No Regrets

‘I told you before, Ana, if it’s what you want… what you need, then let’s do it. I will be there every step of the way.’

‘Really?’ she smiled shyly. ‘Even though it’s meant to be as stressful as divorce or losing a parent?’

‘I just don’t want to be like those people who become so obsessed with having a baby they can’t think about or do anything else. That terrifies me. If it’s meant to be, it will be. If not, we can buy a boat, sail the world, live the dream.’

‘You don’t like boats, Rex. You don’t even like the water.’

‘Actually I don’t like fresh water, hurts my contacts,’ he laughed, his blue eyes sparkling. ‘I just love you. And if it’s you and me forever, then I will still be a very happy man.’ He threw his half-drunk coffee into the sink and headed for the door, attempting to pass her.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ she asked, dropping the towel to the floor. A breeze rippled over her, goosebumps all over her nakedness; her nipples stood out. She worried her nipples were too long, but no one had complained, yet.

‘Oh god, are you ovulating now!?’ He enveloped her breast in his hand. ‘The perfect handful.’ He pinched her nipple between the knuckle of index and middle finger.

She felt down between his legs and took him in her hand. ‘More than a handful mustn’t be wasted.’ She laughed as he outgrew her hand. ‘Isn’t this just the best way to start the day? You telling me you’d rather be at work?’

Ana was worried they weren’t having enough sex. She always worried she wasn’t having enough sex, and now that their sex had a purpose, was part of her life plan, part of the having-to-do because if she didn’t do it now, she might never be able to do it, she was terrified it might become a chore. A good man was hard to find and Rex was a good man. She didn’t want to have to find another. They took so long to train. She pulled him into the living room and lay back on the leather sofa, spread her legs sufficiently that he could see into her, and dangling a finger over her clitoris, she teased. ‘You sure you have to go to work right now? This second…?’

‘Oh god,’ he sighed. ‘You make me so…’

She slid down the sofa a little. One finger became two.

‘You little minx…’

She watched, smiling mischievously as, without taking his clothes off, he unzipped his trousers, releasing his at-the-ready erection, and slid it into her in one smooth, wet motion. She gasped at the hardness, and felt a moment’s relief that he still fancied her so much.

‘Oh Christ, you are so wet…’ With his long, slow motions, not the longest or slowest she’d ever known, but long and slow enough, her head bounced against the back of their beaten-up old Chesterfield. Ana loved fucking him; he was gentle and kind, not a wild animal, but the sex was good. Not the best, but good. Yes, good enough. Better than most. Better, certainly, than most of her happily settled friends, she suspected, but not the best, no. The best was gone. Long gone. And Rex was the right decision. He was. It was not a decision lightly made. It was not a decision made without robust analysis, protracted discussions with the girls. It was not a decision made without a spreadsheet.

Rex grabbed her by the hair as his pace quickened, pressing himself harder against her. He was quickening and she touched herself so they would come together. Perhaps this time she’d barely need it. Perhaps, she thought, the decision to use sex for procreation could improve the sex itself. Now that would be an interesting finding. There was no column on her spreadsheet for that life hack.

‘Yes,’ he groaned, ‘now, come, baby, please,’ and they both let out a cry of pleasure as he came, his body jerking on top of her. He rolled off her, panting, his dark hair damp, and his shirt crumpled. She looked at him, thinking to herself that for a 45-year-old guy, he really wasn’t in bad shape – and the just-been-fucked look seemed to suit him. He was pretty scruffy anyway, with his unshaven face and unkempt hair, so this just seemed to complement his look. So far he’d avoided the middle-aged paunch and she hadn’t found any grey hairs, yet.

‘Now, anything else I need to do before I go to work,’ he said roguishly, smiling at her. ‘Just because I’m the boss, doesn’t mean I can be hours late every day!’ He jumped up, rearranged himself, leaned over to give her a kiss, and whispered in her ear, ‘Now sleepy angel, don’t you need to get that pert little ass to work as well?’

‘Actually I have an appointment with the gynaecologist this morning.’

‘Another?’

‘I just want to check everything’s in order. Nothing specific. Just a check-up. I’m nearly 40. I need to know the plumbing all works.’

‘There’s nothing I need to know?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘I’m sure everything is fine. How could it not be?’ He leaned down and kissed the dark triangle of hair. ‘A little extra kiss to send you on your way, and to make sure I don’t forget to think about you all day…’

‘You’re gross, go on, away with you,’ she shouted after him.

She lay there in the middle of their flat, still naked, as the first warm sun of spring moved across her. Rex was amazing, she knew that; she was lucky. He wasn’t a rock star, or even a country star, no, but she knew he would be a great dad and he would always be there for her – he was kind, caring and steady. Twenty years ago those words would have filled her with dread, but she’d grown up. Now he was what she needed. The time for – what was it Dixie called them – the time for ‘wild-cards’ was over. Her life had been simply mapped onto the decades. Teen: discover sex, excel. Twenties: ‘wild-card’ sex, transcend. Thirties, baby daddy sex, effortless. Forties: parental/missionary sex, functional and recreational. Ana was never going to get married. That was a decision she’d made long ago. If you never got married, you could never regret getting married. OK, so her life with Rex wasn’t the most exciting, but they had fun, they laughed, and as far as the happily-ever-after went, this wasn’t the worst outcome. The spreadsheet didn’t lie. And as long as they kept having sex, everything would be OK. Sex made everything OK.

Chapter Three

Dixie

Dixie’s Tinder life needed a spring-clean. She’d recently reset her age – again. She knew there was a limit to the number of times social media platforms permitted age changes, but she was going to be in Manhattan for a few days so, why not get some new selfies in the BA lounge then she could retouch them, add a bit here, lose a bit there… She could reinvent herself for a few days of fantasy fucking between the meetings and parties. Pouting into her phone as she primped her curly red hair, she congratulated herself on the Rimmel Radioactive Red lip gloss, and the mahogany tint she’d washed through her hair before last night’s party. The floor-to-ceiling windows gave a magical light. She was, she thought, zooming in on an image, looking astounding, especially given the carnage of the night before. What was that guy’s name? Something to do with cars? Lancia? Lance! 0–60 in 4.6 but he’ll never get you to your destination. Dixie’s ex-husband, Carlton, had driven a Lancia. Enough said. Aunt Pearl had told her the marriage would never work, but being Dixie she didn’t listen. Being orphaned at a young age and brought up by your great aunt had its advantages, but Pearl had never managed to keep Dixie on the straight and narrow.

‘Would you like me to take a picture for you?’ came a low husky voice from behind her, shaking her out of her reverie.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘are you talking to me?’

‘Yes,’ said the warm voice, resonating like a cello. Dixie turned and was taken aback to see a tall, slim, dark-haired man with lively blue eyes and half a smile. ‘I wondered if you would like me to take a photo of you so you can maybe get a better angle. Did you want the Dreamliner in the background?’

Fuck, he’s hot, thought Dixie. A wedding ring, yes, but still, he was hot. But that could be good, couldn’t it? No crying when she didn’t want to see him again.

‘Dreamliner? So that’s what they call it. Good plane knowledge,’ she smirked, wondering if he was some kind of weird plane nerd. ‘Yes, a photo would be great, thank you.’

To her surprise he knew exactly what he was doing – held the phone high to get the right angle (makes you look thinner) and took about five pictures in quick succession so she could choose the best one. He must have a demanding wife, she thought.

‘Quite the expert,’ said Dixie, holding her hand out and flashing her green eyes. ‘I am Dixie, and you are?’

‘Freddie, nice to meet you. And where might you be headed? Off to meet your boyfriend?’

She hadn’t clocked him checking her ring finger. Player, she decided. Why not? she thought.

‘Oh, New York, just a few meetings. Nothing special. And you?’

She allowed her gaze to linger on his wedding band, seeing how he’d react.

‘Looks like I am heading east with you – we have offices in London so I regularly fly out. I love London, but I chose New York. London’s all water, and Manhattan, electricity.’

‘I totally know what you mean, there is something so energising about the place. Not to mention the awesome shopping!’ she said, but then checked herself, worried she was sounding far too enthusiastic. Let him do the work, she thought. ‘Anyway, it’s been nice to meet you, Freddie, and I hope you have a successful trip… and thank you for the photo – maybe see you on the other side.’ With that, she strode away, knowing damn well his eyes were following her decisive exit. Always quit while you are ahead, that was her motto. Leave them wanting more. Besides, her nose was running and tender, and elsewhere there was something leaking. She needed a restroom.

As the staff at the gate scanned her boarding pass, she heard the little beep and saw the red light that she longed for and, abracadabra, she was upgraded to business. So far, so good, she thought to herself – a hot man and an upgrade. Not bad for a glorified PA. She had worked for Peter Pomerov for nearly fifteen years. He had a Russian name, but a background as English as most Tory prime ministers: Eton, Oxford, The Bar. He trusted her like a wife – actually more. She did everything for him, arranging his travel, flying around the world managing his properties, and in return he had a way of orchestrating things like upgrades. They adored each other, and the truth was she would have done anything for him. He ran a family office, the complete history of which she remained unaware. He had his finger in multiple pies (but never hers!), and she was aware of how lucky she was to have landed such a great job with such a kind, tolerant and honest man. It was supposed to be a stopgap when she’d needed work while the divorce came through. She’d always dreamed of being an illustrator – she’d even started a children’s book fifteen years before – of using her brain and her artistic skills, but she couldn’t see an achievable career path, and with her messy divorce dragging on, she’d needed something simple and well paid. She’d been offered internships, but the money was virtually non-existent, and pretty soon the draw of mingling with men with money and power was something she took for granted, and she was unable to walk away. She needed money and men like she needed food and water. She was just increasingly happier with more money and many men. Like her ideal career path, the path to settled domesticity and monogamy was a road she couldn’t imagine travelling.

Having settled into her seat, unfortunately one of the central, side-by-side seats, she nearly choked on her champagne when someone collapsed into the aisle seat beside her and she turned and found herself looking into Freddie’s big blues. Next to her, but facing her, with a screen she could put up as soon as they were in the air; or, she thought, she could spend the next hours drinking and seeing how hard he’d try to seduce her, while she decided whether she wanted to fuck him. The latter was definitely more interesting, but she’d made herself a promise she would use the flight to work on illustrations for the long-unfinished book, and there were those selfies to photoshop. But they could wait… there was always tomorrow, and besides, she might not need Tinder, at least for a while. She watched him unpack his pyjamas and organise his personal space.

When finished he sat back and smiled at her. ‘Well, well, this has just made the flight a little bit more interesting. Cheers,’ he said, holding aloft his champagne.

‘I guess it has. Cheers,’ she toasted back, then, theatrically, tied her flaming red hair messily on top of her head, intentionally letting a few bits escape around her face. She smiled, watching him watch her.

It always occurred to Dixie how awkward these seats were, that you found yourself basically in bed, for six hours, with a person you had never met before. She’d had shorter relationships. Turn the wrong way and your arse would touch their leg, or you could fall asleep and snore with your mouth wide open. It was all so invasive of personal space. A sweating, overweight businessman was settling in right next to her in the other central seat. Thank god for the serendipitous delivery of an ageing Rob Lowe.

‘Can I offer you some champagne?’ the stewardess asked Freddie.

‘Yes please,’ he replied, ‘and I think my friend will need a refill before long. Keep it coming.’

Champagne in hand, Dixie decided things were looking up. This guy had all the moves, she thought, and I’ve got a few myself, checking the location of the nearest toilet.

‘So what is it you do then Freddie, or shall I guess…? I think you look like you wish you were in a creative industry, but that somehow passed you by, and you ended up enjoying the financial rewards of a more stable career… and now you are a lawyer, yes, an M&A lawyer… Making the world a better place, one merger at a time… how right am I?’

Freddie was laughing, his eyes glistening. ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘quite the Mystic Meg, but no, I am sorry to tell you, I am a scientist, of sorts: gene therapy. We research degenerative conditions. I love what I do… although I appreciate it sounds very boring to someone like you.’

‘You are so wrong,’ spluttered Dixie. ‘I’m just a humble PA. It is so refreshing to meet someone with a brain, someone who loves what they do. Believe me, I have met enough lawyers to last me a lifetime, so someone who is actually helping people is inspiring. Unless, of course, the whole thing is just made up to try and impress me…’

‘Well, for now, that is for me to know, and you to find out,’ he said.

Dixie was starting to like this Freddie’s game. Maybe pulling on an aeroplane was a better way than Tinder to find her next hook-up.

When Dixie woke with a start, she was shocked to find them landing in JFK. She was sitting upright. She’d never even made the bed! She prayed to all the gods of personal hygiene that she hadn’t dribbled. Her hair was still piled on top of her head, just. Had she been snoring? Her sinuses were stinging and congested. Her tongue dry and hard like a cat’s. She’d had too much champagne.

Freddie was sitting there staring at her, grinning.

Must get my crap together, she thought.

She remembered laughing a lot. And the purser asking them to keep it down. Then it all became a bit of a blur and she hoped she’d just dozed off.

‘Morning, sleepyhead,’ he said, a little too affectionately.

‘Must have… d-dozed off,’ she stammered. ‘Sorry about that. Anyway, always good to power nap and, you know, err, hit the ground running!’

‘Let’s blame the bubbles… Mind you, I will share a bottle with you anytime if you make more promises like last night… Though passing out mid-sentence – my sentence at that – is a new one.’

She felt herself turn crimson. Her embarrassment made worse by the fear she looked like a red-haired beetroot daubed in Radioactive Red lip gloss and smeared in smudge-proof Maybelline mascara. She pulled down her hair and shook it out to hide her face, before quickly tidying around her eyes and lips while she wondered what the hell had gone on.

‘Freddie, I assume you are teasing me. I am far too well behaved to make reckless promises while under the influence,’ she said, anxiously scrabbling in her bag for a Polo to lubricate her tongue and mask her booze breath.

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ he said. ‘I was rather looking forward to tonight. It all sounds quite racy. I assume you are a woman of your word?’

‘Absolutely,’ she laughed, thinking that this was definitely getting out of hand. What was she capable of promising while drunk to the point of blackout on a transatlantic flight? The only consolation was that she’d been trading promises, not favours. She glanced anxiously at the toilets. It wouldn’t have been the first time she’d found herself in there.

God, why did she always do this? What was wrong with her! Still, the girls would love the story. So Dixie! they’d hoot. A handsome, married man, a bottle of champagne and six hours in a bed. What did they expect!

By now the jetty was attached and they were preparing to deplane.

‘It’s been lovely to meet you, Freddie.’

‘You too, Dixie Dressler.’

God, she’d told him her real name! What else had they discussed?

‘I’ll see you later then?’

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ she smiled, styling it out, knowing she was on the point of escape. ‘Don’t be late!’

‘Seven at your hotel bar should be fine. I’ll text you if it changes,’ he said, waggling his phone.

‘Great. Listen, I must run.’

‘You don’t want to share my car service?’

‘No need.’

They kissed. His hand on her lower back, pulling her against him.

‘Laters, lover boy!’

As she strode into the terminal, she chastised herself. What was the point of having all these adventures if she couldn’t remember the detail? There was a flash of regret that she hadn’t had time to refresh her Tinder profile. Having botched face-to-face flirtation, she was going to have to rely on her well-used Tinder profile to keep her trip interesting.

Chapter Four

Stella

Rory was sitting upright in the Victorian bath, naked. She’d removed his clothes, showered and dried him and left him sitting there. It was literally the only safe space in the house. He could neither escape nor cause havoc. But he was not happy and he scowled as he watched her wet-wipe her face, arms and most of the brown graffiti from the front of her Pineapple sweatshirt. (Olivia was not the only victim of his chocolatey two-year-old wandering hands.) She tried to make her hair behave, primped, flatten, teased, but the humidity and infrequency of conditioning limited her ability to control it.

Her phone rang – Number Withheld – but she knew who it was.

‘God damn you people, can’t you leave a message?’

Leaning closer to the mirror, she plucked a single black hair that persistently re-appeared on her cheek. It was thicker than any hair she’d ever seen and reappeared overnight every two weeks. She was certain that each time it surfaced, it was a little stiffer, a little broader. Like her. It used to be funny, but Jake didn’t laugh much any more. Neither of them did. A ping from her phone told her there was another voicemail. How could this Barclaycard problem be connected to Jake’s extended absences, sullenness and quick temper? Or his unwillingness to discuss a vacation and his insistence that she didn’t need a nanny anymore? He was a partner in a law firm, not a very big one, but a partner, and their mortgage was big, but not unmanageable. She wanted a nanny. A nanny like Coco, who could mesmerise her volatile little terror, who had hair that shone like a gemstone, and skin that smelled of the tropics. A nanny who could fold herself in half without slipping a disc. She deserved it, didn’t she?

‘Do I?’ she asked the mirror. ‘Am I worth it?’

She doubted herself.

The phone rang again.

‘What?’ she spat. It was Jake.

‘Love you too, babe.’

‘Sorry. I’m having an existential crisis. Listen, Barclaycard keep calling. Do you know—’

‘Barclaycard. Oh that. Yes, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’

‘Good, but I can—’

‘Don’t… I’ll call them, OK? But, yes, the reason I called. New client. Late night. Etc etc. I’m sorry, babe. Not my call. Got it?’

‘You utter shit. Again? Didn’t we agree to have Jenny and Tim around for a drink? Actually, not we, didn’t you? When you spent the whole of Sunday afternoon cleaning the useless motorbike you never ride?’

‘I know. I’m sorry. There’s how I wish things were and how they are, and I have to be here. I’ll make it up to you. We can watch The X Factor together on Friday night. The whole show. Without interruption, mockery or general disparagement.’

‘Not possible. You hate The X Factor.’

‘I promise. Not a bad word. Concentrated silence and focused attention.’

‘You’ll control the kids?’

‘I’ll even control the kids.’

‘OK. But I might cancel Jenny and Tim. They’re our neighbours not our friends. I’ve enough friends.’ Stuck into the side of the mirror she had a framed photo of Dixie and Ana posing ridiculously as if applying make-up. Now that had been a fun night. ‘I don’t want any more, especially hangers-on. All that Jenny wants to do is social climb. She’s convinced I’m some kind of conduit to celebrities. I was a fashion journalist, not a society hostess. I was—’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ll be home late. And I’ll call Barclaycard. I’ll deal with it.’ And he was gone.

A spiralling conviction grew within her that something wasn’t right. Jake hated The X Factor. He hated all reality TV. He called it a virus. Whatever she tried to watch, he wrecked with smart-arse comments and satirical impersonations. It was impossible to enjoy TV with him around. She regretted being bought off with the offer to share something Jake could only destroy. Marriage was a mystery, she thought. You fall in love with someone for all their differences and then you come to despise those same idiosyncrasies. It was a freaking paradox.

She was worried. The Barclaycard was the housekeeping card, with which they collected points towards a holiday whose date still remained unfixed. The balance was paid off in full from the joint account. It must be a mistake, she thought. Jake’s salary went into the joint account. The mortgage payments came out of the joint account. There was plenty of money in the joint account. Of course there was. Jake would deal with it. She deleted the voicemail without listening to it.

Rory was staring at her from the bottom of the empty bath, soundless, and wearing a worried frown.

‘Oh baby, don’t stress. The world is full of automated fools. Daddy will sort it out.’

There was a pop like something had burst and then Rory’s mouth opened and she saw the trail of chocolate poo streaming between his chubby legs. He let out of howl of protest.

Half an hour later, she’d been forced to replace the irredeemably soiled Pineapple Studios sweatshirt with a totally inappropriate, but fortunately, clean blouse from Stella McCartney. It was a few years old and the pussy bow gave it a retro Charlie’s Angels look. It had once been her go-to work/drinks blouse. It had witnessed many forgotten but unforgettable Friday nights in Soho House. Back then she’d been flexing the magazine’s Gold Amex card and thought she ruled the world. The short-sighted arrogance of youth. She sighed. She missed the Nineties. She missed Friday nights.

She was determined not to be late to pick up Tom from school. The headmistress was losing her patience. That hideously judgemental look, the long nose, the glasses on a chain.

The truth was that since Jake had insisted she cut back on the nanny, Betty, a Belgian student built like a rugby player, whose mere physical presence induced in both Rory and Tom a kind of hypnotised lethargy that made them completely biddable, Stella had been struggling. It was not that she couldn’t get through the thousand and one tediously repetitive tasks, it was that they bored her into a kind of imbecilic incompetence. Every single mind-destroying chore served only to remind Stella of the woman she used to be: feared and respected for her concise insight and forensic ability to deconstruct fashion and outline trends, she was now wearing fashion from ten years ago (high fashion, but still) while serving as a scullery-maid-cum-Uber-driver to two ungrateful savages and an absent husband.