythe-Lawrence is the sister of Horrible Boss. I remember this, because Jonathan told me that Sidney’s sister arranged that fateful fund-raiser we attended last Christmas.

  The fund-raiser, which is where I met Luke. Who was sitting with a beautiful, elegant blond. Ohgodohgodohgod.

  A wife definitely qualifies as a complication….

  “Devastatingly attractive man though, don’t you think, Rosie?”

  “What?” I say, as her voice registers from a distance. “Oh, I don’t remember,” I lie, because despite the fact that the floor is dropping out of my world at a dizzying, sickeningly nauseating speed, I cannot let anyone know what has happened.

  “Yes, she’s stunning, elegant, rich. Comes from a very good family. She couldn’t make Ned and Flora’s party yesterday, because she’s apparently over in The Hague giving a presentation to the European Parliament, or something.”

  Oh. Ohfuckohmyfuck. Not only have I betrayed, however unknowingly, another woman, but also she’s practically a saint. This is too horrible to be true.

  “I say, are you alright, Rosemary?” Auntie Pat demands.

  “Yes, you are looking a bit green,” Elaine says, leaning away from me.

  “I think I might have caught Elaine’s stomach bug,” I croak, putting a hand to my mouth.

  “I thought you sounded off color this morning when I called you,” Mum sniffs.

  “Come, come.” Auntie Pat practically hustles me out of the cream chair. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”

  And as it finally hits me that I have slept with a married man, fallen madly and completely in love with a married man, and had the wool pulled ruthlessly over my eyes by a cheating swine of a lying married charmer, I can’t help it.

  I’m sick all over Auntie Pat’s expensive cream carpet.

  13

  Another New Year’s Resolution

  Rosie’s Confession:

  Yes, I know that it is not New Year, and therefore this resolution is either too early or too late, but as they say: there’s no time like the present.

  Am going to forget all about Luke Benton and concentrate only on helping friends in their time of need
.

  “I’m fine,” I lie to Mum on Wednesday morning as I force myself to get ready to set off for work.

  Yes, I am a coward.

  I have been hiding from my friends, and from the world at large, at Mum’s house since Sunday. Mum has deflected all calls, told everyone that I had a flu bug because that’s what she has decided is wrong with me, passed on all get-better-soon messages, and generally tried to force-feed me chicken soup, but it is time for me to stop wallowing in my well of self-pity and get myself back on track, because wallowing in self-pity is a waste of time and energy.

  But so bad was I on Sunday that I barely remember Uncle Bill driving us the short distance back to Mum’s house and Mum hustling me to bed. And all the while, hanging on grimly to my despair, and not being able to cry, because explaining tears would have been impossible.

  My head aches, my stomach aches, my heart aches, my limbs feel heavy, and my joints ache, as though they’ve aged thirty years overnight. Even my skin is painful to the touch. I may never be fine again, but I cannot let my disaster with Luke ruin my life.

  It was only one night, after all, I remind myself, my head aching even more as I pinch the bridge of my nose to force the tears back into my lachrymal glands. I cannot cry. Not even one tear, because one tear will lead to a lot of tears, and I refuse to allow that to happen.

  I will feel better. And if I’m at work, I’ll have less time and less available brain cells to think about him. That’s all I need—to get back into my normal routine. It wasn’t as if Luke was ever part of my normal routine, which is good, which also means that I won’t miss him for long, on account of not having all those additional memories….

  “Well, I think you should stay home for the rest of the week,” Mum frets, wringing her hands, and what she really means is that I should stay home at her house another few days so that she can fuss over me more and make it even harder for me to leave.