Seb the wrong message. ‘OK,’ he says. His throat feels constricted, but he needs to get the words out, needs to know what’s going on. ‘So, are you really interested in renting this place? Someone else from the office could’ve shown you around. Why me? What’s going on, Seb?’
Seb lifts his face. ‘I was in Morocco last week. On a work shoot.’
Dan nods; that’s why his eyes seem so blue.
‘So I would’ve got in touch with you sooner. After the wedding.’
‘Nothing happened at the wedding. Well, not to—’
Seb’s gaze doesn’t waver. ‘Didn’t it? Like nothing happened at the swimming gala?’
Beads of sweat cool his spine. ‘What gala? I don’t remember any swimming gala. It’s time to go, Seb. I’ve had a shit day. I’m knackered and hungry. Have you seen everything you want to see?’ He’s said it too harshly, he can see the recoil in Seb’s face, but he really won’t look; he doesn’t want to feel the pull, that tug of something he’s felt since the wedding. He tosses the keys in his hand and doggedly heads to the door. ‘Mustn’t forget the alarm and the lights. I’m sure there’ll be stairs if the lift’s playing up.’
The lift doors are still open, as though waiting. Dan stands to the left, keeping his eyes on the buttons as they descend, then strides out to the front door ahead of Seb. The cold breeze cools his face as he raises his car fob, then he remembers Seb came by taxi. ‘Jump in. I can drop you at your mum’s,’ he says, climbing in.
Staring grimly ahead, he inserts the keys, turns on the ignition, slips the car into gear. But then he stops. The smell of coconut still hovers.
Turning to Seb, he gazes for a moment before looking away. ‘Or how about coming to mine? Dinner with me and Geri and the bump? She usually makes pasta for a whole squadron, so I’m sure there’ll be plenty,’ he says over the hammer of his heart. ‘We can pick up some beer on the way. We do have brandy, but it might not be quite the standards you’re used to. Might have cost more than an Ayrton Senna but less than a Bobby Moore …’
Knowing he’s prattling again, Dan opens the window to release the new rush of heat. The aroma of coconut wafts away, but the tension’s still stifling as he heads towards home. Aware of Seb’s scrutiny, he chats inanely about pasta and pesto and parmesan, but the need to eat has clean gone.
The clench in his gut is no longer hunger. It’s excitement; dangerous bloody excitement, tight and tingling in his belly.
Jen
Anna’s green anorak at the far end of the damp playground catches Jen’s eye. She briefly lifts her hand to wave before dropping it again. Holly is no longer at the primary school; she’s been in high school since September, but old habits die hard. She hated having Jen there at her school. It was bad enough if your mum was a teacher, but a lowly classroom assistant! It was just so embarrassing. So Jen acknowledges her pretty red-haired daughter discreetly on lunchtime duties, even though she’s only eight and still loves her mummy.
It’s the start of Jen’s second year. She’s still glad of her decision to train as an assistant rather than a full-blown teacher. For now at least. She works two and a half days in a job-share, giving her time to cram in the cooking, the shopping and the bills in the remainder of the week. Though in fairness, Ian does his bit; he irons if there’s sport on the television and he hoovers at weekends, pretty fair in her view. But then Ian is a good man. Except when he’s watching his beloved United play football, he’s an even-tempered, easy-going guy; they make a good team.
A football approaches and she runs, hoofing it accurately to a boy from her class. His freckled face colours with embarrassment. Jen should know better than to interrupt the boys’ game, but she was sporty as a girl and finds herself with daughters who prefer their mobile phones, television and music to sporting activities. ‘Do you wish we’d had a boy?’ she used to ask Ian, pretending a boy would have been nice for him rather than her, but now that Anna is nearly nine, capable of creating a website, let alone dressing and feeding herself, she can’t imagine wanting another child, either boy or girl; it would be too much like hard work.
The sudden spurt of activity has left her breathless. She knows she should lose a few pounds, but dieting feels like hard work too. Her daughters are all skinny. She wasn’t ever thin, not that she minded. Girls like to be skinny for boys, but in her experience, males prefer a little flesh. But the fact is Holly is too thin. She eats well enough, but doesn’t put on weight. Would it be weird to take her to the doctor? A sort of Munchausen by proxy? Plump mother taking skinny daughter to the doctor’s? And anyway, would Holly comply with such an embarrassing request?
She glances at her watch, a fake designer brand bought on their last holiday to Turkey. It’s Wednesday, her half-day. Toasted teacakes for lunch, she thinks. Thank God butter’s back in vogue.
The doorbell rings at two. Jen licks her fingers and flings open the door, but it isn’t Ian’s Amazon delivery of books. It’s Will Taylor, looking smart. Like a rugby player setting off on tour, the central button on his suit jacket looks precarious, as though it might pop any moment.
Her heart jumping, she steps back in surprise. ‘Oh, Will. Hello!’ She glances at the kitchen, catching the breakfast disarray and the second half of her teacake on a plastic Disney plate. ‘Was I expecting you? Did you text?’
A shadow passes across his face and he turns briefly to his car. ‘No. Sorry, I was passing, so I thought I’d see if you were in.’ His eyes come back to hers. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Of course. No problem, come on in.’ She tiptoes in her socks and pecks him on his cheek. ‘Excuse the mess. I was just having my lunch.’ She examines his tense face, anxiety replacing surprise. ‘Is everything OK? Is Penny OK? I’ve been really worried.’
He smiles but looks weary. ‘I know. Thanks for your texts. I’m sorry I haven’t phoned for a proper chat since the wedding but …’ He follows Jen through, sits at the table and rubs his forehead. His hair is receding, but he keeps it cropped short. His head is the right shape, she always finds herself thinking, he suits it like that.
‘Tea or coffee?’ she asks brightly to cover her embarrassment. She changed into a hoody and jogging bottoms the moment she arrived home. The outfit isn’t as clean as it could be and the fresh butter mark doesn’t help. ‘How about a teacake? Toasted or plain?’ She presents the open tin with a flourish. ‘You can smell the sultanas. Mum baked them and they’re delicious. My fingers are still buttery.’
She makes for the kettle but Will catches her wrist. There’s a frown on his face and his voice is low. ‘To be honest, I’d rather …’
The burn of his touch rushes to her cheeks. ‘Talk?’
‘Yes.’ He smiles faintly. ‘Talk like we used to.’
She sits down on the chair next to him. Takes a deep breath. Tries to look him in the eye. ‘No, Will, we promised.’
‘I just need you right now.’ He puts a hand to her cheek, his eyes hollow and dark. ‘I never stopped needing you.’
Flinching from his touch, Jen tries to
