Strictly Love

What had happened to his life? One minute he was happily married to the woman of his dreams, with two beautiful children, and now here he was: thirty-five, a single dad, living in a grotty three-bed semi with his best friend from uni. While undoubtedly there were advantages in rediscovering a bachelor lifestyle after so many years of domestic bliss (not having anyone nagging about leaving the toilet seat up was a real plus), they didn't outweigh the disadvantages, or the vast gaping chasm that Sam had left behind when she had dumped him unceremoniously for Kevin.

And, to add to the ignominy, he'd been left for a lawyer. Mark had never been keen on lawyers. He'd encountered a fair few smarmy law students when he was at dental school, but his hatred for them had been cemented when he'd watched Spike Sutcliffe, a close friend from dental school, being crucified by a patient who claimed Spike had been inappropriate with her. He hadn't, and eventually he was cleared, but not before he'd been dragged through a bruising court case in which the lawyers had dragged up all sorts of insalubrious details about Spike's rather colourful past, or before Spike had spent vast sums of money on his own defence. The costs that he was awarded just about covered the legal expenses, but they didn't make up for the stress of it all. Sam falling for Kevin had just given Mark another excuse to hate lawyers, only now his hatred was so passionate he knew it wasn't entirely rational.

‘What the bloody hell does Kevin have that I don't?’ Mark spoke aloud into the darkness. It wasn't the first time he'd asked that question and it wouldn't be the last.

‘You never listen to a word I say,’ had been Sam's constant refrain during their marriage.

‘That's not true,’ Mark had protested on more than one occasion. He had listened. Or tried to. He'd always been putty in Sam's hands. Ever since the first night he'd seen her, at his first-year dental ball: a tiny blonde vision in a red strapless dress, strutting her funky stuff to Motorhead of all things. He had been smitten in an instant and knew not just that he wanted to take her home with him, but after she'd amazingly said yes to his offer of a dance that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.

And at first everything had been fine. More than fine, it had been brilliant. True, it hadn't been part of the game plan to have children so soon, but he wouldn't be without Gemma and Beth now. Sometimes he wondered guiltily if he'd supported Sam enough when the kids were small. Mark had found it difficult to adjust to fatherhood, especially when Sam appeared to be such a great and totally in-control mum. He'd often felt like a spare part in those days – maybe that was what he'd done wrong. Although she'd never actually said that he wasn't a good dad. Or that he'd failed her as a husband.

Mark had been so content; it had been a shock to hear that Sam wasn't. A year ago (had it only been a year?) she had turned to him clear-eyed and brittle and announced she was leaving him.

‘But why?’ Mark had asked, in a state of profound disbelief.

‘Isn't it obvious?’ Her bitterness had stunned him.

‘Not to me,’ said Mark. ‘If it's something I've done, let me put it right.’

But she had shaken her head, and said, rather sadly, he felt afterwards, though at the time he had been too blinded by fury to see it, ‘It's too late, Mark. I tried to tell you, but you didn't want to know.’

And now, here he was, sixteen years after he first set eyes on Sam, alone in bed in his bachelor pad. This wasn't how it was meant to be at all.

Emily walked down the little footpath that led to her country cottage. Despite the lack of street lighting, and the fact that the common was only a few moments away, she never felt frightened coming down here by herself. The dark comforted her. It hid her and made her feel safe. Although tonight the clear winter sky and the full moon lit her path quite well enough. She let herself in with a relieved sigh. It was gone midnight, she had an early start tomorrow, and with the way the trains had been lately she was going to need to be up at the crack of dawn. But she was home at last.

Ffion still didn't get why Emily had moved so far out ‘into the sticks’, as she put it.

‘I like it,’ Emily constantly said. ‘It's cheaper than London and I get to have fresh air.’

Fresh air was important to Emily, having spent her childhood climbing all the hills she could find in her home county of Pembrokeshire. Besides, Katie had moved here first and had then persuaded her it was worth leaving London for the sight of green fields every morning. Mind you, that was before Katie had gone all ‘desperate housewife’ on her. Now she frequently referred to Thurfield as a fishbowl, and Emily got the impression that her friend missed the bright city lights. Not that Katie ever said as much. Trying to prise a confidence out of her had become somewhat harder than prising an oyster from a clam. But of late, Emily had begun to wonder how happy Katie actually was.

There was laughter coming from the lounge. Loud, raucous laughter. Oh God. Callum had done it again. Decided to bring his mates back to hers. She only hoped they weren't shoving white stuff up their noses. He hadn't yet done it in her home, but she couldn't be sure he wouldn't. Callum liked to live dangerously.

Which, of course, had been part of the original appeal. She still had to pinch herself that someone as gorgeous as Callum was interested in her, the original wallflower. Emily's teenage years had been punctuated by watching her friends cop off with all the good-looking guys, while she, knowing her place as a plain Jane, was left with the geeks. So when Ffion had introduced her to Callum at a PR bash and he showed in interest in her – Emily Four Eyes (an epithet from youth which she could never quite shake off despite having worn contacts for years) Henderson – she was unable to resist. Even though she knew he was spinning lines. Even though he spelled trouble with every single one of them. There was something about Callum that was just – irresistible.

Which is how he had come into her life. And somehow remained there, never progressing beyond the Occasional Screw label Emily had given him from their early days of courtship. If courtship was what it could be called. Callum had never met her parents. Nor she his. They didn't always even see each other on a weekly basis. He had yet to remember a birthday or Valentine's, although he was always charmingly apologetic every time he forgot. And it was difficult not to respond to the dozen red roses that would appear like magic. And the sex. Well, the sex was dynamite.

She knew he was no good for her. Not long term. And not now, when her body clock was beginning to tick rather too loudly for comfort. While in her wildest fantasies she imagined how Callum would react joyfully if she told him she was pregnant, Emily was far too much of a realist not to know this was a pipe dream. And the more she tried to conjure up pictures in her head of Callum holding a baby à la Athena man, the less she was able to envisage it. She had to face it – if she wanted a suitable dad for her baby, Callum wasn't it.

Reluctantly, she pushed open the lounge door to find Callum with his two side-kicks, Jez and Danny, roaring with laughter at – jeez, what were they watching? Emily didn't like to stare, but it seemed to involve animals and naked people. Lots of naked people. It was compelling in an utterly gross kind of way. Someone had spilled beer over one of the cream sofa cushions. There was a fuggy smell of smoke in the air. Smoke with a very definite scent.

‘Hey, babe,’ said Callum, drawing on a spliff.

Callum always said Emily was over-anxious about his pot-smoking, but she was a lawyer and the consequences of being caught with drugs in her house weren't worth thinking about. She knew dope was the least of Callum's vices, but she squared it with herself that if he wasn't taking drugs in her house, then what he did in his own place wasn't her business.

‘Callum, what the fuck are you up to?’ Emily was furious. It was late. They'd trashed her lounge and the three of them were giggling inanely at her. She didn't have the energy for this.

‘Just brought Jez and Danny back for a quick drink,’ said Callum. ‘I didn't think you'd mind.’

‘Well, I do,’ said Emily shortly, ignoring Jez and Danny's muffled giggles.

‘Right, you two, out,’ she yelled.

‘Don't be such a spoilsport.’ Callum turned his smile on her. That devastating smile usually worked so well. But not tonight. Tonight she'd had enough.

‘Callum, I've had a long day, I've got an early start, and I need my beauty sleep,’ protested Emily.

‘Too right you do,’ sniggered Jez, who was immediately stopped dead with an icy look.

‘Just go, will you,’ said Emily tiredly. ‘All of you. I need to go to bed.’

‘Me too,’ said Callum.

‘Alone,’ said Emily. ‘Call a cab and you can just piss off home. I've warned you, Callum. I cannot have you smoking dope in my flat.’

‘You know your problem, babe,’ said Callum, as he eventually swaggered out of the door. ‘You take things too seriously.’

‘And you don't take them seriously enough,’ said Emily. ‘Now go, before –’

‘Before what? You change your mind and say I can stay?’ He was like a puppy begging for a treat. But for once Emily wasn't in the mood for giving in.

‘No, before I say something I might regret. Now go on, get out of here,’ she said, practically pushing him out of the door before she weakened.

She slammed it behind her and leaned back against it, sighing deeply.

Damn it! She blinked away angry tears. She was not going to go on like this with Callum taking advantage of her. She was going to take control of her life and start making some changes.

Emily walked slowly into the lounge and stared in dismay at the chaos in front of her. She was too tired to deal with it now, she'd sort it out in the morning.

Take control of her life? She couldn't even take control of her lounge.

Chapter Two

‘Mark, you have to take the girls in for me.’

Mark had been shaving on Monday morning when the doorbell rang, and he found Sam and the kids at the front door.

‘But I'll be late for work,’ Mark protested. Why the hell did Sam always do this to him?

‘And so will I. My boss has called an urgent meeting and I have to get up to town.’ Sam worked for an American-based cosmetic-surgery company called Smile, Please!. It was a far cry from her humble beginnings as a dental nurse, but presumably the pay and perks were what she'd been after all along. The downside, as far as Mark was concerned, was that as he worked locally, she felt the school run was now his God-given duty.

‘Besides,’ as she frequently told him, ‘you owe me. I stayed at home all those years with the kids. Now it's my turn.’

Quite why it being ‘my turn’ meant Mark had to drop everything every time Sam asked him to, he hadn't yet worked out, but knowing she could get arsy about access if he made too much fuss, he went along with it.

‘Remind me again why Gemma needs a lift?’ Mark asked. ‘I used to cycle to school at her age.’ Gemma, at thirteen, was more than capable of getting to school under her own steam. Her school was at the other end of town from Beth's, which meant a round trip of half an hour. There was no way he was going to make it to work on time.

‘We're not in the Dark Ages now, Dad,’ muttered Gemma from underneath her dark spiky fringe.

Sam gave him a withering look.

‘Gemma's right,’ she said. ‘You do live in the past. Things are different now. It's not safe for kids to cycle. Or walk. There are all sorts of weirdos about. She just wouldn't be safe on her own.’

And it's nothing to do with you worrying that Gemma can't be trusted to actually go to school, is it? Mark thought to himself. Sam would never admit it, but though Gemma had never actually bunked off school to their knowledge, she was probably the most likely candidate to. Taking her in every day meant Sam knew Gemma had actually got there. Mark blamed the influence of Gemma's new best friend Shelly. Shelly was the reason Gemma had adopted her goth-like stance, eschewing all other colours in favour of black, and listening to bloody miserable music, which Mark had discovered was known as ‘emo’, whatever that was.

Sam had been quite frantic about it for a time, claiming that all kids who were into emo either committed suicide young or self-harmed. So far there was no evidence of either, but Gemma was displaying a singular reluctance to go to school. And while Mark was all in favour of his daughter getting a decent education, there were days when he hoped Sam would finally trust Gemma to make it to school on her own. The thought of Sam going to prison for Gemma's non-compliance in matters educational was one of the few things that had made him smile in recent months.

Sam dashed off in a flurry of self-importance while Mark went to finish shaving and ring Diana, his wonderfully efficient area manager, to say he'd be late. Then he bundled the kids in the car and drove as quickly as possible to Gemma's school.

He watched Gemma going in (if she did bunk off, he didn't want Sam accusing him of negligence), shoulders hunched, head down, bag slung loosely over her shoulder, presenting a glowering presence, and wondered with dismay what had happened to his cute little girl. Gemma was definitely not cute now, with her punky hairstyle, dyed a different colour every week – Mark frequently pointed out to her that what she thought was groundbreaking was in fact only the style his girlfriends had adopted twenty years previously, but he was always silenced with a, ‘Whatever, Dad. It's just different now. You wouldn't understand.’

No, of course not. To Gemma, he'd never been young.

Once Gemma had been dispatched it was on to school with Beth. An entirely different proposition. Though she was ten, Beth was still cuddly enough to remind him what he enjoyed about fatherhood, not yet too embarrassed to kiss him goodbye. He felt vaguely guilty about comparing his children, but it was restful to be with Beth, whose sunny disposition made a nice contrast to Gemma's spikiness.

Then he drove like a maniac to the surgery. Despite the phone call to Diana, Mark still felt stressed. He hated being late and he hoped that anyone waiting wouldn't be too grumpy – some of his patients had a tendency to think that, as their dentist, his sole function in life was to be ready and waiting for them at all times. The fact that he might have an existence, a family, a life even, outside the narrow confines of his surgery seemed to be beyond them.

Mark squeezed his ageing Volvo into the one remaining parking space outside the surgery and got out to the distinctive wail of the alarm going off. That was all he needed.

He ran into the surgery and found Maya standing looking helpless, while three patients sat around looking pained.

‘I'm so sorry,’ she said. ‘I was here first and there were patients waiting so I opened the door, but I had forgotten about the alarm and I don't know the code.’

Mark keyed in the right number and thankfully the alarm fell silent. It wasn't Maya's fault, she'd only started working at the practice two weeks ago, and as a newly qualified dentist it shouldn't be her job to make sure the surgery was open on time. That's why they had a practice manageress. Talking of which –

‘Where the bloody hell is Kerry?’ asked Mark.

Maya shrugged her shoulders.

‘I was the first one here,’ she said.

There was no sign of either of the nurses who were supposed to be working with them today. Mark sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

He apologised to the bemused patients sitting in the waiting room, answered the phone to Lorna's (nurse number one's) mum, whose defiant explanation that ‘Lorna had a stomach ache, innit’ didn't fool him for a second, and called in the first of his patients.

By the time he'd seen the second, Kerry had swanned in breezily. ‘Sorry I'm late, the trains were bad.’

‘But you drive,’ replied Mark.

‘Oh, not today, I was out last night.’ She leered lasciviously and bent down over the desk to reveal a rather lacy thong peeping out of a somewhat less than sexy behind. It was more than a man could take first thing in the morning.

‘I think that's what you call a whale tail,’ whispered Maya, who had come out to get her next patient.

Mark snorted, before insisting that Kerry went and nursed for Maya, who needed the help more than he did. While he was phoning Diana, who unfortunately today was working at another surgery, in order to get her to find some cover for them, Sasha (nurse number two) walked in. Sasha, their latest recruit, seemed to be the only Eastern European in the country who didn't understand the value of hard work. Mark considered admonishing her, but, mindful that there were still patients in the waiting room, and aware that she probably wouldn't understand him anyway, he decided that, like much of his life, there really was No Point.

He looked down at his day roster to see what else lay in store for him, and groaned out loud. Jasmine Symonds – a so-called celebrity who was famous for shagging on some god-awful reality TV show, and, if the rumours were true, was the new face of Smile, Please! – was coming in. It was one more indication that someone somewhere didn't like him. Not only had Jasmine and her ghastly mother Kayla been his patients for years, but despite her newfound fame she wouldn't go to any other dentist. Trust him to have the misfortune to have Jasmine as his most loyal patient …

Katie Caldwell was standing at the school gates and watching her ten-year-old son, George, walk mournfully away from her. It cut her heart to the quick to watch his misery and be unable to help. But what could she do when any questions about what was upsetting him were just met with a shrug? George had been in a foul mood this morning, still sore about the fact that he'd spent the previous day on the subs bench – again. He and Charlie had both been peculiarly reticent about why George, the team's best striker, seemed to spend more time off the pitch than on it, but Katie had the deepest suspicion that there was something Charlie wasn't telling her.

It was probably nothing, but Katie knew if she did ask Charlie about it, he would just do that annoying trick of touching his nose and saying ‘A Caldwell never blabs’ – a phrase no doubt passed on to him by his mother. Was it rather pathetic, she won dered, to have been married for ten years and still be frightened of your mother-in-law?

She sighed, and kissed her younger son, Aidan, goodbye. At least she had no worries on that score. Aidan was a happy-go-lucky child who rarely cried and seemed to shrug off life's slings and arrows with an insouciance she envied, and which she longed for her older, more sensitive son to have too.

‘Charlie been winding them up at football again?’ Katie turned away from waving Aidan goodbye to see the tall shadow of Mandy Allwick, school gossip extraordinaire, framed in the early-morning sunshine. That was all she needed.

‘What do you mean?’ Katie squinted up at Mandy, who, as usual, looked perfectly (if a little tartily) manicured and well turned out for first thing in the morning. With her tight leather miniskirt and crop top (revealing as it did a ridiculously well-toned stomach for someone with three children), her high heels, painted nails and even more painted face, a casual observer might have fancied she was on the pull. Though the choice among the stay-at-home dads was hardly wonderful. Still, tarty or not, Mandy always had the knack of making Katie feel wrong-footed.

‘Oh, you know Charlie,’ Mandy laughed heartily. ‘He's always giving that poncy coach a mouthful. And quite right too. That guy goes on and on about being fair to all the kids when it's obvious that your George is one of the best players. And your Charlie is only sticking up for George.’

‘How exactly is Charlie sticking up for George?’ Katie had a sinking feeling in her stomach. What had Charlie done now? Katie had given up going to football when Molly arrived, using the excuse that it was too cold to be out with a baby, but really it was because she couldn't stand the embarrassment anymore of listening to Charlie's roars of disappointment from the touchline when George missed a shot at goal, or succumbed to a tackle. George always looked embarrassed at this, and Katie felt for him, but being unwilling to undermine his father's authority in front of him, she never said anything. And, in the end, she just stopped going.

Still, in all other aspects of their life, she couldn't complain. If it was inevitable that their early feelings of lustful desire had settled down into something more sensible and solid, she knew Charlie loved her, and she loved him. They were comfortable together. Despite the stress of being dragged over to his parents' once a month and having to endure Marilyn's withering scorn as to why Charlie still hadn't made it to the top of his firm of accountants: ‘His father was at the top in his thirties, though, of course, not everyone can be as talented as him.’ But other than that, she was happy enough.

Of late, though, Katie had been getting the feeling that Charlie perhaps wasn't so happy. He hadn't said anything, but she wondered if he was getting twitchy about his fortieth birthday later in the year. He seemed a bit down about it. Or maybe it was that combined with the vasectomy he'd insisted on having after Molly was born. He'd certainly changed lately. He could be moody and difficult. Making a spectacle of himself on the touchline was probably just a symptom of a wider malaise.

‘Only doing what any dad should,’ said Mandy. ‘Shouting for George, yelling at the opposition. It's what I always do.’

I bet you do, thought Katie silently.

‘It's that arse Bill who's at fault,’ Mandy continued as they made their way out of the school grounds.

‘How so?’ asked Katie, thinking, poor bloody Bill, someone has to stand up to the hecklers.

‘Oh, you know what he's like,’ said Mandy, tossing her long fair mane back. ‘He goes on and on about not being too com petitive and not putting pressure on our kids. But the way we all see it, it's a competitive world, innit? They‘ve got to learn sometime.’

Have they? thought Katie. Do they have to learn this way?

‘So why was George put on the subs bench?’ Katie asked, but deep down she knew what the answer would be.

‘Bill said your Charlie was putting the other players off, and George was taken off as a punishment.’

Katie frowned. It didn't seem at all fair to George to make him suffer for Charlie's bad behaviour. But then it wasn't the first time Bill had warned Charlie off.

Charlie would be bound to shrug it off if she raised the subject. Maybe it was time she started going to football again to see for herself.

A squawk from the buggy indicated that Molly was getting tetchy, so Katie made her excuses and was slowly pushing her way home when she had a better idea. Sod going to football. Who wanted to get their feet cold? What Charlie needed was cheering up. And that was her job. So that's what she'd do. She'd start tonight by cooking him a nice meal. Who knew where it might lead …

Emily arrived into work late. She'd spent the night at Callum's, despite her best intentions. But weekends on her own in Thurfield were so lonely. She could have gone to see Katie, but she felt she'd imposed on Katie's friendship too much of late. Besides, despite acknowledging to herself the meanness of the thought, Emily couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when she spent time in Katie's perfect house with her perfect family. It only highlighted the complete and utter mess her own life had become.

The trouble was, Emily thought moodily, she was always so busy at work, and her weekday social life revolved around London, so at the weekend there was nothing for her to do. Or, rather, there was plenty. If she didn't work such long hours, she might have made some friends here other then Katie. Then she could spend her weekends with friends on long walks and cycle rides on the Downs, or going to the cinema or out for a meal. Normal stuff. Like other people did.