No Regrets

Initially she was disappointed she wasn’t going to be seeing him again in NY. But this was such a kind thought. Handsome and caring?! Too good to be true. That’s just the way the world works. Waiting while the doorman hailed her a cab, she posted a photo of the hotel frontage with a comment: Always expect the unexpected. Out of habit, or perhaps to try to distract her mixed emotions, she flicked through Tinder, swiping right on a few possibilities. None, she was irritated to note, anywhere near as hot or mysterious as Freddie. But she knew a smart girl always keeps her options open. No good ever came of getting too attached, too soon. Never.

Chapter Seven

Stella

Friday was another grey rainy day in London as Stella bundled herself and Rory up to head out to the bleak concrete playground – again. Tom was at school meaning there were no arguments and no choices. She couldn’t understand what Rory saw in the playground, but she was coming to believe his first word would be ‘swing’ and he was destined to be a pilot or maybe a paratrooper. He was absolutely fearless when it came to heights and seemed to have no attachment needs at all. He would just wobble off without looking back and if Stella didn’t pay constant attention, he would disappear over the horizon. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she just let him go. Would he return in sixteen years, all grown up, a veteran of several wars, a member of the French Foreign Legion, thankful to Stella for her trust in his abilities, or would he be taken in by social services and Stella charged with criminal negligence? Thank god Jake was a lawyer.

Stella was having a tough morning. After a couple of days indulging fantasies of all the roles she might return to, she’d begun to make the first tentative steps towards going back to employment. Still having to hide from Jenny and Tim – she’d cancelled drinks by text, citing a vicious viral infection which had cost her her voice – she’d crept out to the newsagent while Rory was taking his 5–10-second post-lunch nap. To extend her alibi, in case of meeting either one of the couple, she’d donned one of Jake’s Crombie jackets, a thick striped scarf (Jake’s again), sunglasses and a faux fur aviator hat with drooping earpieces. Careful to use her own credit card to avoid further embarrassment or delay, she’d purchased all the fashion and celebrity glossies on offer: Grazia, Hello, Yes, Now!, So and Glamour. For research and to see if the editorial listings included anyone she recognised, anyone who might be a useful lead.

Seven years is a long time in politics, in a marriage, but in fashion journalism, it was an epoch. Where once every name would have been someone familiar, now it was as alien as this year’s X Factor entries.

Three names rang a bell with Stella, and not all of them were good. One she’d fired from Grazia for persistent lateness (industry code for a party girl with a narcotics problem). One she’d offended when she threw her out of her Christmas party, as she’d thrown up into Stella’s vintage Chanel handbag. But I mean, wouldn’t you!?

There was one name that stood out. Lucy ‘Left Eye’ Witherington-Smiley. ‘Left Eye’, obviously, because she’d lost an eye in an unlikely collision during a charity polo match at Cowdray Park. She had many faults, but she was a straight talker and was now editor in chief at Now! and features editor for the Mail on Sunday. She was a formidable woman whom Stella had given a significant leg-up, her first column in Grazia. They’d always got on as long as Stella could keep her gaze fixed on the moving and expressive right eye. The Left Eye was a no-go area.

Stella had fantasies that Left Eye would welcome her back with gratitude, reciprocating Stella’s contribution to her career, that a position would be made available or perhaps offer something freelance until another position opened up. The first inkling of a problem came as she flicked through the pages wearing her editor’s hat (figuratively, as she was still in the faux fur aviator). The nature of fashion had changed. The 18–24, and even the 25–35 age ranges were almost unrecognisable. There were references to brands she’d only vaguely heard of, certainly never worn. There were links and references to bloggers and vloggers and Pinterest and Instagram accounts she’d never encountered. She dismissed these first flutterings of doubt with the idea that once you can ride a bike, you never forget; it’s merely a matter of adapting to new terrain. The second wrinkle appeared when Lucy’s PA twice refused to put Stella through, and insisted, twice, that she spell her surname, in spite of Stella using her most casually presumptive tone to enunciate, ‘Hammer–Son. As in Hammer and Son. No, one word. Hammerson. Yes. Stella. No, Stella. Not Estella. Where am I from? It’s a personal call. She’ll know who I am. No, she might not have my number. Yes, yes, well, actually I’m a former colleague.’

‘From the last fucking decade,’ she spat, flushing hot and sweating. She threw the fur hat ineffectively across the room. She wanted to break something, something glass. The way that girl had spoken to her!

And, no, in spite of the passing of three tedious hours, Lucy had still not returned her call.

As she neared the concrete oblong, the cries, screeches, wails and weeping grew in volume. She was not ready for the shiny mothers fresh from their weekly microdermabrasion, their judging eyes. Seven years ago, before two children, two caesareans, and at least 2,500 chocolate muffins, 5,000 full-fat mochaccinos, equivalent bottles of cheap Rioja and value packs of cheesey puffs, Stella had had a trim(ish) waist, a thigh gap (almost), and fantastic breasts that defied gravity and opened doors (literally and metaphorically). Now she was wrapped up in thick duck down that camouflaged any physical outline. She’d wanted to wear jeans today, but the button wouldn’t close. She blamed the tumble dryer. She was certain there was an issue with the temperature gauge, too many of her clothes were shrinking.

She looked around at the grey rectangular space, chocka with kids, nannies and bug-eyed mothers side-stepping dog crap. She sighed and prepared herself. Stella found any kids that were not her own an irritant, and she loathed the cheery chumminess demanded as they buffeted and bullied her and her child. Snotty little vermin chasing around desperate for space. She remembered swearing that she would never be this woman, stood staring into the distance day after day pushing the swing, willing the hours away. But here she was. Her career vanishing behind her and a husband who was married to the law more than he was to her.

She remembered that she must ask Jake about the bank account. She’d tried to log in to the online joint account and her password had not been recognised.

Besides, she said to herself, did she really want to be a fashion journalist any more? It was so meaningless. What did she really want from her life? Rory was scowling at her until she pushed harder and sent him higher and they laughed together. She so wanted to be able to tell people she was more than a housewife, wanted to escape the side glances and sneers of the lycra-clad women at the school gates. She missed the respect she’d had when she’d been an editor. She’d set the agenda. It might only be in the realm of fashion and celebrity but she made the news, moved trends, mocked the unfortunate and celebrated the best. That was incredibly important to her, to her self-respect, and more than that, to her place in the world, her relationship to Jake. She shook her head, she knew she was whining, hoped it would pass. She pushed Rory hard, maybe too hard, and he flew high up, giggling. He didn’t notice but she scared herself with the force of her action and she pulled a frowning Rory from the seat and deposited him on the ground with a shove towards the merry-go-round.

Dark clouds were blowing in from the west. She was going to get wet later, she thought.

She was snapped out of her melancholy by the distant screams of ‘Mummy!’ And then she found herself running towards Rory who had fallen and was throwing himself around on the ground like he’d been shot. A striking young woman with glossy brown hair and olive skin was comforting him. It was the girl from the supermarket, Coco.

‘Ah, I thought I recognised this little hero. There, there, Rory.’ She leaned down and kissed his grazed knee with her full cherry lips, before facing Stella. ‘All better now.’

Good god, that smile! Stella felt her stomach lurch, like she’d just dropped six feet.

‘Yes, thank you, I must have lost sight of him for a moment, thank you so much,’ said Stella.

‘It’s no problem. He’ll be fine. Perhaps some chocolate, and all will be forgotten.’

‘Ah, the joys of being a toddler! Your tragedies are so easily corrected. Thank you again.’

Coco didn’t leave. She stood there, her Mediterranean beauty out of place in that grey concrete jungle. She giggled and began to play with Rory and her two charges. Her full red lips set off her white teeth, and her bright green eyes glowed as she laughed. Stella just watched in admiration. Coco reminded her of a wild bird, of what it would be like to be free and young. A wave of sadness swept over her as she felt a pang of loss of her own sense of fun and identity.

She turned to Stella and chirped, ‘I see you look as happy to be here today as you do most days. I think this must be your idea of hell.’

‘What, no, no not at all,’ spluttered Stella, oddly thrown by her directness. ‘It’s all a bit monotonous. I just need a pick-me-up, nothing a coffee couldn’t fix. You probably don’t have to come here every day!’

‘You are only truly blessed when you can find the face of God in a square foot of concrete. I see you here nearly every day, but you are often in a dream world so you never see me. Live in the moment, Stella. Don’t let life be something you wish away. But if it’s a coffee that will fix it, let me buy you one,’ Coco said, resting her hand enticingly on Stella’s arm and smiling mischievously, which was fortunate as it almost made up for the sanctimony.

‘Oh, you are very kind, but maybe not today. I haven’t even showered. I look a mess, and I’m probably not very good company. Besides, I am sure it is me who owes you a coffee! Maybe another day.’

‘OK, I understand, maybe tomorrow. We could probably cheer each other up. Come on, kids! Raymondo! Fleur!’ Coco yelled across the playground. ‘Let’s go!’ They ran to her without hesitation. She knelt down and kissed Rory on the top of his head, laid her hand again on Stella’s arm and sashayed away, her pert bottom flicking from side to side as she gave one child a piggyback and chased the other.

Who the hell is that girl, thought Stella. She was certain she’d never seen her there before. She was happy, hot and opinionated, and quite frankly, invasive of personal space. It was so unusual, un-London. Stella liked it. Feeling like she’d missed out on something, she scooped up her now-sulking child and dragged him down to the high street to her favourite coffee shop for a full fat latte and a muffin. Nothing mattered but to fill the void with super-fast carbs. The consequences would come later and she would deal with them then. It wasn’t like Jake was going to notice the increasing rolls of flab around her stomach. They hadn’t had sex in so long she barely remembered what a penis felt like. She could of course go to the gym, she thought, like all those uptight Yummies who turn up every morning in their gym gear, on their way for a coffee (she often wondered if they actually went to the gym or just strutted around in trainers and leggings to make people like her feel crap about themselves), or for a run, which people promised would be a cure for body and soul, but why should she? This muffin made her feel better, right now, and that was all that mattered. Rory didn’t agree. He threw his half-eaten croissant to the floor. His mischievous laugh was infectious and they giggled together.

Chapter Eight

Dixie

It had been five days since Dixie got back from New York. Not a word from Freddie. She was preoccupied with this thought as she fought off the jet lag. The time she generally spent on Tinder was now spent wondering why she’d heard nothing. Not even the courtesy of a text. Christ, he hadn’t even shown enough initiative to find and follow her on Instagram. He was either not playing by the rules or he’d lost interest. At different levels she knew both to be true. Perhaps she should have been more demur about the finger-banging, but what the hell, she’d enjoyed it, and so had he. She reminded herself that she was not some passive doll, that she could write her own rules. Dixie Dressler waits on no man.

She texted, ‘Thanks for the finger-guided tour of the back streets of NY. I know a few alleyways in London I could show you. How about Weds at 8 p.m., Dover Street Wine Bar? Dix x’.

And then she sat and waited.

And waited.

She bit her nails and checked her phone to make sure her text had gone, had been delivered. It had.

And then when she couldn’t bear it any longer, she threw on her trainers and went for a run along the river. She ran like a banshee. She was now furious with herself for sending the text. Her neediness shamed her. He was obviously still so messed up about the death of his wife, he was never going to be available for anything more than side-street shenanigans. She should have known it would never come to anything. Good men didn’t want women like her. Breathing heavily as she climbed the stairs back to her flat, she resolved to put him out of her mind. She had plenty going on. They’d both got what they wanted. A New York dalliance.

Peter kept a small family office off Regent Street. She smiled at the girls on reception as she strode towards the lift. She was wearing her red Alexa Chung heels and they made the most satisfying clack on the marble flooring. She was late, she was busy, and she was feeling much more herself.

One of the girls called her over. She couldn’t remember her name. ‘Dixie, it looks like you have an admirer!’

On the desk was the most enormous bunch of red roses she had ever seen. An envelope contained a simple card, ‘So glad you decided to text. I thought maybe it was game over. Thursday, south-west corner of Red Lion Square, 7.30? Fx’

She actually felt giddy, a torrent of emotions flooded through her. She felt herself blush. She never blushed. She chose to ignore his assumption that Thursday was just as easy for her as Wednesday, but she admired his confidence. Maybe there was something there. Maybe Freddie was someone a bit different. Maybe they could write their own rules.

‘So who is it, Dixie?’ demanded the receptionist. ‘Who is “F”?’

‘How do you know what the card says?!’ asked Dixie.

She shrugged and held up her hands in innocence.

‘You’re outrageous, and it is none of your business,’ she laughed.

As she manoeuvred the bouquet into the lift, she found herself smiling. Unfinished business, you’re right there, she thought, and pinched her legs together. Only forty-eight hours to wait, she thought, and we’ll really start to find out what that devious Freddie is all about.

On Thursday night Dixie left work earlier. She was excited. As she had sat at her desk, she had doodled every possible outfit combination. Sketching her clothing options, picturing things, helped her process her ideas. She had always used her sketching as a way to process her emotions. Her mother had died when she was young, and when her distant cousin, the great Aunt Pearl, had taken her in, her aunt had taught her to use it as a coping mechanism, and she had never looked back. Too slutty, too cool, too smart, too sexy, too Madonna-ish, too Elizabeth I, too Elizabeth II, too Amy Shumer, too fashionista, she’d thought as she ran through all the options. So in the end she settled on one of her favourite mini dresses, tights and some knee-high boots. Sexy, figure-tested combination.

She didn’t want to be the one waiting on the street corner, so she made sure to arrive her standard six minutes late. She saw him there as she approached, not on his phone like most people, but leaning against the wall, arms folded, watching the world go by. He was dressed casually in a pair of low-slung jeans and a checked shirt, looking as hot as she had anticipated. Several passing girls gave him a second glance as they went by. Bitches, she thought. He’s mine.

He caught her eye as she approached. ‘Hey, hot stuff,’ he said. ‘You looking for a date?’

‘Did you try that on all those girls?’ she asked, indicating the girls now in the distance.

‘No, just the filthy redheads,’ he whispered in her ear, as he kissed her lightly in greeting. ‘Drink, or food and drink? I’ve booked both.’

‘Duh, food and drink,’ she said.

‘Perfect, a girl after my own heart.’

They set off and she was startled when he took her hand and pulled her into a doorway. He pushed her up against the door and started kissing her, first slowly, then with more passion. Oh god, she thought, not here, not again! Then he just pulled away.

‘Just wanted to break the ice,’ he said. ‘Get us back to where we left off.’

And they set off again. She was left just a little bit behind. She was very flustered. The swelling excitement in her stomach didn’t stop there. She was going to have to be on her game to keep up with this guy, and that wasn’t something she was used to. She was used to having the upper hand, to calling the shots, and she knew that was why this was so interesting. As she walked behind him, she found herself admiring his posture. He was tall and in charge. He also had a very tight ass, she just wanted to—

‘Everything all right, you look… hungry?’

She laughed off her embarrassment.

The restaurant was down some steep little stairs – nothing fancy, very understated and quite dark. There were candles burning on little wooden tables, and for the middle of the city it was very rustic. Like a secret you would only find if someone told you about it.

‘This is my favourite place in London for a steak – please tell me you eat steak. I love a woman who likes meat.’

‘I do eat meat,’ said Dixie. ‘I would have thought that you would have gleaned that…’

‘Well, you’re in the right place then.’

Without another word, he ordered a bottle of house red, two steak frites, rare, and a green salad, if it was included.

‘Quite the control freak,’ said Dixie.

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘I just wanted to get the boring bit out of the way so I could focus on you.’

‘Are you as in control as you appear?’ asked Dixie.

In that moment, she saw a flicker of doubt flash across his face, and he thought for a moment, then spoke slowly. ‘It’s impossible to control everything, but I try to control what I can, yes.’

Dixie was certain this was a reference to his wife. She reached out and took his wrist. The contact thrilled her. She could feel his pulse thumping under the light touch of her fingers. Was it something that a person ever managed to move on from? Would there ever be room for someone else?

‘Does it still hurt?’ she asked.

He looked down, flustered or confused.

‘Your wife?’ she said, instantly regretting bringing her into the room. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s not my business and I don’t even know you. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I forget for a moment and then…’ He covered her hand with his, sandwiching hers. He looked her in the eye, sadness emanating from his bottomless pools of sexiness. His stare was magnetic. She felt like she had known him forever, like the attraction was stronger than she was, and it terrified her. ‘I’m glad you did. Yes, her absence is always present, you know it’s there, like the moon, even when you can’t see it, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t live my life. What happened was bloody awful. No one’s life should be cut so short, no one should suffer like that, but I was lucky we had the time we did. She wouldn’t want me to become a monk. Even doing what I do, it’s hard to get my head around what we lost. Life is not fair, which is why we’ve got to grab everything good that passes us.’

‘Are you lonely?’ She didn’t know where the question came from.

‘Aren’t you?’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I always take things as they come, just go with whatever is thrown at me. I’ve never lost a man that mattered to me, not even my ex-husband!’

‘Tell me more,’ said Freddie.

‘Well, I got married when I was 23 and divorced when I was 24 to a man I was never in love with. It was a great party though, and I have no regrets.’

He laughed. ‘Well, that’s very honest – and surprising! To be completely honest with you, I used to be scared of everything, terrified, and watching someone you love suffer is the most petrifying thing in the world. But I don’t think I’m scared any more. I have nothing to be scared of. I’ve seen the worst that fate can deal, and I want to see where I end up.’

‘Live every day like it’s your last… but then I can never pay my bills at the end of the month! You know when that pair of D&G pumps are just begging me to buy them, and I think, well, what if this is my last day and I don’t buy them… I would regret it forever! Who wants to die with regrets?’

‘So how do you break that pattern? Will there be a handsome knight to come along and rescue young Dixie from her hedonism?’

‘Sure, there have been a few self-described knights, some handsome, some not, most flattered to deceive, but none of them were riding quite the right horse. Besides, I am a free spirit, I ride my own horse. I make my own way, I may not have climbed every mountain, but I’ve not missed out on much.’

‘Not many people can say that. So tell me, Dixie, what are the constants, what do you do when you are not getting fingered by strangers?’

She blushed again. He was so bloody direct. He held her stare. That was a look she wanted to capture on paper.

‘You know what I do,’ she answered, looking at him coyly. ‘I am a PA, open book, nothing glam.’

‘Oh yes, of course, what about that amazing doodle you did of that fat guy on the plane? Didn’t you talk about a book?’

Shit, she couldn’t recall mentioning her book. It was something so personal, she often kept it to herself. Fuck, she had to cut back on the drinking, she thought, taking a slug of claret to erase her discomfort.

‘I still have the doodle,’ he said. ‘It’s brilliant. I figured if I ever saw you again, it might be a nice memento of our first meeting. So have you found a place for the duckling yet?’

She giggled. ‘I am an illustrator, but an unpublished one, which makes me not an illustrator, just someone who doodles as a pastime.’

‘And your dream,’ he asked. ‘What’s the dream?’

‘To be published, I guess. I’ve been working on a book for a while. I just need to finish the last illustrations and find a publisher. All sounds so simple!’

‘What’s it about?’

‘Oh, you know, very highbrow, Freddie! It’s about a young frog learning to cross the road with his family. He needs to get the height of his leap just right. He watches his friends and their families as they make their first attempts, and struggles to work out the difference between those who make it and those who end up… There are no ducklings in this one, yet!’

Freddie burst out laughing. ‘I love it,’ he said. ‘Why a frog?!’

‘Just because I love frogs and the colour green, that’s why. I don’t do complicated.’

‘Is the frog a fallen prince? Will the frog turn out to be a prince or don’t you do happy endings? No pun intended.’

When her eyes eventually left his, they were the last couple in the restaurant and it was well past 11 p.m. A waiter was sweeping between the tables. She was so caught up in the fascination of discovering a new person, gripped by sexual tension, that time had just flown by. Freddie insisted on paying, and as they walked out of the restaurant into the cold windy air, he put his arm around her and said, ‘Yours, mine or a shop doorway?’