No Regrets

Applying a fresh coat of gloss to her chapped lips and reassessing her decaying epidermis – just in case she was forced to confront Olivia or one of her army of clones, or, heaven forbid, one of those hot single dads who sometimes appeared awkwardly trying to pick out their progeny from the streaming mass of uniformed delinquents who attended the local pre-school – she was reminded of her rash statement to Olivia that she was considering a return to work. It had of course been on her mind for months. She tried to ignore it because Rory was still young enough that his mother should be around. It would be too easy for the sneering Olivia and her frenemies to blame his behavioural difficulties on an awol mother, but he was two now and there was a vague and uncomfortable thought at the back of her mind that they might be better off with Bulky Betty or the mesmerising Coco even. They’d be clean. They’d be on time to arrive at and leave school.

She was a good mother. She knew that because she loved her children, but maybe someone else could be a better waitress and Uber driver. These were not her skills. She was a professional, a journalist, an acerbic and admired judge and commentator in a fast-moving industry. When she thought of Coco, she couldn’t help recall that smell, my god, it was angelic, and those arms. Perhaps, she thought, Coco might be at the school gates – one of the Van Nesses’ smug little prigs was in Tom’s class. Perhaps she could ask if she’d be able to help out? Rory was obviously smitten, which could only ease the transition. Everyone’s lives would be improved, she thought, as she bundled Rory into his pyjamas for the school run, if she got back to what she was good at, and left parenting to those with the skill set. Jake could hardly object if that was how she chose to spend her money. She pinioned Rory into his car seat, and emerged to a spring afternoon lit up by the sun and felt happier than she had for weeks.

Chapter Five

Ana

When the morning sun broke through the curtains at her bedroom window, Ana pulled herself together, gave her fanny a quick rinse, ran a hairdryer through her long brown hair, and pulled on her skinny jeans. It was Tuesday – a blue day – so with her beloved baby blue sweatshirt and her electric blue Stan Smith trainers, she felt armoured for the day ahead. Tuesdays were tricky – she was never sure how well blue went with her South American skin tone. She grabbed her bashed-up old canvas bag (blue, obvs) and dashed out of the door, being careful not to scrape against the gorgeous new orange and yellow retro wallpaper she had just put in the hallway. The flat may be tiny, but it was theirs, and she was thrilled with all the little improvements they were making. They were building something. Her favourite bit was their little terrace that overlooked the park opposite – it gave her the illusion of space, and she loved to sit there alone and people-watch for hours.

Ana bundled herself onto the overcrowded bus, nipped past some people arguing over a payment issue and stole the last seat on the top deck. London was still magical to her. Every morning for fifteen years she’d done this commute, watching the hustle and bustle below, drinking in the energy of it all whilst sipping the coffee she picked up from the local barista who always greeted her with a smile and her order, the same every day: Skinny Mocha Latte, half the milk, add a sweetener. The routine was comforting and even though she had worked in the West End forever, it still gave her a happy buzz. Even amongst the swirling chaos she could keep a stable centre. The bus jerked to a stop, jolting her out of her reverie and, barging through everyone, apologising as she went, she leaped off. She grinned to herself thinking she wouldn’t be able to do that when she was pregnant!

Ana entered the stark, minimalist surgery and looked around at all the women waiting patiently for their turn, hoping their dreams would come true, and she felt her heart sink. It was such a strange place, very modern with no personality and just a few copies of Country Life magazine lying around to distract them from the horror of the news they might receive. She twirled her turquoise pendant for reassurance. No one made eye contact, any conversation was hushed and the air was heavy with expectation. Everyone was here because they wanted a baby. It felt quite similar to going to an STD clinic where people either buried their faces in their phones or wore sunglasses trying not to be spotted. It smelled the same: stale air and disinfectant. Every woman had her own story. Ana had certainly had her fair share, though as a (mostly) serial monogamist, she’d had less call for their services than Dixie, who probably had a weekly appointment somewhere exclusive.

She looked around and felt sorry for them. She was different. She wasn’t desperate for a baby like these women were, she was just trying it as a punt. It wasn’t a make or break scenario for her, it was more like an experiment. She didn’t want to miss out, if she could help it. Everyone (mostly Stella, to be fair) told Ana how hard it was having a baby anyway, how exhausting it was, the sleepless nights, the loss of identity. Maybe they were right, thought Ana. Then on the flip side, maybe not having a baby was even harder. When you are one of the people without a child, you are judged, unintentionally left out, and scrutinised. As your friends move on with their lives and their children, you are left trying to forge a new life for yourself, not one ruled by mealtimes and kids’ clubs, but one simply ruled by shaping your own future. Of course the freedom of this is so liberating, but it doesn’t necessarily make it easy. But then no one is ever really content. Stella, with two children and a husband with a large income, was obviously miserable. So what does actually make people happy? she wondered, and then she felt herself start to panic with fear that she might never find the happy ever after. A cold sweat started to form on her brow as her pulse quickened.

Then she heard her name being called. She stood up, swallowed hard and strode into the doctor’s office. There was no turning back. She was dreading the questions.

An hour or so later Ana finally arrived at the office. She looked up with a smile at the big old Georgian building that had become like a second home to her. The auction house had been there for over a hundred years. The beautiful dark walls, high ceilings and intricate woodwork – the whole place was steeped in history and Ana couldn’t imagine ever leaving it. She found it utterly captivating, and she never tired of the art that surrounded her day after day. As Exhibition Manager, she was responsible for the optimal arrangement and co-ordination of all the London exhibits. It was basically interior design using works of art. Talk about a dream job.

As she walked into the foyer, she saw Jan at her old oak desk, gave her a smile, a coffee and a doughnut. She had decided to try to avoid telling anyone at work what she was up to. It would just be an added pressure that she didn’t need right now. She knew how tricky she could be and how annoyed she would get with people’s sympathetic stares and questions; she was a very private person, and she really didn’t like people knowing her business. The only person she did confide in was Jan, who missed nothing and was a fount of insights. They would sit and gossip about the hot art dealers, their sexy young secretaries, and who might be the highest bidder at each auction. What no one knew was that Jan’s knowledge of art after being at the auction house for over twenty-five years probably far exceeded some of the experts’. She knew every work of art that came in and out of the doors, and she could spot a fake a mile off.

‘Hello, beautiful Ana,’ said Jan without looking up, her bi-focals perched gently on her nose. ‘Got some good gossip for me?’

‘How did you know it was me?’ replied Ana, smiling.

‘Oh, I would recognise the squeak of those trainers a mile off. What’s up with you, honey?’ she asked as she looked up and gave her fond smile.

‘That’s what I love about you, Jan, you are practically a spy in your own right!’

‘So what brings you in so late today? Anything interesting?’

‘I wish!’ said Ana. ‘Although if I sit here long enough I am sure someone interesting will come through those revolving doors. You have the best seat in the house.’

‘That’s why I won’t let them promote me – I know more secrets about this place than anyone. They’ll have to prise me out one day… What’s up? I can see it in your face. Come on, I’m all ears. You’re not the kind of girl to buy me a doughnut and my favourite coffee without a damn good reason.’

‘I’m trying to have a baby,’ blurted Ana, mortified by the admission, and recalling that Jan was childless and that she’d never asked why.

‘Oh, Ana, that’s wonderful news,’ said Jan, her eyes slightly welling up. ‘What a relief! I thought those ovaries would dry up and you would miss your chance!’

‘Um, thanks, Jan. I think. Anyway, long story short, it’s not working. I thought we would have lots of great sex, I would just get pregnant, it would all work naturally, and I would be pushing a Bugaboo about within months. Now that’s not happening, I am starting to question everything. The gynaecologist was… confusing. I don’t know if this is how things are supposed to go. Is it me? Is Rex the right man? Do we deserve a baby?’

‘Do you love Rex, honey?’ asked Jan, staring at her over the top of her glasses.

‘Yes, of course, I mean—’ said Ana, slightly blushing. ‘Yes, I love him. Well, I think I love him anyway, in a isn’t-he-nice, aren’t-I-lucky kind of way. Which is fine, right? I mean how do you know if you ever really love someone? I would need Brad Pitt to walk in and offer to marry me to know if I really loved him!’

‘Oh honey, when you know, you know. You know, right? Listen, life is full of decisions and surprises. You want a baby, and let’s face it you’re no spring chicken, so maybe you just need to carry on with Rex. See what happens. Nature has a deciding vote. Try and have a baby, tick that off the list, and then see how you feel afterwards. Or if that sounds too dull, walk out of here and book yourself a ticket to Hollywood, knock on Brad’s door and see what happens. Let me know if you do the second option as I have always fancied a bit of Thelma and Louise so I might just come with you!’

They both collapsed into giggles, and then Ana said, ‘If only it were that simple, Jan!’

‘It is,’ said Jan. ‘Believe me, life’s only as complicated as you make it. I learned that a long time ago.’

There was a hint of sadness to Jan’s voice. Maybe Jan was right, maybe she was just overthinking everything. It was hardly like her life was bad, it was just changing. It dawned on her that she really didn’t like change all that much, and that was a fundamental problem.

‘Thanks, Jan – I had better get upstairs. I’ll get in trouble if I’m spotted here loitering with you again. They’ll think I don’t like my real job!’

‘Keep me updated, Ana, I worry about you and I like to know what’s going on.’

As Ana made her way down the long corridor to the elevator, she paused to stare at Rembrandt’s Danae that was waiting to go up for auction. She thought briefly that if she was a superstar’s wife, she might be able to start her own collection of incredible art. Imagining that, she felt much better about her life.

Chapter Six

Dixie

Dixie’s day passed quickly enough as she completed a tour of Peter’s New York properties and made sure the building managers were happy. Peter left her an envelope of cash to deal with any incidentals or issues and she enjoyed distributing his largesse. Her mind kept returning to Freddie and with every recurrence she felt a lurch of anxiety or excitement; whichever, it disturbed her. She was relieved that he hadn’t given her his number because she might have texted him and that was not her style. She was obliged to attend a cocktail party on Peter’s behalf, somewhere up near Trump Tower. She checked her phone. It would be nice to go with someone interesting. Oligarchs often have quite insistent friends. Grabbing a quick snack at the counter in Sushi Samba, and admiring the easy elegance of the Latino hostess, her phone pinged. ‘I’ll be at your hotel at 7 p.m. Try not to be too fashionably late. Fx’ Fuck, she had given him her number, but the butterflies told her that she was delighted she had, but what else had she told him?

She waited in her room until well after 7 p.m., sitting on her bed in her favourite black jeans and a low-cut emerald green top with slashed back, which revealed just enough to make people stare, but not enough to look like a street walker. She topped her outfit off with a pair of killer leopard print heels. Checking her hair again in the mirror, she knew that she looked hot. She was hot, she told herself, if red was your thing, that is. Before leaving she made sure everything looked acceptable if anyone was to come back with her, and strutted down to the bar. As she walked in and saw Freddie standing at the crowded bar, staring at her, she felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, and wondered if she’d made too much effort. He was as handsome as she remembered him from her hazy aeroplane fog, and with his faded jeans and crisp white shirt, he looked the full package. His blue eyes danced kindly in the soft light, and his brown hair fell haphazardly around his face, helping to frame his razor-sharp jawline.

The bar was buzzing, and Freddie was on his first martini.

‘Good evening,’ he smiled as she approached. ‘I wondered if I would be drinking alone tonight, whether you were too good to be true. But here you are, a vision in green, and what’s more, awake, and fashionable, and late. There will be consequences.’

‘Good things are worth waiting for, aren’t they? Glad to see you made it yourself.’

‘What are you drinking? More champagne or something harder now it’s past seven?’

‘Vodka tonic for me please,’ she replied, as she perched on a bar stool. She loved America, loved the vibe of it, the friendliness, and was always excited to be back. It had such a different atmosphere to London, which she often found a little oppressive and unfriendly. London’s bars couldn’t compete with Manhattan’s. She often thought if she could find a way to move to the States and make her life work there, she would.

‘So here we are,’ said Freddie smiling. ‘Just you and me, and to think we only met about twenty-four hours ago on another continent. I think it’s time to get to know you. Let’s see, if you could be or do anything in the world, what would it be?’

She looked around. ‘If I could do anything, I would move to America. If I could be anything, I would be an illustrator. I would live on the East Coast and draw illustrations for children’s books.’

‘Children’s books? Now that surprises me,’ remarked Freddie. ‘Everything you do seems so 18 Cert. I really can’t imagine you sketching a picture of a happy toad trying to cross a road to get to a lost duckling on the other side.’

‘I like to be surprised, don’t you? Is the ugly duckling a story you know well?’ Dixie laughed.

‘No, but doesn’t every kids’ story have a duckling in it?’

‘Not all of them, Freddie, no, but maybe I should try adding a duckling to see if it helps. Isn’t the point that the duckling isn’t a duckling?’

‘See, I have helped you already. It’s the start of something beautiful,’ he said as he reached across her to grab an olive, his arm stroking her breast. His wedding ring glinted and the contact brought home to Dixie what she was doing there. She didn’t want to start messing with someone’s marriage. A drunken one-night-stand with a married man was one thing, but a proper date with cross-examination was another thing. She had no idea of Freddie’s intentions, but he was flirting, rather effectively. Maybe he was just a player who was looking for something exotic.

‘Is your wife at home?’ Dixie asked, surprising herself. Her question was followed by an uncomfortable silence and she watched as Freddie’s eyes closed. She could see them searching for something behind the closed lids. Without opening them he spoke.

‘I, err, lost my wife three years ago.’ He paused, swallowed. ‘Illness. It’s been a tough time, but it’s beginning to get easier.’

‘Oh god, Freddie, I am so sorry, I had no idea.’

‘Why should you? It’s OK. It’s best just to get it out in the open anyway, otherwise I tend to find it can kind of ruin a night out. Anyway, that is all incredibly depressing. I thought you were taking me to a party!’

‘Oh good god, I am! I’d almost forgotten about that. I think we’ll need a couple of shots first to get us in the mood. Are you ready? Are you sure you want to? Russian emigrés live unusual lives. There will be Jeroboams of Krug champagne, vodka on ice and only just more prostitutes than plastic surgeons working the room.’

‘What could possibly go wrong?’

Two Bison Grass vodka shots later and they were both more relaxed about what lay ahead. Dixie was concerned she might have bigged the night up a little too much (she couldn’t of course recall what she’d actually told him), but after ambushing him like that, she wanted to make sure he had a damn good night out. The poor man – she couldn’t even begin to understand what he had been through and how he was coping. His loss made a mockery of her first-world concerns about where the next debauched indulgence was coming from and how she looked on Instagram or how many hits she got on Tinder. His evident pain scared her, and excited her. All that and he still managed to be kind and thoughtful, and light up a room with his smile. But she wondered what lay beneath, where all the hurt and worry was buried. No one ever left a tragedy unscathed, and as charming and engaging as he was, Dixie told herself to be careful and keep her distance. He was damaged goods.

The party was, as she suspected, underwhelming with sides of kitsch and cliché, but it was in the most incredible penthouse with insane views over Central Park. But the fact the party was half empty and full of boring old men and slutty-looking hostesses (she fitted right in!) just made the evening funnier. They both laughed and giggled all night long, standing by the caterer’s door stealing the best canapés as they came by and drinking as much booze as they could handle. Their hands met occasionally, a brush, a light touch, but enough for Dixie to feel the electricity between them. The only awkward moment was when she was obliged to introduce Freddie to Evgeny Mobachov and stumbled over the introduction, describing him as her ‘consort’. Where had she even found the word!? Evgeny quickly left them alone with a confused look and encouragement to make the most of all the facilities (whatever that meant!). She was sure that their evening was not quite what Peter had intended for her, but she really didn’t care. She just felt elated and free.

When they finally decided to call it a night, Freddie took her hand and offered to escort her back to SoHo. He stopped the cab a few blocks short, suggesting they walk a while. As they were strolling down Third Avenue, Dixie dreaming about what it would be like if she actually lived there, he suddenly grabbed her and pulled her into a dark side street that looked like something out of a cop show: empty bins rolling on the ground, steam drifting out of vents, and car horns blaring in the background. He slammed her up against the wall and started to kiss her with urgency and longing, searching her, wanting her, and she could feel him hard against her. She let out a moan of pleasure as he stroked her through her jeans. She wanted more but she felt so vulnerable. Nothing good ever happens in a dark alley. It was exciting and terrifying all at once knowing that anyone could be watching. With one deft move he undid her trousers and slipped his hand inside the silk, pressing into her wetness with his fingers. She was moist and ready, and as she reached for him, he pushed her hand away and immobilised her against the wall. As he kissed her, his tongue flicking and exploring hers, as the pressure of his finger grew, she could feel herself about to come. She wanted to resist but knew it was hopeless. She was out of control. He quickened his pace with the heel of his hand on her clit and his fingers deep inside her; she let out an uncontrollable groan as her body jolted against him.

‘So,’ Freddie said, eyes bright with excitement.

‘Where did that come from? I haven’t been finger-banged in the street in over twenty years!’

‘Expect the unexpected, young Dixie… I just wanted to give you something to remember me by. Just in case you were thinking about trying to forget me.’

‘Forget you? Now why would I want to do that,’ she whispered breathlessly as she rearranged herself, tucking her green silk shirt back into her jeans, totally thrown by the whole episode. Freddie, the scientist. Hmm, it seemed there was more to him than she’d first thought. Perhaps she had finally met her match.

He put his arm around her and lit a cigarette as they continued the three-block walk back to SoHo House. It was a cold night, but the sky was clear and even in the hustle and bustle of the city that never sleeps, there was a calmness between them, a funny familiarity like they had known each other for years, like they were old souls. As they reached the dimly lit lobby of the hotel, Freddie turned to her and kissed her on the lips and whispered in her ear a quiet, seductive ‘goodnight’, nothing more, and then disappeared into the back of a waiting cab before she’d had time to react. Dixie was stunned. She couldn’t believe he had just left, and yet it made her smile. Usually she was the boss, she was the one who pulled the stunts, but not this time. Expect the unexpected? What the hell? It left her wanting more and made her completely intrigued with him. In twenty-four hours her life had been turned upside down by a man with a dead wife. That was certainly not in the game plan. And when was she going to see him again? What was happening to her? Dixie Dressler never worried about the next date, unless it was how to elegantly avoid it!

She couldn’t rest. Her stomach was in knots and she lay on her king-size hotel bed doodling, pondering whether she really did to want to see him again, or whether she just enjoyed being surprised. She ordered herself a big bowl of fries, turned on CNN so she didn’t feel so isolated, and started to draw. Sketching was her escape, her personal form of expression. She often just drew without really even knowing she was doing it. She could draw anything that didn’t require her thought and commitment, but the minute it was her book, she couldn’t deliver. She was terrified of the judgement, of not being good enough. Coming around, she was surprised to see that she had drawn an illustration of Freddie. She had caught that wicked glint in his eye, that slightly foppish hair, the long searching fingers, and as she stared down at the picture and into his eyes, she knew she was feeling things that she really wasn’t very used to. She felt a little nauseous, like vertigo. Eventually she dozed off to sleep, wondering as she did where Freddie was now, and if he was wishing he was in her bed as much as she was.

Dixie was woken early by the traffic in the street below. Brakes screeching and horns competing through the double glazing. It was 9 a.m. The night’s exertions had overcome any jet lag. She jumped in the shower, chose a killer pencil skirt and clingy cashmere jumper, and headed downstairs to grab a cab. Heading down in the lift, she noted that she’d checked neither Instagram nor Tinder. She was irritated that there was nothing from Freddie, but then the receptionist handed her a piece of paper.

‘A gentleman left this for you early this morning.’

‘Thank you,’ Dixie stuttered, taking it nonchalantly while bursting inside.

It was a leaflet for an exhibition by an artist that she must have mentioned, and it was on only a few blocks from her hotel. On it he had written, ‘I thought you might enjoy this. Sorry I can’t join you, but maybe see you on the other side of the pond. Fx’