Second Chance - Jane Green [94]
‘Yes, well. Some bright spark had thoughtfully provided pink furry thongs from Ann Summers as the underwear.’
A smile spread wide on Holly’s face. ‘Now I’m starting to enjoy this story.’
‘So here we are, nine great big rugby players, pretty pissed, wearing nothing but a piece of pink fur over our crotches, tackling one another on the beach, when this guy comes over – completely normal-looking guy –and says he’s a photographer and would we mind if he took a few pictures.’
‘Uh-oh.’ Holly leant forward, chin on her hands.
‘Had we been sober, we might have thought the same thing, but as it was we all basically said, sure, mate, take whatever you want. So we’re all showing off, flexing our muscles and being super-macho as this guy’s snapping away; and then, just as he leaves, Nick calls him back and asks him if he’s going to use the photos anywhere. “Yep, they’re for Boyz, a gay lifestyle magazine. Thanks so much, guys,’ he says and disappears, leaving us all completely mortified.’
Holly burst out laughing. ‘Ha! Serves you right, appearing in a public place with nothing but women’s pink furry thongs on.’
There was the time she went to a Police concert when she was nineteen. She and Saffron had slept the night before at Saffron’s house, got stoned beforehand, and had excitedly approached Wembley Stadium with the determination to get backstage, meet Sting, and have him fall madly in love with them. They didn’t particularly care which one he would fall in love with. Hell, he could have had both for all they cared. The important thing was to get backstage.
And backstage they got, but only by virtue of turning themselves into classic rock-star groupies and delivering blow-jobs to a couple of roadies who couldn’t believe their luck. Incidentally Sting did say hello, asked them if they enjoyed the show, and that was it. Much to their consternation, he didn’t fall in love with either of them.
‘So from Sting to Marcus,’ Will mused. ‘Can’t say I can quite see the similarity there.’
Holly still doesn’t talk much about Marcus with Will. Can’t talk about Marcus with Will. They touch upon it, upon Holly’s unhappiness, but she doesn’t go into the details, doesn’t share the intimacies of their life.
And she hasn’t shared that tonight she’s asked to go out for dinner with Marcus. She’s going to take a deep breath and tell her husband that she’s not happy. She’s going to ask him to spend more time at home, to pay more attention to the kids. To pay more attention to her. She doesn’t particularly want him at home more, but perhaps, she thinks, it would all be better if they were together more, if they had more of a partnership.
He is coming home at seven, and they have a table at E&O for eight.
At a quarter to seven, just as Holly is stepping out of the shower, Marcus phones. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he says. ‘I’ve just had a call from a client who needs me to do some urgent case-history research on child support. It won’t take too long, but I’ll never get home and get back into town. Can I meet you at the restaurant?’
Holly shakes her head in dismay. What can she say? What, other than it’s not exactly a great start.
Holly is sitting at the table, nursing a Cosmopolitan, and smiling broadly as she reads a text from Will.
These days, Holly goes nowhere without her phone. The Holly of old would forget her phone daily, forget mostly that she even had a phone, but today’s Holly has her phone clutched in her hand twenty-four hours a day. Even when she is out shopping or picking the kids up from school or sitting on a bus on her way to the office, she can text Will. Not as good as email, but not far behind.
And their emails, texts and phone calls flow thick and fast. Her eyes light up when she gets a text from him; she will excuse herself from the table, from dinner with Marcus and the children, and escape into the loo to read the latest message, tap out something quick and witty before rejoining her family or her friends.
‘Hello.’ Marcus swoops down and pecks her on the cheek. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. What are you drinking?’
‘A Cosmopolitan,