12. Sauvignon Blanc
Robust and forceful with a penetrating nose.

“Hello, sweetie!” The tall figure on the doorstep posed dramatically against a backdrop of blue-grey sea, clouded sky, and the black iron railings of the front gates, before sweeping into Gaynor’s hall, beaming. “I’m back!”

Lizzie threw her bag to the floor and her arms around Gaynor, jewellery jangling.

“I can see that,” Gaynor said, hugging Lizzie hard. She stood back and grinned with pleasure, taking in the familiar, bright, kohl-ringed eyes, the long glossy mane of black hair with its red henna-sheen, the mass of silver bangles and coloured glass beads. Lizzie had a deep tan and had lost weight. Above the quarter-length embroidered jeans, a cheesecloth top was tied, exposing her brown stomach. A red jewel winked there, matching the red-painted toes peeping out of her worn leather sandals.

The whole place suddenly seemed bright and energised.

Gaynor hugged her again. “You look great. Did you have a good time?”

“Bloody fantastic. Touch of Delhi-belly, but nothing terminal.”

“Good – where’s my present?”

Lizzie kicked at the big leather holdall at her feet. “In there. Where’s my drink?”

“It was wonderful,” Lizzie said, putting her glass down, shaking off her shoes and lying the length of Gaynor’s sofa. “Had to slum it a bit at the end when I ran out of money but I had a brilliant time. I met the most amazing people.” She sat up and grabbed her wine again, grinning wickedly. “Really amazing.”

Gaynor smiled. “So you got shagged, then.”

“Mmmn, did I?”

“Brought him back with you?”

“Him? There was more than one!”

Gaynor laughed. Lizzie prided herself on her ability to love ’em and leave ’em. “Don’t want any of that messy love stuff,” she’d say. “As long as they’re good in the sack and don’t hang around, I’m happy.”

Lizzie propped herself up on one elbow. “There was one, though. This guy Ravi – he was travelling about too. We spent a few days together. He was a sweetheart. I mean I wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life with him – he’s a bit of a dope-head, full of stuff about the crystals and catching your dreams, out in India in his search of his spiritual home, you know the sort of thing – but we had a great time. And he was really good to me when I was ill. One night, I’d got this terrible cold. I was streaming and coughing and spluttering and blowing my nose constantly – it was all disgusting and I looked delightful. Shiny red hooter, little piggy eyes, hair needed washing, every man’s dream. I woke up in the night and I was groping about for tissues, my nose running like a tap and he turned over and put an arm out and stroked my back. He said: “Are you OK?”

Gaynor looked at her quizzically.

Lizzie nodded. “That’s it, just – are you OK?” She took a big mouthful of wine. “He wasn’t even properly awake, you know, he was all sleepy, but he reached out and checked I was all right.” She shook her head, as if bewildered, and looking for a startling moment as if she might cry. “He sounded so concerned. And I thought, that’s what I miss out on being single. It’s not the physical stuff.” She paused and laughed. “You can get that anywhere – it’s someone being there in the middle of the night and looking out for you.”

They were both silent for a moment. Gaynor thought about Sam with a sudden pang. Then Lizzie laughed, her old flippant tone returning. “It’s what you married people get in compensation for not having sex any more.”

Gaynor reached out for the bottle and topped up both their glasses.

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Some of us don’t get sex OR anyone giving a damn.” She suddenly felt tearful herself.

Lizzie sat right up and looked at her. “What’s wrong? Is there a problem with Victor?”

“Hmmm,” she said, when Gaynor had finished and they’d both got new drinks. “Never mind Saint Sarah. I’m with you, honey – no smoke without fire. Sounds to me as if the bastard’s up to no good at all, but we need to find out for sure.”

“How?” Gaynor asked miserably. “You know what he’s like – he always comes up with an excuse and just makes me feel stupid. The teddy thing disappeared from the bedroom and after a few days I did tell him I’d seen a package and asked him what it was. He got all funny at first and then he said it was a present he’d bought for me but he’d taken it back ’cos he’d made a mistake. And then he went on about what I was doing in his wardrobe anyway and made me feel all guilty for being jealous and suspicious.”

Lizzie looked sceptical. “So if it was a mistake, why didn’t he bring it back in the right size then, huh?”

Gaynor shrugged. “I don’t know. He said he wouldn’t bother next time if I was only going to be paranoid.”

“Pah! I like Victor,” said Lizzie. “He can be lots of fun and I’m fond of the old bugger, but he’s a slippery sod, isn’t he? All those years creating beautiful lies with which to dupe the unsuspecting public – it’s bound to give you a certain flair for deceit. And if he keeps staying away…”

Gaynor frowned. “There was one time when he’d told me he was staying in Scotland overnight but I found out he’d come back to London early evening and could easily have come home, but he didn’t.”

Lizzie sat up straighter. “And? Did you tell him you knew?”

“Oh yes. But he had an answer, of course. Said he’d needed to have a debriefing with Laurence.” Gaynor could hear him now. He’d seemed perfectly relaxed about being asked. “We got away sooner than we thought in the end,” he’d said. “But it was such an intense two days, I just needed to get my head together – talk it through while it was all still fresh. We had a bottle of poo and a bit of dinner and I hit the sack. I thought you’d be working anyway.” He’d smiled at her apologetically. “And I didn’t fancy the crap of getting home on a Friday night from town.”

It had sounded perfectly plausible. Victor had looked her straight in the eye. “I did believe him,” she said now to Lizzie. “But, I don’t know – something still doesn’t feel right.”

Lizzie considered. “What about having him followed?”

Gaynor gave a wry smile. “I thought about that. I even phoned up an agency I found in the yellow pages, but do you know how much it costs? And Sam said…”

“Sam?”

“He’s just a bloke I know – he did the sign for the wine bar and we’ve sort of become friends.”

“Friends?”

“Yes, friends,” said Gaynor defensively. “You know, we have cups of tea together, that’s all, and he’s a good listener and I told him about Victor ’cos I was a bit upset and

– Lizzie, why are you looking at me like that?”

Since the evening after the threatening phone call, she’d made a conscious effort not to flirt with Sam or go there when she’d had too much to drink. But she knew she’d begun to depend on him. Where once she would have twittered away to Victor, now it was Sam she went to with her angsts and preoccupations.

When her mother had called to say David was going through a lot of anxiety again and her father was low, she’d called him the minute she put the phone down. When Chloe had sent pictures of her first scan and Gaynor had been shot through by such exquisite pain she felt her legs would give way, it was to Sam she ran in tears. She opened her mouth to try to explain to Lizzie how he didn’t make her feel like an empty-headed bimbo, as Victor was inclined to, how he took her feelings seriously, how he would comfort her and make her feel not only safe and warm but that her feelings were valid. That she was, indeed. How, strangely he’d churned up all her feelings up while soothing them. How he’d taught her to cry again…

But she couldn’t say any of it.

“He’s just a friend,” Gaynor repeated.

Lizzie raised her eyebrows. “So why are you blushing?”

Lizzie sat back on the sofa and considered all Gaynor had told her. “So what we have here is a situation where Victor could be playing away and while he is, you want to do the same with Sam?”

“No, it’s not that. Sam’s lovely. Sam’s really good to me but I’m not …”

“Do you fancy him?

“No. Well, yes. I sort of find him attractive but I just feel… I need…” “You need,” said Lizzie decisively, “to know where you are. What time will Victor be back?”

“About eight, he said. Oh God, I said I’d cook.”

“Right,” said Lizzie, leaping up, “we’ve got two hours

– let’s go through his things.”

Gaynor looked shocked. “I can’t do that,” she said halfheartedly, while remembering what Sam had said about a paper trail.

But Lizzie was already opening the door of Victor’s oak-panelled study. “Do you want to know or not? Where are his credit card statements?”

“I don’t really know where he keeps anything, I don’t come in here much.” Gaynor hovered uncomfortably by the door while Lizzie pulled open the drawers of Victor’s leather-topped desk.

“Where are all his papers and things?”

Gaynor nodded towards an oak cabinet. “There’s a load of stuff in there.”

Lizzie tugged it open. “He’s very organised,” she said, flipping through file tabs. “Insurance, life policies, cars, unfortunately nothing headed ‘who I’m shagging’. Ah – personal documents – perhaps there’s something in here…”

“No, that’s our birth and marriage certificates – things like that.”

Lizzie was already pulling them out. “Better just take a look in case he’s married someone else on the Q T. Hmm, nothing – hey look at you!” Lizzie opened Gaynor’s passport. “I’d forgotten you had your hair like that – and look at Victor – what a pretty boy. These must need renewing pretty soon – you both look so young.” She grinned.

“Thank you!” Gaynor came across the room, took them from Lizzie’s hands and dropped them back into the file.

“Perhaps you should look in there.” Lizzie pointed to a file marked ‘Bank’. “I don’t like to …”

She broke off as Gaynor pulled out a bundle of statements and glanced through them. “Just his current account. Standing orders, cash withdrawals – nothing to tell me anything. I don’t know what he does with his credit card stuff. I think one of them is paid for by the company – the one he does all the business entertaining and travel on – and then he’s got his own platinum…”

She pulled out a small drawer on the right of the desk. “This is where the receipts go – I give him my shopping and petrol ones for checking against the statement.”

She pulled out a bulldog clip with a wodge of credit card vouchers in it and began to sift through them. “There’s not much here, just our personal stuff – the Tandoori, Waitrose, garden centre, What’s this? Antonio’s Hair Factory?”

Lizzie came and looked over her shoulder. “Bloody hell! That’s more than I spend on my hair. What does he have done, for God’s sake?”

“Dunno. Looked like a trim to me. Still, Sloane Street…”

“Still bloody expensive.”

Gaynor dropped the receipts back on the desk. “Look! This isn’t going to tell us anything – I bet he takes her away to hotels with him and the agency pays for all that. And probably all their restaurants too – he’ll just put it down as business. He always does if we eat out in town.”

“What’s this?” Lizzie picked up a folded statement from the back of the drawer. “Anything here you don’t know about?” She ran her eye down the list. “Duty free goods – perfumery. A hundred and seventy-eight quid!”

“He bought me some on the way back from Thailand.”

“What, at that price? How big was the bottle? Perhaps he bought some for someone else too?

Gaynor shook her head. “Maybe, but he came home with a load of stuff for him too – aftershave and lotion and that sort of thing. He likes his cosmetics, does Victor. Go and look in our bathroom – he’s got more bottles and potions than I have!”

“The old tart. And when did he last buy you clothes?”

“Two or three months ago – the day we went to London and he got that teddy.”

“Nothing since?”

“No.”

“No other lingerie?”

“No, I told you. Why, what have you found?” Gaynor’s heart was thumping. “What is it?”

Lizzie held out the statement. “Voluptua? Two hundred and ninety-nine pounds?”

Gaynor snatched at the paper. “Where? What’s he bought?”

Lizzie shrugged. “I don’t know but with a name like that I’ll guess it’s something sexy.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“It says Manchester here. Has he been there lately?”

“Not that he’s told me. But who knows where he goes!”

“Might be mail order, of course.” Lizzie took the statement back and looked closely at it

“But what is it?” Gaynor asked, agitated. “ I mean, three hundred quid. A dress? What?” She leant over Lizzie’s shoulder. “Look – it was paid for three weeks ago. I’ve had nothing – it can’t be for me. What’s he buying? And who for?”

Lizzie reached for the phone. “Only one way to find out.”

Gaynor came back into the study. Lizzie was still perched on the corner of Victor’s desk with the receiver to her ear.

“What’s happening?” Gaynor picked up the empty glasses.

Lizzie grimaced. “Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line. Then Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.”

“Bollocks.”

“Get another bottle open, for God’s sake.” Lizzie shifted on the desk and crossed her legs. “Ah, a real person at last. Yes, hello Mary-Ann-Speaking, you can help me….”

“Couldn’t get anywhere really,” said Lizzie taking a large swig of her drink. “I tried pretending I was you and my husband had ordered something I was trying to chase up but they wanted an order number and all sorts. I didn’t even know your postcode. I said I’d call back – pretended I was concerned about what size he’d chosen.” She stopped. “But I did find out what they sell and…” she hesitated, “…I don’t see how it could be for you unless he’s made a mistake…”

Gaynor looked at her. “Well?”

“Clothes for the fuller figure.”

“Bastard!”

“He knows bloody well,” said Gaynor, caught between fury and tears. “He knows bloody well what size I am – it’s for this bloody hippopotamus he’s shagging.”

Lizzie crossed the kitchen and poured more wine into Gaynor’s glass. “She could just be tall. They said they cater for particularly tall women or women with unusual proportions – big calves, for example. Mary-Ann got quite animated. Explained how they do boots in four width sizes. You measure your leg…”

“Well, she sounds really attractive.” Gaynor exploded. “What is he doing? Screwing a six foot elephant with tree trunk legs…” She snorted, half laughing, half crying.

Lizzie sat down at the breakfast bar. “Look, I don’t want to wind you up by sounding like Sarah but it couldn’t be props for one of his commercials, could it? Remember when they did that pitch for the Exotic Gifts account – he brought all those Champagne Perfume hampers home. We got slaughtered and smelled nice!”

Gaynor looked miserable. “Yes, exactly – he brought them home. If big lingerie and huge boots are part of a bid to win a client, then why not just dump the evidence on the coffee table? I tell you, Lizzie, it’s all making sense now. For years he’s made comments if I’ve even put on a pound and yet when we went shopping he told me I was looking good, when I’m clearly bigger than I’ve ever been.”

Lizzie looked her up and down. “Where exactly?”

“He’s always used clothes as the romantic gesture,” said Gaynor, ignoring her. “He’s bought me flowers about three times in our entire relationship and that’s because I’ve asked for them. Chocolates, never. All those calories? You don’t want them really do you?” she said, mimicking his tones. “But clothes, lingerie, scarves, shoes – always. If he’s got a bird he’ll be buying her stuff. That’s how he is. What am I going to do,” she wailed. “I need to know.”

Lizzie opened the fridge. “Let me stay for supper,” she said. “What have we got?”

Victor seemed genuinely delighted to find Lizzie in his kitchen.

“You look fantastic,” he said, hugging her, “and what’s that marvellous smell?”

“She’s done her tuna and peppers pasta special for us,” said Gaynor, “and we need you to open more wine.”

“Looks like you’ve got through half my cellar already,” said Victor, picking up the empty Sauvignon bottle.

“And why not,” asked Lizzie, smiling. “We were celebrating my safe return.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Victor, smiling too. “We’ve missed you.”

Lizzie chinked glasses with him and then leant across to do the same with Gaynor. “Well, I’m back now,” she said.

They ate in the kitchen. Lizzie tossed a salad in a big Mediterranean bowl, warmed crusty rustic rolls from the freezer, lit candles and piled fragrant steaming pasta on to three plates. Gaynor, sitting on a stool at the breakfast bar, watched her gratefully. She felt safer with Lizzie here. She felt as though Lizzie would somehow get to the bottom of things. Above all, that Lizzie believed her. That Lizzie wouldn’t tell her she was imagining things, like Sarah, or that she was somehow better off not knowing, as Sam had tried to suggest. Though Sam made her feel safe too. Thinking about Sam sent a spasm of something through her.

“Have you got a thing about him?” Lizzie had asked earlier. And Gaynor had shaken her head. She hadn’t, had she? She liked Sam, appreciated him. Because he listened to her and took her seriously. OK, so she did think about him a lot but that was because she was so churned up and confused anyway. How could she say what she felt, when all this was going on? If she just knew what Victor was up to…

“So what have you been up to?” Lizzie asked him across the table.

Victor, screwing the cork from another bottle of Barolo, answered easily. “Still running the rat race, trying to earn a crust.”

Lizzie laughed. “You poor old thing. So it’s still big bucks, fast cars and loose women, eh?”

Victor grinned. “I wish. I’ve spent all day in a meeting about Homestyle Double-Silk Quick-Dry emulsion. Forty-four new colours for the style-conscious executive and about as gripping as watching the stuff dry.”

“No exotic locations?”

“Thailand for a week. Weather was fantastic but the shoot was a pain in the arse – the models were all about fifteen and kept bursting into tears, and the photographer had a row on the phone with his boyfriend on the first night and got so drunk he spent all the next day in bed. Laurence and I were tearing our hair out. I was pretty glad to get home.” He smiled.

Gaynor felt Lizzie’s eyes flick towards her. Victor sounded completely genuine but then, what was he going to say? I took this great trout of a woman with me and we spent every spare second humping? She held out her glass to be refilled.

“You managed some shopping though, didn’t you?” she asked deliberately, pushing her empty pasta bowl to one side. Victor nodded, still seeming completely at ease. “Some amazing boutiques,” he said to Lizzie. “And markets to die for. Great silks and stuff. Got Gaynor a fabulous dress.”

“Oooh, that reminds me.” Lizzie jumped up and ran to the hall. “Look what I’ve got for you. She came back with her battered leather holdall. “Such gorgeous colours – I couldn’t resist them.” She pulled out a wad of tightly folded fabric which she began to shake out, unravelling yards of patterned silk in blues and greens and silvers. She held it out in her arms. “Look – saris – don’t know what you’ll do with them but they were so cheap…”

“Wear them!” cried Victor.

Gaynor stood up, gathering the silk to her, trying to fathom which way it went. “My God, there’s so much of it – where’s the end?”

“Here.” Lizzie pulled at acres of material. “Come here.” She began to wrap part of it around Gaynor. “Lift up your arms.” She giggled. “I did know how to do this.”

“So did I, once.” Victor picked up another, vivid in burnt oranges and yellows, a splash of turquoise across it. “Remember when I did that video in Madras?” He jumped up and began to wind it around himself. “Does it suit me?”

“Very nice.” Lizzie laughed and began to wrap more fabric around Gaynor’s middle. “It’s something like this.”

“Isn’t it supposed to go over one shoulder?” Gaynor unwrapped it again, dragging the heap of silk round behind her. “I think you do this…” She pulled a length of silk round behind her and down over her left breast. “Then you wrap it round you…”

“Sari race!” Victor tossed a third folded sari in vivid pink and gold at Lizzie. “First one to get it on and still be decent!” He pulled off his shirt and took a swallow of red wine. “Loser does the washing up!”

Laughing, Lizzie grabbed at the sari and began to wind it round her. “The Indian women wear a T-shirt underneath half the time,” she said. “None of this topless stuff. Look – your nipple’s showing.”

Victor went on wrapping himself up. “Are you getting excited?”

“In your dreams!”

Giggling too, as she attempted to get her own slippery mass in some sort of shape, Gaynor looked lovingly at them both. Suddenly Victor was being his old fun self again, prancing across the floor tiles in acres of silk as Lizzie laughed helplessly. She looked at the empty bottles among the pasta dishes. Wonderful stuff, alcohol. Suddenly nothing seemed so bad after all.

She went out into the hall and tried to make sense of the winding process in the reflection of the long mirror. She took off her jeans, then holding the material over her shoulder like the end of a bandage, began to wind it round and round her body until she reached her knees. It was too tight to move in but sort of looked the part. Or as much of the part as she could remember, women in saris not being exactly thick on the ground in Broadstairs. She draped the rest around her.

“I’ve done it,” she called, hobbling back into the kitchen in tiny shuffling steps, trying not to fall over. “Look at me!” She twirled, holding on to the end piece of silk. “I need to do something with this bit.”

“You need to do something with all of it. There’s a great gaping bit round your bum,” said Lizzie, still struggling with her own creation. “You couldn’t go out like that – we can all see your knickers.”

“Nothing unusual,” said Victor. “Look at me!” They both looked and collapsed laughing. Victor did seem to be the one who’d done it properly. The bright garment looked totally incongruous wrapped round his tall frame and bare male chest but it was over one shoulder in a most professional manner and seemed to hang and drape without showing any signs of slithering into a pile on the floor, as Lizzie’s had just done. He jumped on to a kitchen chair and held out his arms like a diva. “TRALAA!”

“Looks great with the socks,” said Lizzie, pointing at Victor’s feet.

They all looked at the grey patterned wool and burst out laughing again.

“I give up.” Lizzie tossed her sari into a corner and began to stack the supper things. “I’ll show you how to belly dance instead.”

She moved all the plates and bowls on to the breakfast bar, got up on to a chair and into the middle of the table. “Got any sexy music?”

She began to gyrate her middle. “There was this totally fantastic dancer in this restaurant I went to with Ravi. She moved round the tables and her stomach just went into hundreds of ripples.” Lizzie thrust out her pelvis, rolling her own flat brown abdomen up and down, the red stud in her navel flashing in the candlelight.

Victor clapped enthusiastically. “Yeah!” he cried.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…”

“That was a great evening,” Victor said, when Lizzie had eventually gone and they had weaved their way upstairs. He began kissing Gaynor’s neck. “We need to do more of that,” he said, as he propelled her along the landing. “Need to have more fun…” He was still wearing the sari half-draped over him and looked ridiculous. But there was no mistaking his passion. He pushed open their bedroom door with one foot, his hands moving over her. As he urged her backwards, she felt an urgency about him that hadn’t been there for a long time.

“Come on …” He pulled her down on to the bed, fingers undoing the button on her jeans, mouth moving down between her breasts. “Christ,” he breathed, “I really want you.”

Gaynor wrapped her arms around him, weak with relief, feeling the desire flow through her in answer.

“I want you, too,” she said. “I want you too…”