EIGHT

ILEX DIDN’T MIND hanging out in the pub at lunchtime with Simon from the office but the incredibly slow pace at which he liked to amble along on the way back did irritate him. Perhaps it was because Simon was a bit on the short side, smaller steps and all that, though it couldn’t be the whole reason. Manda was about the same height but perfectly capable of getting along at a cracking pace even if she was wearing serious heels.

‘Listen, I do have to get back pretty quickly today.’ Ilex tried to gee him up. ‘I’ve got those Pilgrim Prospect guys coming to see me about putting their new riverside block on the market.’ He looked at his watch and wondered how rude it would be to gallop on ahead, leaving Simon to wander along gazing into shop windows at his own reflection and fiddling with his upswept executive hairstyle.

‘Oh yeah – marketing advice. The stuff we’re supposed to be good at.’ Simon laughed with little sincerity. ‘Got some new ideas lined up?’

Ilex shrugged. ‘Nothing new. It’s all been done to death, all those developments with show-off gyms and parking for the must-have second Porsche. There’s no original angle left that I can come up with if the advertising bods can’t. If I hear one more twat in a Paul Smith suit and over-gelled hair banging on about “buying into the lifestyle” I’m going to have to deck him.’

Simon slowed even more and flicked a look at himself in Starbucks’ window. If ever there was a guy who would nominate himself as the Ideal Date, this was surely your man, Ilex thought. Did he spend hours in front of his bathroom mirror, telling himself how adorable he was? Still, Ilex considered him an easy enough office companion. He didn’t complain or smell or upset the women. He could talk football but was not obsessed. And he was good at his job, though not so good that he was going to overtake Ilex for any promotion that might be going. So he was all right really, Ilex conceded, trying once more to force up the walking pace.

‘They’re aiming at the wrong market, that’s where they’re falling down,’ he said. ‘They’re still on that thing of going for the young city types, as if they’re the loaded ones.’

‘Well, aren’t they?’

‘Not any more, not the new lot. Life’s too expensive for them now. This new wave are all stuck with student debts, expensive social lives and a taste for lots of hot, boozy holidays. It’s the older market they should be going for, would be my opinion, if anyone would listen. Our parents’ generation.’

Ilex was convinced this was true and was absolutely certain he could offload an entire block of glass and concrete double-height duplexes onto the newly retired baby-boomer generation if a developer would just give him total charge of the advertising budget. With that, plus a couple of paragraphs of editorial in the weekend property supplements, he’d be willing to bet serious money he’d have sold signs stuck to every window in the Pilgrim development within a week. And there you’d have it, a block full of ageing ravers, cultivating connoisseur cannabis in garden-centre gro-bags on the wrap-around terrace and annoying the crap out of passers-by, playing Free, Led Zeppelin and Jimi Hendrix at top volume.

Simon was looking doubtful. ‘Yeah, but how do you pitch the market? For a start, you’d have to do the photo-shoot all different. Strip out the pink suede sofas and shagging rugs and bring in the floral chintz.’ He laughed. ‘And they’d want net curtains!’

Ilex gave him a pitying look. ‘Do you really think people who were young in the sixties are really net-curtain types? Can you see Mick Jagger with net curtains? Even I know better than that.’

It was depressing, the stereotyping that went on. Older people had big, expensive properties to trade in. (Look at his own parents and their half-arsed travel plans, which reminded him – they hadn’t called him yet for advice about the sale. If they were going to ask anyone about sorting it, surely it should be him?) It was older ones whose families had grown and flown who were ripe for persuasion to downsize that old five-bed villa in the outer suburbs, move further into town where the getting about was easier and cheaper and have change of a six-figure sum, no problem. But it wasn’t sexy enough for the big boys wondering what to do with their surplus, unsold buildings. Oh no. Whenever the term ‘grey pound’ came up everyone under forty simply shut down their brains. Pink pound, yes, that always pressed the right cash-register buttons. That was good, with its associations of skincare for boys, hip designs and lots of child-free spending power. Grey pound was bad – think inadequate pensions, incontinence pads, stairlifts and the smell of boiled cabbage. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Perhaps he was in the wrong job. Maybe his parents had the right idea and he and Manda should just chuck it all in and take off round the world too.

‘Well, good luck – if you can think of a way of getting those Pilgrim places off their hands, you’ll be in line for a whopping bonus,’ Simon said. ‘Listen, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ve got dry-cleaning to pick up.’ Simon came to a stop outside Scrubs, checked his hair yet again in the reflecting doorframe and went inside.

Why didn’t he bloody say earlier? Ilex thought grumpily. He crossed the road quickly, narrowly missing being run down by a motorcycle courier who swerved over-dramatically and gave him the finger.

‘And you, mate,’ he muttered, at the same time catching sight of something immediately cheering, further along the pavement, just outside the Tesco Metro store.

The uniformed female police officer had parked her patrol car on a double yellow in front of a Volvo estate, which she now peered into for clues as to the sort of driver who would so carelessly leave it here, disrupting the smooth flow of traffic. She was bending forward just a bit, her over-generous, blue-trousered rump displayed to perfection. Swap trousers for a tiny, tight skirt and she’d be a ringer for page sixty in this month’s Fuzz. Ilex, all thoughts of his meeting blanked from his mind, paused and watched, holding his breath as if the slightest sign that he was there would scare her off. For him, this rated up there on the thrill-scale with David Attenborough suddenly spotting lion cubs playing in a bush clearing. He almost wished it were still the thing to do to have shoes with laces so he’d have an excuse to stop and retie them and indulge in a really good stare. Instead, he loitered awkwardly outside Boots alongside a window display of Safe Tanning Essentials. He was just about close enough to see a nice bit of visible panty line as the policewoman’s polyester trousers stretched against her flesh. So, not for her a cheese-wire thong under those heavy-duty keks. Good. He’d be willing to bet she was also wearing a sturdy sports bra, all the better for comfortable running when a suspect made a bolt for it. He crept a bit closer, past Boots’ doorway and to the second window (Travel-Size hair products – three-for-two). Now he could clearly see she’d got all the accessories – the handcuffs, the chunky stick, the rather too big radio, even the gloves were there, supple black leather dangling from a back pocket even though the day was a warm one. She was obviously a stickler for details. He’d love to see all that lot kind of dismantled, lined up on the chaise longue at the end of his bed. Apart from the hat: as the Tom Jones song went, she could keep her hat on.

‘Wotchoo lookin’ at?’ A bulky teenage girl appeared in front of him, startling him out of his reverie and blocking his view. Her face was strangely large, like a great white balloon, and her hair pulled back so very tightly into a ponytail that her thin, pencilled eyebrows arched crazily. Her wire-thin gold earrings were big enough to be a doll’s hula hoop. She stood firm as if she’d been anchored – feet stolidly apart, bare legs pink and mottled from a well-hard no-tights winter of very short skirts.

‘You lookin’ at me, innit?’ She wasn’t a quiet girl. Passing heads were turning.

Ilex, who hadn’t so much as noticed her till she appeared in his view, stepped back, feeling shaken. ‘No, no I’m not looking at you … I was … um …’

‘Ere, you! Police-person! Over here – this bloke’s bin eyeing me up! Fuckin’ pervert! He’s a paedo, miss, I know him. I’ve seen him hanging round.’

Well of course she had, he only worked round the corner. Ilex wasn’t sure whether to say this or not. Would it make things worse? Passers-by were slowing to watch, as they always did when police were around, taking an interest. He was starting to feel like a road accident. He wished she’d keep her voice down – at this rate he’d end up lynched, hanging from the illuminated Boots sign as a deterrent to all foul-minded men.

The owner of the Volvo (a sleek scrummy-mummy type) raced out of Tesco clutching a four-pint bottle of milk and began plea-bargaining with the police officer. The mummy was half the width but a good four inches taller, all skinny jeans and killer heels and a broad smile of insincere apology that reminded Ilex of Clover when she knew she was going to get away with something. The teenage girl was still there, shouting obscenities at him, and the policewoman looked across, torn between lecturing the pretty mother and dealing with something potentially more serious.

‘OK, love, stay right there. And you, sir,’ she called. She dismissed the Volvo owner, approached Ilex and out came the radio and the notebook. Ilex felt his blood pressure rising. How difficult was this going to be? And what exactly was it he was supposed to be defending himself against? It certainly wasn’t the girl he’d been staring at.

‘He was lookin’ at me. I seen him. I was in there getting my Bodyforms and he was staring at me in the shop window and when I moved he moved and he was watchin’ me, like, really hard?’

The girl’s words tumbled out fast and angry and her eyelids flashed up and down so hard that thick flecks of mascara now peppered her moony cheeks.

‘I didn’t actually—’

‘Hold on a moment, sir, I’ll come to you in a minute,’ the officer interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him. Ilex risked a closer look at her. She wore some make-up, not Manda-quantities for sure but he could see she’d gone to a bit of trouble with some eye shadow and blusher. Short tufts of dark red hair, lightly streaked with bronze, peeked out from under her hat. The hand she held up had no rings, her fingernails were square-cut, short and clean. Ilex felt an increase in excited stirrings and tried shifting his weight about awkwardly in a futile attempt to setting things down. Suppose she noticed? Suppose she thought it was this idiotic girl giving him a stiffy? The front trouser department would surely be the first place to seek out evidence of intent when faced with a potential stalker.

‘So you’re accusing this man of what, exactly?’ the officer asked with professional politeness. ‘Is it the same thing you accused that elderly gentleman of last Thursday? And the boy with the guide dog a couple of weeks ago?’

The girl narrowed her eyes and jabbed a blunt finger at Ilex. ‘He was lookin’! I don’t like people lookin’!’

Ilex felt mildly guilty. Of course he had been looking – but at the police officer, not at the girl. Would the woman feel as furious as this if she knew? It was highly possible. He felt conscious that he must look as guilty as a schoolboy exam-cheat.

‘OK, Charlene, thank you, but you go on your way now and leave me to deal with this.’

The girl hesitated. ‘What, like, you’re going to arrest him? Don’t you need me to—’

‘No, really, it’s all right, Charlene, I know where you live if I need you again. You can go now and just … well, stay safe, OK?’

Charlene pouted and shifted her feet. ‘All right, but I know he was lookin’. People are always lookin’.’ And, giving Ilex a glare that could have slain a vampire, she stalked off, still muttering.

‘Thanks. I wasn’t looking at her, you know,’ Ilex said, cringing at how feeble that must have sounded.

‘I know that. Charlene’s a silly thing, always coming out with the same line. I think she only does it so we’ll give her a lift home. If she doesn’t want people to look, she could try wearing a few more clothes – I thought the bare-midriff thing was supposed to be very last year.’

‘That’s what my girlfriend says too.’ Ilex almost bit his tongue off. Buggeration. Why, in the name of Pingu, did he have to bring Manda into this? Was he imagining it or did this officer look disappointed?

‘Um … I’d better get back to work,’ Ilex muttered, miserably feeling all excitement drain away. He was late for the meeting now. Not the best start if he wanted to impress the Pilgrim wallahs.

‘Oh not yet,’ his captor said brightly. ‘Young Charlene is still there, across the road, waiting to see me doing my duty by her, so if you don’t mind, I’d like you to get into the patrol car.’

Ilex allowed himself to be led away, trying to look suitably penitent but feeling utter joy. He slid into the passenger seat and fastened his seatbelt, watching the broad, taut thighs beside him and the hand that was dealing so firmly with the gearstick.

‘Where to?’ she asked, smiling at him. ‘Do you live round here or just work?’

‘Um … work. On the right, down there, across the square. Property company.’

‘Like the job?’ Expertly, she pulled away into the traffic. If he asked her nicely, told her he was running late, Ilex thought, would she put the blue light and sirens on for him?

‘Not really, it’s nothing special.’ He felt like a small boy, being questioned by a distant relative. It wasn’t a bad feeling – comfortable, mildly sexy. He was sure he could smell the uniform’s fabric, a mixture of polyester, acrylic and washing powder. A hint of dry-cleaning fluid, possibly, or was that the scent of Kevlar body armour?

‘What would be your idea of the dream job then?’

Ilex thought for a minute, feeling as if he was Helping Police with Enquiries. Ideally she’d have him in a bare, darkened room, across a small cheap table and a cup of lukewarm instant coffee. There’d be a bored constable, shifting his feet over by the door. She would sit opposite him, crossing her legs, getting comfortable, leaning forward …

‘Perfect job? I’m not sure. When I was growing up I kind of wanted to do something … safe, I suppose. So I did.’

‘Safe?’ She laughed. ‘Didn’t you ever want to be Chelsea’s star striker or a rock star or something?’

Ilex felt his bubble of fantasy deflate. Rock star. How to explain that one in the family was more than enough. Was she likely to be the sort who’d understand about the downside? Of looking forward so much to your dad coming home from three months touring in the States, and then having to creep round the house for the first two weeks because he’s sleeping most of the day? Or how about the bit where you had a friend round after school and they told you their auntie wanted a signed photo of your dad because she’d always had a bit of a thing for him?

‘No, not really,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t much cop at either games or music.’ It sounded very lame. He didn’t ask what her fantasy job was – she was obviously already doing it.

Only a minute or so later Wendy Murphy, as he now knew her to be, pulled up outside his office building. ‘There you go. Stay out of trouble, as they say!’ she said brightly.

‘Oh … er, I don’t suppose …’ What to say now that he’d so stupidly mentioned Manda? No, go for it. ‘I don’t suppose you’d fancy meeting up for a drink later? Just so I can say thanks?’ he blustered, feeling his hands go clammy. She’d be sure to say no. She must meet dozens like him every day. Chancers, nutters, weirdos – how did she tell one sort from another?

‘Yes, OK. I’d really like that! What time?’

‘About six? I should be finished then … I could meet you …’

‘No, it’s fine, I’ll pick you up here. I’ll be the one in the silly car!’

And it was as easy as that.

Oh Lord, Ilex thought, what have I done?

‘See that one, over there with the Prada boots? You know, Caris Potter’s mother?’ Mary-Jane squinted across the playground. Clover, her mind on what Sean was likely (or not) to get up to, working away overnight yet again, didn’t immediately connect and found herself staring instead at the Hugh-Grant-lookalike father of the St Hilary’s great hope for a St Paul’s scholarship. She blushed, half-smiled and concentrated on working out what Mary-Jane was on about. That was the trouble with keeping too many thoughts going in her head. She really had to learn to work her way through them methodically like one of the lists she was always writing, instead of jumbling everything altogether so haphazardly. Her head was like a big casserole dish into which she stirred the Sean question, upcoming sale of her parents’ house, ideas for this summer’s family holiday (if they could actually afford one, that is – Rock might be beyond the price range this year. They’d probably end up camping – nightmare) as well as the shopping list for Sophia’s vegetable project this week. The children had all been allocated something to bring and Sophia had been chosen to bring in beans: as many types as she could find, which she said was unfair because Tallulah Thomas only had to come up with a cauliflower and Polly was on beetroot. Clover didn’t mind at all – she took it rather proudly, as a compliment that she was rated a top mother who could be relied on to come up with the full range of whatever she’d been asked. She’d have been mortified if Sophia had come home saying she was down for a turnip.

‘… had her teeth completely done. New veneers, a couple of crowns, full-on whitening. She used to look like a dog. No, literally, a dog. Fangs like a German shepherd.’ Mary-Jane was on a roll, alternately yacking close into Clover’s ear while brazenly staring across at her quarry. Clover tried hard to look fascinated. It was difficult to keep up with Mary-Jane – she seemed to have a kind of Heat magazine-type take on every playground mother’s on-off looks. Last time it had been Spot the Botox while waiting for the coach to come back from Wednesday netball. Clover quite liked the idea of Botox and had it in mind for five years ahead. By then she wouldn’t have to care about being the focus of the mums’ mafia speculation – they’d all have had it too, and more.

‘So guess how much?’ Mary-Jane prodded Clover in the ribs. ‘Bearing in mind the attention to detail, down to making the bottom ends of the teeth a bit darker, and adding in a little false crack to one of the front ones, for a natural look. Go on, guess!’

‘No idea, really.’ Clover shrugged, wondering if she was looking at the right mother. She’d found what she was pretty sure were the Prada boots (bit over the top, surely, for mid May, though with those legs they looked great with that little denim skirt), but the woman wasn’t baring her expensively imperfect teeth, not even in a smile. You couldn’t go up to people, especially ones you had to share school space with for the next several years, and ask them to open their mouths for inspection.

‘Couple of thousand?’ she suggested.

‘Eleven and a half thousand! That’s all!’ Mary-Jane shrieked.

‘All? God, that’s mad!’ It was crazy, no question. Clover could add a swimming pool to the house in the sun for that. If she ever got the house in the sun. She was back on France again this week, if Sean and finances ever allowed for it. Or maybe she should just do what her parents were doing, sell up the Richmond house and take off, dragging her daughters round the world like universal wanderers. There were people who’d say that would be the best education, rather than being deskbound doing worksheets and test papers in this outer-London exam hothouse. Clover was very confused. All she wished, right now, was that she and Sean had the kind of all-time certain-of-each-other relationship that her parents had. Was it too late now? Had something between them been messed up for ever when he’d cheated on her that time after Elsa was born or should we all be allowed one mistake before the slate is indelibly sullied? She wouldn’t run that one past Mary-Jane. It would be all round the school by Thursday week if she did.

‘The new nanny’s a dream. We’re thrilled.’ Mary-Jane was still in chat-mode. ‘She says she doesn’t mind how many she has in the house, because the more you’ve got the more they entertain each other. I’ll take advantage of that while she’s still young and keen. I was wondering if you’d like her to pick up Sophia and Elsa on Thursday and they can come for tea with Jakey and Poll? What do you think? It’s not a ballet or gym day, is it? Or is it violin? Extra maths?’

‘No, no it’s not. It’s … for once, not anything. That’d be great, thanks! And it means I can go down to my folks for the afternoon. They’ve got the first estate agent coming round to have a look at the house, see what kind of money they’re looking at. I wouldn’t mind being there.’

‘Oh you should definitely be there,’ Mary-Anne agreed. ‘Make sure they’re not getting ripped off. And you of course, too. I mean, it’s your inheritance they’re cashing in, isn’t it? It’s not just theirs?’ Mary-Jane laughed. ‘You want to get in there, girl, stake your claim!’

She sounded like Sean, Clover thought. Why did they think it was all about money?

Clover’s phone trilled and she quickly checked the caller ID: Sean.

‘Where are you, darling? Collecting Sophia?’ Sean sounded his usual, no-problem self.

‘Yeah – I’m outside the school right now,’ she replied. ‘Sophia’s just coming out, with Polly as usual. Are you definitely not back tonight? Are you sure you can’t make it home?’

He was in Manchester, sorting a problem with the banqueting company that had been booked for a bicentenary event for an ancient wool guild.

‘Sorry, darlin’,’ Sean said. ‘I’d love to but it’s a problem that needs a hands-on approach. There are still people who’d rather see a face than a fax. Now if we had a nanny … you could come up here for a couple of days, join me. Think about it.’

His voice went seductive, quieter. She could imagine him in an office, keeping his voice down to talk intimately to her. ‘… swish hotel, a spa, just you and me and a bottle of Cristal and no little girls barging in wanting another glass of water. Like I said, think about it. In fact, you don’t need to: why not come anyway? Come now – get your mum to drive up and stay overnight with the girls, why not?’

Sean’s obvious eagerness made Clover immediately tingly with longing, tempered by embarrassment that every passing school parent, clucking on their way to their cars about lunch eaten, sports triumphs scored and maths marks gained, was looking at her and knowing she was indulging in adult talk in child-hours. She put a hand to her hot face, flustered by Sean’s spontaneous suggestion and the promise of a night of hot, child-free sex.

‘Sean, I’d love to, you know I would, but I can’t just drop everything …’

Sean chuckled. ‘It’s not everything I want you to drop. Just your best silk knickers. Come on, Clover,’ he coaxed her, ‘for me? Just a forty-minute shuttle flight away? You could be here by seven. I’ll chill the fizz, ready for you.’

Clover dithered. ‘Well … no, be sensible, Sean, really. Elsa’s got ballet and it’s Sophia’s night for violin practice …’

‘OK.’ He sighed. ‘I know which bit of No means No. Don’t say I didn’t ask though, darlin’, will you?’ And he was gone.

What was that supposed to mean? Clover gave Sophia a hello hug, took her lunchbox from her and led her safely across the road and into the Touareg. It sounded like a threat. Very much like, ‘If you don’t want me, I’ll find someone who does.’ Or was she imagining things?

Quickly, she climbed into the car then took out her mobile again, calling Sean back. Perhaps she could race off and be with him, just for a mad, lust-filled night. She should, in fact. Wasn’t she forever reading about the dire consequences of letting a marriage slide into a slough of stale routine? If they were ever to break up, she mustn’t let it be through her negligence.

His phone was now switched off. Bugger. She started the car and considered the options. She could keep ringing, or she could simply catch a plane and go and bank on him having switched it back on by the time she got there. Except she didn’t actually know (how careless was this?) which hotel he was staying in. It could be that she landed at the airport and his phone was still off and she’d end up spending a miserable night alone in some dismal runway hotel. Or she could do the sensible thing and stay at home, taking care of her daughters as she’d originally planned. After all, it was mid-week. How irresponsible and selfish would running out on them be? And if she went this time, was she supposed to race off round the country every time he was feeling a bit lonely, randy, generally loose-endish? Bordering on tears, for she now so much wanted to go, she stabbed at the phone again; still nothing.

‘Clover?’ Mary-Jane startled her, rapping on the car window. Clover wound it down.

‘I just wondered,’ Mary-Jane said, ‘as it’s such a lovely day, Polly and I were thinking, why don’t I do us all a barbecue in my garden later? I’ve got to take Jakey to Tumble Tots but any time after that. The kids have got the water-slide set up. What do you think?’ Polly was bouncing up and down beside her mum, grinning and excited.

‘Well … I was thinking of …’ What to say? The truth? She was crazily desperate to get to Manchester for a night of the rare kind of uninhibited passion that you don’t often get post-babies? She longed to dally with her husband in a vast bath full of bubbles and scented oils, drinking champagne?

‘Oh Mum, please let’s! I want to go to Polly’s! Please!’

And that was the thing when you had children; you had to put them first, didn’t you? If there was a manual that came with childbirth, that would be the first instruction, right there on page one.

‘OK, we’ll do that,’ Clover agreed. ‘I’ve got a chocolate cake I can bring for pud, with strawberries and ice-cream.’

Sean was a grown-up; he could wait. The children couldn’t. There’d be another time.

She hoped.