Any Way You Want Me Read online

  ‘Thanks, Liz,’ I said, taking Nathan off her and rubbing his back. ‘God, what a nightmare. What do you reckon – shall we leave them to it and go out to the pub? They start serving in twenty minutes.’

  She didn’t look at me. ‘Come on, Felix, be a big boy,’ she was saying. ‘Let’s dry those tears now.’

  ‘I NOT SORRY!’ Molly yelled from the hall.

  I was starting to think Lizzie really had the hump with me for Molly’s car rage, but then she caught my eye and we both started laughing. ‘Sod you, then,’ I muttered in the direction of the hall and we laughed even harder.

  I always felt a sense of relief driving away from Lizzie’s house. Much as I loved her and enjoyed seeing her and cute, basin-haired little Felix, I was always on the edge of my nerves, waiting for Molly to beat Felix up or poo on the carpet or break something expensive.

  Still, we were leaving now, and it was her turn to come round to ours next time, where everything that it was possible to break had already been broken, and the carpet was already so knackered that another ‘little accident’ was easily dismissed with a shrug and the dustpan.

  It had been nice to catch up with Lizzie, though. And she had asked me along to a book group she was setting up with some friends, which might be fun – if they weren’t too scarily intellectual, of course.

  After lunch, when both kids were napping, I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen the enormous washing pile, and booted up Alex’s laptop instead. After all, I hadn’t looked at it for days now. As I waited for the connection to dial through, I thought, I bet he’s written back. No, he won’t have written back. Well, he might have, I suppose. Probably not though. Still, you never know.

  ‘Shut up, moron,’ I groaned.

  Inbox: (4) new messages.

  FOUR! Oh my God. I hardly ever got emails. So there had to be one from him, surely. I knew it. Didn’t I say?

  I clicked on the inbox, fingers trembling, then scanned down the names as they appeared.

  Amazon – a great new offer on some CD I’d never heard of.

  Claire Davenport – oh wow, Claire Davenport from school!

  Evie Porter – Aussie mate, excellent.

  Danny Cooper. Danny Cooper.

  I clicked on him at once, brain ticking over with the possibilities. My mouth was dry. What, oh what, was he going to say?

  Sadie, I made a terrible mistake. I should never have left you.

  Sadie, I’ve been trying to find you for years.

  Sadie, I have never been able to get over you.

  Shut up, shut up, shut up. My mind was racing – too much kick-arse coffee at Lizzie’s house. The email opened up finally and I read it.

  Dear Sadie,

  Good to see your name on the website. I was wondering if you were going to make an appearance. Sounds like things are going really well for you. If you’re ever in Manchester, give us a shout. Would be great to meet up after all these years.

  Cheers,

  Dan

  PS I still have your Hatful of Hollow album. Do you want me to post it down?

  I stared at the words and read them all again. It was very . . . bland. Disappointingly bland.

  Hey, you, I taught you everything about sex, I felt like emailing back. I was your first love, remember! What about that bunk-up in the school toilets, eh? How can you be so cool and polite to me now? Why aren’t you begging me to take you back?

  I hit the Reply key and gazed at the blank screen for a while.

  No. Replying straight away was far too keen, if I was going to keep up my fantasy career story. Career woman Sadie would be too busy and overworked to write back the same day to some no-mark schoolboy she’d once been out with, wouldn’t she? I would make him wait. Make him wonder.

  I read the message one last time and then switched off the laptop without even bothering to read the others. I had work to be getting on with, after all. OK, so it was a pile of clean washing to hang out and the kitchen floor to sweep and mop, but even so. I was still too busy to drop everything for Danny Cooper. Far too busy.

  I went into the kitchen and tried to forget about him. I would give him my address, though, I decided. Just so he could send my album back. I’d loved that album and he had always denied that he had it. Yeah, I’d just get my album back and leave it at that. Closure. OK, so our turntable was broken and had been for well over a year – but that wasn’t the point. Danny didn’t have to know that. He didn’t have to know anything I didn’t want him to know.

  I pulled the washing into the laundry basket and smiled. Danny Cooper was back in my life. And I was back in his. So pleasing that we could be so mature and adult about these things, wasn’t it?

  Seven

  Hi Danny,

  Nice to hear from you. Sorry it’s taken me a while to reply – things have been mad at work. You know how it is. We’re all heads down for a new programme that’s launching next week called . . .

  Hmmm. I flicked through Heat magazine for inspiration but couldn’t see any new Channel 4 programmes starting soon that I could convincingly put my name to. I didn’t want to get too embroiled in details anyway. Probably a very bad idea. Tangled webs, and all that.

  Hi Danny,

  How’s it going? Fancy hearing from you after all these years! Hey, remember that time we sneaked into your brother’s room and found his stash of porn mags in the wardrobe? Remember what happened next?

  Maybe not. Tempting, but ill-advised, I decided.

  Hello Danny,

  I’m in Manchester on business next week. How about we meet up and you could give me my record back in person?

  Thinking up other-life fantasies seemed to be the only way I was going to get through the afternoon with the children from hell, who seemed to have replaced my own little angels. Molly had refused her usual post-lunch nap and was over-tired and argumentative. I’d taken them out to the playground hoping she’d let off steam, but it had started to rain almost as soon as we’d got there, and we’d had to turn around and come straight back. There’d been tears that the raincover had to go on the buggy, and then furious shouts and small fists banging on the other side of the said hated raincover when it became clear that I wasn’t going to allow even one go on the swings.

  For a second, I felt like saying, ‘OK, you sit in the rain and get drenched and really cold and come down with pneumonia. Fine. If that’s what my sweetheart wants, that’s what my sweetheart will have. Bollocks to it.’

  I didn’t, though. I said, ‘No, sorry. I said, no! Now, that’s enough!’

  I trudged all the way back through the rain, people staring at the two wailing infants I was pushing. I tried to assemble my face into an ‘Oh, the little scamps!’ expression but I was too tired to pretend, and instead found myself glaring and thinking that I hated them. Miserable whining little brats. And why did everyone keep looking at us, for goodness’ sake? All children cried sometimes, after all. Why did every passer-by seem hell-bent on making me feel like uber-crap parent today?

  Back home, rain lashed against the windows all afternoon in long, grey streaks. I had to put the lights on by three o’clock, the sky was so dark. It wasn’t just the weather that was miserable, either. Every time I tried to sit Nathan up in a safe cushion ring, he toppled over heavily and cried, face down, sobs muffled. Molly didn’t want to do anything. Painting? No. Sticking? No. Play-Doh? No. Drawing? NO.

  ‘What, then?’ I snapped, rapidly losing the will to live.

  ‘Video,’ she muttered. ‘I watch Monsters.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Monsters we can do. Let’s all sit down and watch Monsters and cheer up and stop crying for five minutes.’ Before I do something I regret, I thought savagely.

  I slammed Monsters, Inc, Molly’s favourite film in the world, into the video and then shut my eyes gratefully as a temporary peace began.

  Ten seconds later, the phone rang. ‘Oh, hi, Mum,’ I said, turning the volume down so she wouldn’t hear it. My mum was convinced that children who watc
hed too much television grew up to be psychopaths. ‘How are you?’

  Hi Danny,

  Sorry not to have replied earlier. I’ve been in Antigua for a little spring break. Sometimes it’s nice to get away from it all, isn’t it?

  Alex rang at about five o’clock. ‘Sade, you’re going to hate me for this, but . . .’

  I sighed crossly. Damn right I was. ‘You’re working late and you can’t get out of it,’ I finished for him.

  ‘Don’t be like that. I’m sorry, but I need to finish something off before I go. Deadlines, Sadie.’

  I stared at the TV screen, teeth gritted, bitchy replies forming in my head like poisonous little bubbles.

  ‘Sadie? Don’t go all quiet on me. This is what pays the mortgage, remember. Work.’

  I could hear someone laughing in the background. A woman’s laugh, loud and confident. Julia?

  ‘Alex – it’s Friday night. If you’re going out for a drink, just tell me. You don’t have to give me this work sob story,’ I said. And who’s that woman tittering away so close to you? I wanted to add. And how close was she, anyway? She sounded loud enough to be right next to him.

  ‘It’s not a sob story. Look, I’ll tell you all about it later. I shouldn’t be too long, OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied. Whatever, I said in my head, like a teenager.

  As my mum would say, there were two hopes of him coming back before ‘too long’ – Bob Hope and no hope. It was Friday night. I’d worked in an office, I knew the score. Everyone down the pub as soon as possible. Everyone lagered and in a weekend mood. Who’d get the opening round? Alex! Good old Alex, always first at the bar.

  ‘Bye, then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I put the phone down. We’d had this argument so many times and he always had to throw the this is what pays the mortgage, remember line in my face. Like I didn’t make any contribution to our home life. Like I was sitting around on my arse all day while he, big, important Alex, went out and grafted for us. It made me feel like punching him.

  I put a bottle of wine in the fridge instead. The Sancerre that Alex’s rich uncle had given him for Christmas, which was, without a doubt, flashily expensive. Sod it. Hadn’t I just had a hard day at work, too?

  Dear Danny,

  OK, here’s the truth. I’ve been with this guy, Alex, for six years but it’s all gone a bit pants, and I’ve decided to leave him for you. I’ll be up in Manchester just as soon as I can. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be bringing two small children with me. That’s all right, isn’t it?

  Ha.

  Huh.

  By seven o’clock, I’d already had one glass of wine. By the time I’d got the kids quiet and asleep, I’d had most of another glass. I’d also scoffed my way through all the emergency chocolate buttons (two bags) and biscuits (half a packet) and had dialled out for a curry. I was going to have a girls’ night in, all on my own. I had my book to read for Lizzie’s book group, a tube of face mask goo at the ready, the rest of the wine in the fridge and a chicken jalfrezi winging its way across south London at that very minute.

  Damn it, I was going to have a great time.

  I filled up my glass and went into the front room, ignoring the light scattering of toys on the carpet until I trod on a small plastic sheep and nearly woke the children up with furious swearing. Then I tried not to cry.

  Dear Dan,

  How are you? I’m not quite sure how I am. Swinging between sheer joy and miserable exhaustion seems about the size of it. My kids really got on my nerves today and I’m only starting to like them again now that they’re asleep. That makes me sound horrible, doesn’t it? Well, it’s true. My partner, Alex, is probably boozing and shouting and laughing with all his mates – including women mates – right now. Sometimes he is such a tosser, you know, I can’t quite believe I am in a relationship with him. What’s more, his boss is very attractive, in a hard-faced-bitch kind of way. I don’t think she’s Alex’s type, but what do I know?

  ‘Sadie? Sadie!’

  I stirred and groaned. My arm was numb. I had tight patches of skin on my cheeks where rogue blobs of face mask had escaped being washed off. Mouth wet where I’d been dribbling. ‘What? What time is it?’

  ‘It’s half-eleven. Come upstairs to bed.’

  ‘What?’ I stretched my legs and felt resistance from something soft. I kicked experimentally. A pile of cushions. Oh yeah. I was on the sofa. I sat up. ‘Must have fallen asleep,’ I muttered.

  He crossed the room, crunching over the farmyard animals still on the carpet. I could smell the waves of alcohol that were rolling through the air in front of him before he was even close.

  ‘Get your work done, then?’ I asked sarcastically.

  ‘What? Oh, right. Yeah.’ He sat down next to me and closed his eyes. ‘God, I’m whacked. What a week.’

  Oh, here we go, I thought. How tired Alex is, how hard he’s been working. I was awake suddenly, remembering our argument. ‘Don’t tell me. You were kidnapped by Julia and she dragged you down to the pub.’

  He opened his eyes and looked at me. ‘Julia? What are you on about?’

  I pursed my lips. Attack was the best form of self-defence, wasn’t that right? ‘Well, I’ll find out sooner or later. You might as well tell me.’

  He started laughing. I loved Alex’s laugh. It was unashamedly loud and pure and annoyingly infectious. It made me laugh, too, there and then, even though I didn’t want to. ‘Don’t be daft,’ he told me, sounding exaggeratedly northern. He always did when he was pissed. ‘Julia? Leave it out. She’s my boss. And she’s really scary. She didn’t even come to the pub anyway. Tickets for the opera, darling.’

  I believed him. The high-pitched impression alone was enough to convince me. ‘Oh, good,’ I said. I rubbed my eyes. ‘I thought I heard her laughing down the phone when you called, that’s all.’

  ‘Julia? No,’ he said, taking a swig from my wine glass that was on the coffee table. ‘That was Nat, not Julia.’

  ‘Nat?’

  ‘Natasha. She’s new in the department.’

  Oh, right. Great. New in the department? Needing a bit of looking after? Oh, Alex would do it. Alex was everybody’s friend. Alex made everyone laugh. He had made her laugh, anyway. I’d heard her. Nat. Natasha.

  He was frowning. Then he patted my leg thoughtfully. ‘Actually . . . I’ve got a bit of bad news about work.’

  ‘What?’ My voice was a croak.

  He laughed again. ‘Don’t look like that! It’s not terrible news. I just know you’re going to hate it, and say, “Oh, Alex, do I have to?”’

  ‘What?’ I repeated. Then I got it. He was right. ‘Oh, Alex, do I have to?’ I wailed. Well, I was nothing if not predictable. ‘It’s another wanky worky do, partners obliged to attend bollocks, isn’t it? Oh, no, is it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but you guessed right. Another wanky worky do. But it IS at the Laurel Tree. You know, that new bar in Soho? Cutting-edge design and wicked cocktails, according to Steph. She’s the one organizing the whole thing.’

  ‘Hmmmph,’ I moaned. Inside, I was running through a mental list of pros and cons. I thought: champagne cocktails, swanking around Soho, night out away from the kids. Babysitter. New dress.

  ‘And you’ll get to meet lots of interesting people,’ he added coaxingly.

  ‘Hmmmph,’ I said again. Not so appealing. I thought: Sloanie babes, Botoxed career women, dull, drunk men, air-kissing.

  ‘And at least you’ll know some other people this time – Matthew and Chloe, Julia and Mark.’

  My mouth opened and then closed. I thought: Mark.

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘When did you say it was?’

  I struck a deal with Alex over the weekend. If I took the kids out on Sunday and gave him time to watch the Leeds match in peace, I could go out on my own for lunch with Becca and Nick on Saturday. It sounded good to me. I was pretty much game on for anything that involved the words on my own.

  Cleaning? No.
Cleaning on my own? Ooh, yes, please. How relaxing!

  Supermarket shopping? No. Supermarket shopping on my own? God, yeah, great. Bring it on!

  I was just about to leave the house on my own, though, when I felt a sudden ache that made me stop and clutch the hall radiator. Oh, no. It couldn’t be.

  Ouch. Yes. I would recognize that kick anywhere.

  I ran upstairs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Alex shouted. Fair enough question, seeing as I’d only just said goodbye to him and the kids.

  I was rummaging through my chest of drawers like a maniac. Where on earth were they? It had been so long since I’d needed them . . . Ahh. Tampons. Welcome back into my life, little white friends. Not.

  ‘Nothing,’ I yelled back. I didn’t want to start shouting about periods down the stairs. Mrs Wilkes next door was bound to be listening as usual. I wasn’t sure that she needed to know the ins and outs of my menstrual cycle as well as everything else about our family.

  God, my body had it in for me, it really did. Traitor. I’d only squeezed Nathan out a paltry five months ago, and boom! I was fertile all over again already, everything geared up inside me to house another baby for another nine months. Ha! Not likely.

  ‘Right, bye again,’ I shouted, rushing downstairs and out of the hall. My legs were still aching from running the other night. My bottom felt as if someone had been whacking it repeatedly with an oar. But I’d enjoyed it, at the same time. I was definitely going to go again.

  What was it Mark had said? Let’s do it again.

  Yeah, right, Mark. How was that supposed to happen, then? London was massive. It wasn’t like we were going to bump into each other again, just like that.

  I thought about his face. How good his arse looked in running shorts . . . Ding-DONG! Maybe it was better if we didn’t meet again after all, if it was going to turn me into a bottom-staring lech.

  I smiled and swung my bag as I walked down the road to the bus stop. I’d bumped into Mark once, hadn’t I? Maybe it would happen again. Fate would bring us together, and . . .

  And what?

  And nothing, I told myself firmly, as the bus pulled up. God, absolutely nothing, you stupid cow. Earth calling deluded woman on faraway planet: you have a long-term partner and two children! Mark is a happily married man. Remember?