Three In a Bed Page 12

  ‘There are hidden depths to you I would never have suspected,’ he said with a grin.

  ‘I brought Don to the Christmas party.’

  ‘You had sex with your husband in the toilets? You are unbelievable.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ She put on her most perplexed and wounded face, but was horrified she had been found out.

  ‘The rumour sweeping the office is that you lured a mysterious dark-haired stranger into the ladies’ loos at the party.’

  She gave her best impersonation of outraged laughter.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mitch said. ‘No-one really believes it. Never mind, the news that you are with child will nip it in the bud. No-one’s going to believe that a pregnant woman would have sex with her husband in the toilets even if her life depended on it.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘Anyway, I’ll catch ya later.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He could not get out of the room fast enough. She could practically hear him running down the corridor shouting: ‘News just in: Bella in toilet romp pregnancy shock.’

  She turned back to her screen. Susan’s advice had been to let the board have as much of the bad news as early as possible, along with plenty of practical solutions. That way things should already be improving slightly by the time her final report was due in April.

  She scanned through her e-mails and saw one in there from Chris.

  Bella, hello. We’ve not had the chance to talk at all since the Christmas party. I just wanted to congratulate you on your news and tell you I think it’s wonderful (OK I’m a little bit surprised, I have to admit. Especially after our . . . well, I know I’m not supposed to mention it.) Anyway, I’d love to have a drink some time, we can talk about how things are going to work while you’re away / when you come back etc. Hope you’re keeping really well and don’t let the buggers get you down. Chris

  Chris. She hadn’t thought about him for weeks. A good thing. But it was nice to hear from him and know he was on her side. She typed back:

  So glad to hear from you. How about Wed/Thurs night? Bella

  Ah yes! There was something else she had to kick off today. She rootled about in her bag for the card she had put in there and soon was deep in conversation with an estate agent.

  ‘And I’m in a real hurry to move,’ she added. ‘Baby on the way, hectic work schedule, all the usual.’

  OK, board meeting, board meeting . . . time to concentrate, she told herself, once she’d put the phone down.

  An e-mail dropped from the finance department. The latest reports she had asked for were ‘unavailable – files out’.

  This was ridiculous, she would have to find out from the finance director himself what the hell was going on. Preparations for the interim report meeting she was holding with the board kept her in the office for almost ten hours, so Don got home well ahead of her.

  She messaged him as she climbed onto the tube, so dinner would be ready when she got back. When she finally made it to the flat, he was in the kitchen stirring up chicken with peppers, soy sauce and rice.

  ‘Mmm . . . very macho new man,’ she told him, kissing him hello.

  ‘I’m wooing you tonight,’ he warned her, smiling and stirring frantically.

  ‘How nice,’ she said, thinking, Please no, I have to go to bed.

  They ate dinner then he insisted she lie down on the sofa while he peeled off her stockings and massaged her feet with oil.

  ‘This is perfect,’ she said to him closing her eyes and feeling herself sink to the brink of sleep almost immediately.

  ‘How’s work?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s pretty tough.’ She didn’t want to elaborate.

  ‘You’re doing really well, you know,’ he said as he stroked her bump protectively.

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, struggling against a yawn. ‘I’m sorry I’m so tired all the time.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ After a pause he added, ‘Are we going to get a place with a garden?’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said.

  ‘I like the idea of reading the papers in a garden with our little baby playing on a rug.’

  ‘You’ll have to mow the lawn,’ she warned him with a smile.

  ‘That’s OK, I’ll mow the lawn. I’m getting very domesticated in my old age.’

  ‘You’re really adorable, you know.’ She put a hand against the side of his face and watched his eyes. ‘Please don’t go off and shag anyone else, will you?’ She’d meant this to sound jokey but it came out a little pleading.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Bella, you’re the one.’ And when he said things like that, dead serious and holding her gaze, it still made her stomach flip and it renewed her faith that this love affair could last for a very long time.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SITTING IN HER tiny office at Merris several weeks later, Bella could feel pinpricks of sweat break through under her arms. Her hands were shaking just slightly. This was it, the interim report, the first meeting with the board to outline her findings.

  She was delivering bad news, probably much worse than they expected, but she hoped they would trust her. They had to be sure she was right and that she could get them out of this rapidly accelerating decline.

  Her outfit had been carefully chosen that morning to project maximum authority and gravitas: hard to do with a comical bump protruding from your middle. She’d gone for the black fitted skirt and flared top ensemble, along with diamond earrings and gold necklace, then she’d added serious make-up and piled her hair up on her head in the hope that she looked a lot older than 28.

  The figures, the reports and the spiel she was going to give them had been replayed over and over in her mind, but she mentally ran through the intro once again.

  ‘You’re just nervous,’ she told herself, guiltily stubbing out the second cigarette she’d smoked since she got in.

  A glance at her watch told her it was eight minutes to nine. Time to get down there. She gathered up her sheaf of papers and left her office.

  Once everyone had settled down round the conference table, Merris went through the introductory formalities, then Bella stood up and took in the attentive eyes turned in her direction: ‘Gentlemen,’ she began, then gave it to them straight.

  She started by demonstrating that the funds were showing negligible growth and moved on to show how new business had virtually dried up.

  Arms were crossing defensively, mouths were being drawn into tight little lines and she could even hear irritated sighs. She carried on, unfazed, in a quiet, firm voice. Why were there no plans to set up anything on the net? To meet new regulations head on or to prepare for the pension holders going back to court? she asked.

  Now everyone, apart from Merris, who’d already heard all this from her, was looking furious and somewhat shocked.

  OK – time to swoop down and cheer them up. She started to outline her solutions: new financial products, new marketing initiatives, an on-line service and better strategic planning to deal with the other problems.

  ‘I’ve spoken to all of you individually and heard a lot of great ideas. It would not take long to get Merris Group back on course,’ she said encouragingly. That was mainly a lie, but she might as well try and be a little bit nice.

  ‘But I’m sure you are all wondering how this can be financed?’ Several heads were nodding vigorously at her.

  ‘Well . . .’ She knew her number one suggestion was not going to be popular, ‘I think Merris Group needs to bring in a partner or a parent company.’ In other words merge or get bought over.

  There was a collective wave of shocked in-breaths.

  She ran through the other options, not looking up much because she knew their faces would be horrified. Yup – she glanced down again – like patients faced with a rectal examination.

  When she’d finished, she sat down and looked squarely at Merris himself.

  ‘Thank you very much, Ms Browning,’ he said in an entirely neutral tone. ‘Does anyone have any ques
tions?’ he added. Surprise, surprise no-one moved. If this bunch had any courage in their convictions, they weren’t about to reveal it now.

  ‘Well, perhaps it would be best to discuss this amongst ourselves, and Ms Browning – we’ll call you back in if any clarifications are necessary,’ Merris said.

  ‘OK.’ She stood up, gathered her papers together and tried not to feel hurt. What had she expected? A standing ovation?

  Quickly she walked out of the silent room and headed back to her office to wait. This was horrible. Either she would be told ‘thank you very much, but we won’t be requiring your services further’ or the Merris Group executives were going to have to bite a very hard and unpalatable bullet. She sucked down another cigarette, hating herself for it, drank a cup of coffee and waited.

  Finally the phone buzzed.

  ‘Hello, Ms Browning?’ It was Merris’s secretary.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, feeling her heart hammering high up in her chest.

  ‘You’re wanted back in the conference room to discuss your report.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll be right there.’ She walked along slowly and calmly, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. This could be OK, oh God! Surely they weren’t going to ask her back in to fire her? But it was OK. The executives were still in shock and she wasn’t sure if they really believed her yet, but at least they were prepared to listen some more.

  One of the few uplifts in the very long week that followed was an excited phone call from the estate agent, who promised Bella he had found her new home.

  There was also a message on her mobile from Declan, informing her: ‘Bella you f***ing useless cow, you haven’t been for a check-up for a month. Drag your arse in here next week or you are in so much trouble.’

  On Saturday morning she and Don got into his Jeep to go and view the house. She opened the car door, climbed up and surveyed the scene. It was disgusting. The back seat was strewn with newspapers, empty coffee cups and sandwich wrappers. In the front was a tangle of wires – computer extensions, mobile chargers – the ashtray was overflowing and ash was scattered all over the floor and the seats.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Bella. ‘Have you been entertaining again?’

  ‘I tell you what, we’ll go via the garage and I’ll smarten her up,’ Don said.

  ‘Go via the skip, I think you mean.’

  ‘Come on, woman, get in, stop fussing, at least you’ll be able to stretch your legs and enjoy the view.’

  ‘I’m perfectly comfortable in my car,’ she said clambering up, thankful she was wearing the wipe-clean maternity leathers.

  They roared off all the way to the first red light. Don loved to drive fast, which was a bit of a thwarted desire in London. He certainly indulged on the motorways and, even in the tank he drove, seemed to have ratcheted up enough speeding points to be clinging onto his vital licence by a thread.

  After a wash and vacuum at the garage, they were running slightly late as they whizzed through north London and into the not very glamorous borough they could soon be calling home. Looking out of the window, Bella took it all in. The high streets full of kebab shops and launderettes, the gloomy tower blocks and council estates which loomed round almost every corner complete with small groups of moody adolescents. Rows of Victorian housing, looking shabby and unloved.

  ‘This can’t be right?’ She looked at Don.

  ‘’Fraid so, we’re the second on the left here.’

  He turned the car into a long street of tall Victorian terraces which looked grey and grimy. Then they turned left at the bottom and suddenly they were in a lovely little crescent.

  The houses here had repainted windows, elegant wooden shutters and brightly coloured doors. The brickwork had been spruced up, railings had been repaired and there were even some jaunty window-boxes.

  Bella clocked the cars: a range of new Scenics, Espaces and Golfs. Well, it looked a bit more promising.

  Towards the bottom of the road was the large FOR SALE sign.

  ‘This must be it,’ said Don, pulling up.

  As they got out of the Jeep, the driver’s door opened on a car parked right in front of the house.

  ‘Hello, you must be the Brownings.’ A young, smartly dressed man was coming towards them with his hand outstretched.

  ‘Bella Browning,’ said Bella, shaking his hand, ‘and this is Don McCartney, my husband.’

  ‘Hello, I’m Stephen Rennie, so . . . shall I show you round?’

  They walked up the steps, Bella noticing the big windows on the basement floor and the glossy wine-coloured front door.

  ‘The owners are away for the weekend, in case you’re wondering,’ Stephen told them as they entered a vibrant orange hallway. On the left was the big living room painted such a deep navy that it looked strangely dark and old-fashioned despite the huge bay window and multicoloured rugs over the sofas.

  In its favour, the room had a lovely old wooden floor. Everything had been neatly tidied and stacked away, but there were obvious kiddie bits all over the place: big boxes crammed full of toys in the corner, a pile of dog-eared books on the coffee table, stacks of Disney videos on a rack beside the TV. The windows at the back of the room overlooked a tiny patch of garden with high ivy-clad walls and a bright swing moving in the breeze.

  Bookshelves had been set up in the back of the room and at a glance Bella spotted cookbooks, gardening manuals and more children’s books. There was a comfortable armchair beside the open fireplace.

  ‘The fire does work,’ said Stephen, following her gaze. ‘It looks like it’s been used quite recently, in fact.’

  Bella heard herself asking all sorts of efficient questions. How old was the central heating system? Would the windows need work done? All that sort of thing. But she felt a strange mixture of excitement and sadness.

  She loved not just the house but the whole lifestyle it suggested. It was a warm, family house, cuddly but groovy. It was all kids and dogs and orange and navy. It was a stay-in-bake-cakes-go-out-get-muddy kind of home and although she knew she was never going to be that kind of person, some tiny part of her longed for that.

  Oh get a grip, she told herself. Must be the nesty hormones coursing through my bloodstream.

  They went up the stairs which were worn and bumpy underneath the blue runner carpet.

  The main bedroom was bright pink with an ornate wooden sleigh bed and a beautiful chest of drawers. There was a white fitted wardrobe bulging with clothes. Framed and unframed pictures of two adorable blond boys and their smiley, Sloaney parents were dotted all around the room.

  ‘That’s the owners, in case you’re wondering,’ said Stephen, apparently driven by a need to fill in the long silences as Bella and Don looked around. ‘They’re moving to the country, Cumbria I think.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Bella. Of course they are, so they can do dogs and wellies and I think I’m going to cry.

  ‘It’s a good size of room,’ said Don, not risking anything too controversial.

  Bella headed into the next-door bedroom. It was a smaller room with a bunk bed, obviously shared by the boys. Everything was brightly painted. Two of the walls were light blue, two were yellow. The chest of drawers and the wardrobes were painted in yellow and blue stripes. Shelves bulged with stuffed toys, trucks, Lego, books and games.

  She was feeling very odd now. Here she was looking into other people’s lives and she felt a weird combination of regret and longing. She wished she had grown up in a warm, colourful house like this and she wondered if she and Don could ever have such a happy, cosy family life.

  The bathroom on the same floor was a cramped sink, loo, shower-in-bath affair. The blue floor carpet was tatty and so were the black and white tiles on the walls, but the bath was a lovely old salvage job.

  After looking round the plain third bedroom, they went up a narrow set of creaky stairs to the loft conversion. ‘Ah-ha, the home office,’ said Don, who got there ahead of her. He was giving nothing away.

  The sunn
y yellow gabled room was crammed with books, pictures, photos, files, papers, all sorts of strange knick-knacks, including an old stuffed salmon – bizarre – a knackered pram and lots of big brown cardboard boxes. There was a long desk with two state of the art computers on it.

  Although it was chaotic, the room was totally charming.

  ‘What do the owners do?’ asked Bella.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ Stephen answered. ‘Something creative . . . graphic design, media, something like that. So . . . all the way down to the kitchen and the garden now. Shall we?’ he asked.

  The basement kitchen was just as Bella imagined it would be – antique pine, orange walls, Aga, large round pine table, plants under the windows. It was a country kitchen in the city. Double doors led out into the garden and four pairs of wellie boots were lined up along the wall beside the door.

  ‘And the garden . . .’ Stephen unlocked the doors and they stepped out into an unremarkable patch of lawn fringed with untidy bushes and plants. The swing dangled in the chilly breeze. Bella cast her eye round the toys close to the wall of the house: the sandbox shaped like a frog, the faded plastic trike and dirty bucket and spade.

  They all looked at each other.

  ‘Is there anything you’d like to see again?’ asked Stephen.

  ‘Let’s go up to the sitting room,’ said Bella.

  All carefully wiped the clumps of garden off onto the kitchen mat and traipsed up the rickety stairs. Bella and Don strode round the sitting room, looking out of the windows. The entrance to the park was just four houses along at the end of the road.

  Bella sat down on one of the sofas, hoping another angle on the room would reveal something more.

  ‘We’ll talk it over then give you a ring,’ she told Stephen as they walked down the steps from the front of the house. They said goodbye and Bella and Don climbed back into the Jeep. They watched Stephen manoeuvre out of his parking space and start off down the road before they said anything.

  ‘So,’ Bella turned to Don. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘You’re asking me to go first?’ he answered.

  ‘Yup, definitely.’