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.
Are 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!”
“You 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 . . .”
Josie ba
rks with laughter, stopping Joe in his tracks. “Let me guess, you’re just not in love with her, and you want a divorce but you don’t want to hurt her.”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I’ve met you before.” Josie shakes her head in amused disbelief. “I’ve slept with you before. Jesus, I’ve fallen in love with you before. I can’t believe you’re coming out with that line and you expect women to believe it. That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“But it’s true!” Joe blusters, embarrassed at his transparency, furious that he made the wrong choice.
“Yes. And I’m a virgin,” Josie laughs.
Back on familiar flirtatious territory, Joe relaxes. “Now that,” he says, charm oozing from every pore, “is definitely not true. After all, you just said you’d slept with me before. Although there you must of course be lying, because I know I’d never forget a woman like you.”
“I love motorway service stations!” Alice announces just past Oxford.
“Er, why?” Harry looks dubious.
“I love motorway food. Egg and chips, sausage and chips, bacon and chips. Mmmm.” She licks her lips.
“I told you deep down she was one of us.” Emily grins.
“You mean you’re not a salad, no-dressing kind of girl?”
“Of course I am,” Alice says in mock indignation. “But the salad no-dressing girl is only a superficial exterior to hide the greedy pig beneath.”
“Do you want to stop and get some egg and chips then?” Harry is amused, even though he doesn’t quite believe her.
“Okay. Next service station.”
“I can do better than that,” Emily announces triumphantly. “If you can wait ten minutes there’s a Little Chef!”
“Perfect!” Harry laughs. “Alice eating egg and chips doused in ketchup. This I’ve got to see.”
Alice frowns. “Who said anything about ketchup?”
“If you’re going to do it”—Harry shrugs—“you may as well do it properly.”
Alice leans back in her chair and undoes the top button of her jeans. “That,” she announces, “was disgusting. It was so greasy my insides feel like an oil slick. Delicious.”
“I cannot believe how much you just ate.” Emily is still at the relationship stage of pretending that she doesn’t eat and has played prettily with her own egg and chips while pretending not to be hungry, although, given that tonight is the night, her appetite does seem to have left her this afternoon.
“I can’t believe how much you just ate.” Harry shakes his head. “You’re tiny. Where do you put it, for God’s sake?”
“Here,” Alice laughs, lifting up a size seven-and-a-half boot. “It all goes into my big toe.”
Emily looks at her watch. “So what train is Joe getting? Do you know what time he’ll be in?”
Alice shrugs. Full and happy, for once she does not mind that Joe is not here, can relax and enjoy herself without worrying if Joe is happy, comfortable, getting on with Emily’s new boyfriend.
“Who cares?” Alice laughs, knowing that Joe will be, as always, stuck in a late meeting somewhere, and even if he thinks he will be arriving at 8:10 P.M., it is likely to be at least an hour and a half later. “He’ll be here. Eventually.” And with that they leave.
“I’ll drive if you like,” Harry says, when they reach the car.
“Okay.” Alice hands him the keys, not caring if he’s insured or not. Joe would never let a stranger drive the car, not even Emily’s new boyfriend. Especially not Emily’s new boyfriend.
Alice climbs into the backseat and stretches out. “Wake me up when we get there,” she says with a yawn before closing her eyes and dozing happily off.
7
I’d like to tell you it’s beautiful”—Harry squints through the windshield as he pulls up in front of the house—“but I can’t see a bloody thing.”
“That’s because it’s the country,” Emily says. “Wake up, Alice, we’re here.”
Emily fumbles in the dark for the key, eventually managing to open the door. She walks quickly around the house turning on the lamps, filling the rooms with a warm apricot glow as Alice and Harry stand in the front garden shivering, waiting for the dogs to empty their bladders after the long journey.
By the time Humphrey and Dharma are done, there is a roaring fire and the kettle is already whistling away on the stove.
Alice hasn’t been to Brianden for a long, long time, and she stands in the doorway for a few moments, amazed at what Emily has done, how she has transformed a rather ugly, characterless 1980s house into such a welcoming home.
The salmon-pink carpet has gone, replaced by a thick woven wool in a rich honey. A squashy biscuit-colored sofa faces the fireplace, a red-check armchair tucked into the corner. A brown leather ottoman is piled high with books and knickknacks, and underneath the window is a large oak table that Emily found in Stow.
Tall silver candlesticks stand on the table, which Emily now lights, not caring that it might be over the top.
The kitchen used to be high white gloss, with sleek silver doorknobs and granite-look Formica tops. Emily found a local carpenter to make Shaker cupboard doors, which she painted a soft sunny yellow, and the counters are now thick industrial butcher’s block.
At one end is a long scrubbed pine table, with a mishmash of chairs that Emily has picked up at various places, none of which match but all of which work. The walls are covered in framed photographs of friends and family and small paintings she has picked up at local art galleries. It is warm, and welcoming, and quite clearly, as every kitchen should be, the heart of the house.
Harry brings the shopping bags in—they stopped at a supermarket en route—and puts them on the kitchen table. Alice expertly unpacks the bags and puts things away, and Emily places three oversize mugs of tea on a tray and grabs a packet of Bourbons, opening it with her teeth, then shaking the biscuits onto a plate.
“Come on, you can finish that later.” She carries the tray into the living room and sets it down gently on the coffee table before collapsing on the sofa with her tea.
Alice takes a mug and sits next to her, kicking off her boots and curling her legs beneath her as Harry sits in the armchair.
“This is so lovely!” She looks around the room happily. “I can’t believe what you’ve done since I was last here. It looks amazing.”
“I haven’t been here before, obviously,” Harry says with a nod, “but I have to agree this is lovely. I thought you said it was a modern council house.”
“It is.” Emily laughs. “Wait until the morning and then you’ll see what the outside looks like. Still, it’s lovely inside, and we’ve got the most amazing views over the valley. Every time I come down I wonder why I don’t spend more time here.”
“I don’t know how you manage to go back to London after you’ve been here,” Alice sighs. “If this were mine I’d never leave.”
“But you have your museum to take care of,” Harry smiles.
“God. Don’t remind me.”
“I know you won’t believe me but this is actually much more Alice’s style,” Emily says to Harry with a laugh, as somewhere in one of the bags a phone starts to ring. “God, is that mine?” Emily jumps up and starts to rummage in her bag as Alice wearily stands up and crosses the room to hers.
“Nope. It’s probably mine. Doubtless that husband of mine is ringing to tell me he’s missed the train or he won’t be able to make it. Here we go again.” She pulls the phone out and flicks it open.
“Darling, it’s me.”
“Yes, Joe. I know.”
“Look, the meeting’s over but the client wants to have dinner, so I think tonight’s going to be impossible. I think the sensible thing for me to do is go home and get the first train out tomorrow morning.”
“Fine.” Alice’s voice is cold.
“Alice, don’t be like that. I can’t help it, it’s work. There’s nothing I can do.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll
see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”
“You too.”
“Bye.” Alice doesn’t wait for an “I love you,” just sighs and puts down the phone.
Joe flips his phone closed, smiles to himself, and heads back into the bar. He’s sure his luck is in tonight, sure that he’ll manage to conquer the ice queen, although surprised that it’s happened this quickly.
They’ve spent the last two hours talking. Joe has learned his lesson and has said as little as possible about himself and his marriage, instead drawing her out, asking her questions about her career, her opinions, her ambitions. Josie may not be stupid, but she’s flattered by the close attention Joe is paying and softened by the amount of alcohol she’s had to drink.
As the evening wears on, Joe moves his chair a little closer, leans forward a little more to hear her better, and Josie is surprised to find herself responding. It’s been such a long time since she allowed herself to be attracted to anyone, and even though this is clearly not going to result in anything—he’s married and they work together, a recipe for disaster—it’s more fun being here with an attractive man than it is being at home on her own.
What harm can it do?
Josie Mitchell didn’t get to run Risk Arb at Goldmans by partying and having a social life. She joined Goldmans’ analyst trainee program straight from university and quickly learned that she was going to be able to rise to the top only if she forgot about friends, boyfriends, and socializing, and focused entirely on her career.
She has had the odd relationship—she’s only human—but her boyfriends have never been able to understand her commitment to work, her drive to succeed, and there was only so long they would put up with being second best.
The only person who understood was James. A managing director at Schroder Salomon Smith Barney, he worked as hard as she did, but knew the importance of keeping a balance, and for a while he made her forget that work was the only thing that mattered in her life. For a while James was the only thing that mattered.