Playing Away

by Adele Parks

Genres: General Fiction; Humor & Satire; Romance

Synopsis

Connie Green's life should be perfect. She has a great career, a great husband and a great bunch of girlfriends. But she has just met the overwhelmingly sexy John at a business conference. Her head and heart said "no way", but her traitorous body shrieked "YES, YES!" Now she's embroiled in a tawdry affair which is destroying her peace of mind and threatening her grand plan of Happily Ever After. Maybe John is her destiny. After all she is losing weight. It can't be such a bad thing if she's losing weight, can it?

Release date: July 1, 2001

Publisher: Atria Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

"Happy anniversary, darling."

I struggle to open my eyes and sit up, as Luke carefully lays the breakfast tray on the bed. Pain au chocolat, fresh orange juice, coffee, cards and lilies. Anniversary fare.

"Oh, thank you," I smile. My lazy, sexy, contented smile which I keep especially for wedding nights, anniversaries, birthdays, nights of seduction and other distinguished occasions. Since I married I've extended the usage to weekends, weekdays, sunny days, wet days, days with an r in the month and days without. I can't help it. I'm so happy. Delirious. I know it's a cliché, I know it's sick-making and I know single people or people in crappy marriages take an instant dislike to me. But it's just like that.

He puts the tray on our bed and I clap my hands and shout, "How wonderful." We kiss, slowly, gently. "Thank you."

"No, thank you for the best year of my life," smiles Luke.

"No, thank you," I insist. I love this conversation, which can carry on indefinitely, both of us arguing over who's the most lucky to have married the other. I am. But this time, before we get too carried away, Luke jumps up.

"Don't move," he instructs. As if. He dashes downstairs and returns with a bottle of Bollie and two champagne flutes. "De rigueur," he laughs.

We open our cards, drink champagne and make love; the usual kind of things that couples celebrating their first wedding anniversary do. We keep asking each other, "Are you happy?"

"Delirious. Are you happy?"

"Never more so."

This is another one of our favorite sketches. These words are so often repeated I answer without thinking. The truth of them is indisputable. We are wild about each other.

I've never been happier, more content or more confident in my life. I had been fairly disdainful when my three younger sisters all rushed down the aisle before me. Although my mother and father had the opposite reaction. They were delighted and mollified; more so when my siblings settled in Sheffield, within a three-mile radius of our parental home. I had confounded my mother by insisting on "gallivanting off" to London, where, she advised me, "I could expect nothing but trouble." Therefore I labored under the knowledge that every year that ticked by, I further disappointed her. I wore the cloud of shame quite stylishly, mostly in cocktail bars and nightclubs. Although my mother thought I had terminal china stamped on my arse, top shelf city, it surprised my friends that I got engaged so young. That I got engaged at all. I was not blushing bride material. Before I met Luke I'd positioned myself as the absolute Cosmopolitan woman. I had always been an outrageous flirt and when flirting became frustrating I had hurried to be a good soldier of the sexual revolution. Like many women I was desperate to shake off the embarrassment of not knowing, and desperate to be known. I rushed and jostled and queue-jumped, then carelessly shrugged off my innocence. I left the image of one Madonna behind and took on the pop star version as a role model. No reserve. No trepidation. There wasn't a position in the Kama Sutra I didn't try (except the unappealing up-the-bum). On scores of occasions I indulged in a number of extraordinarily romantic and sexual liaisons.

I thrived on the challenge.

I lived for the hunt.

I died for the kill.

I was grateful that women had chained themselves to railings for me. I enjoyed being a "more than five less than ten girl." After all, they were all nice blokes, or gorgeous-looking, or I thought I loved them, or at least one of the three. I quickly became a "more than ten less than twenty girl." I was more often the ditcher than the ditchee. I'd done it all: one-night stands, long-term commitment, sleeping with men because everyone else wanted to, sleeping with a man because no one else wanted to, because they were fit, or cool, or captain of a sports team, because they were older than me, because they were younger, to help me get over a disastrous affair, to help them get over their last lay, because they wore their hair longer than anyone else, because they wore it shorter, because I was too tired to get a cab home and, on one occasion, because he did a clever trick with the wrapper of an amaretti biscuit. It was then that I stopped counting and began to wonder if shagging around was really what the suffragettes had had in mind. Even variety became boring.

Then I met Luke. At a wedding. He was an usher and took the opportunity to flirt with me as he led me to my pew. He is over six feet with straight, floppy blond hair that simply demands fingers are run through it; he has this huge enveloping smile, and naturally he was wearing tails. I instantly fell in lust. I couldn't take my eyes off him. I watched as he handed out song sheets, chatted to aunts and grannies, making them feel important and interesting. By the time Rose had cut the cake I was deeply in like. As she threw the bouquet I was in love.

Luke.

Luke had an altogether distinct seduction technique. A walking Time Out guide, Luke's fun to be with. Eternally unfazed and with an inability to do anything half-heartedly, he's one of those guys who will give anything a go: ceroc, body painting, mountain climbing, radio debates, canoeing, roller skating, greyhound racing.

"Fancy a game of squash?"

"I can't play squash," I'd replied, cursing my hand-to-eye-to-ball coordination, or rather, the magnificent lack of it.

"I'll teach you." And he did. Because suddenly, when I was with him, I could do things that had previously seemed impossible. He approached everything with steady confidence and patience and although my approach was more haphazard and impatient, the confidence was infectious. We never went to pubs or sat in front of the TV, instead we did exciting, extraordinary, wondrous things on our dates. He always "just happened" to have tickets for the Comedy Club or opening nights for some obscure fringe performance, played out at venues with funny names like Onion Shed or Man in the Moon. We were always busy: swimming, windsurfing, visiting galleries or throwing dinner parties. We did everything together; he became my new best friend. My best, best friend. Pretty sharpish, I realized that he was the man I looked forward to looking back with.

I felt a distinct release and relief. I was delighted to rediscover sex really could be game free, pain free, shame free. Within months of our meeting Luke offered me a beautiful diamond ring, which I confidently accepted. It was love. Loving Luke just made sense. I thought the speed was romantic; perversely, my mother thought it suspect and insisted on a three-year engagement to quell rumors of visits to Baby Gap.

With Luke I feel shrouded and protected and decent. I've never been able to explain this to any of my friends, married or otherwise, drunken or sober. We discuss calorie intake, childhood experiences of shoplifting, the number of tampons you need for a heavy period and just about everything you can imagine.

f0

We loll around in bed for ages. I'm thrilled to be spending time with him. Recently, Luke has been working a regular fourteen-hour day because, despite being an ostensibly normal bloke, he likes his job. When he's not working we "do things around the house." The eternal battle with cracked walls, and a garden that insists on growing. Fringe theaters and windsurfing are luxuries we can no longer afford. Today's a holiday, so we talk. We talk about our past, remembering films we've watched together, places we've visited, rows we've roared through and reconciliations we've run to. We plan our future, which is unquestionably coruscating. I moan about my job at Looper Jackson, saying that I am bored. Luke reminds me that it pays well and that perhaps the upcoming merger will offer me new challenges. It is sweet of him to try to make me feel valued and worthwhile but I remain unconvinced. Loving his work as he does means that he has no comprehension. It's not his fault. Talking about my work depresses us both, so I change the subject. I tell him the washing machine is leaking and he responds with a funny story about the neighbors' cat peeing on our herb garden. Unreasonably, this story makes us laugh so much (it must be the champagne) that he can hardly finish it and I have to run to the loo. He won't let me, but holds me down until I'm forced to shout playful threats. We drift in and out of intensity as we are firmly embedded in intimacy. It's sunny. He covers my body with little butterfly kisses and I give him the king of all blow jobs, then we fall asleep.

At 11 A.M. we wake up suddenly and act out that scene in Four Weddings and a Funeral. The one where Hugh Grant and his flatmate oversleep, then wake up and rush around shouting "Fuck!" Everyone in the cinema laughs at that. Not because the script is so witty but because it is so familiar. We've all done it. It's usually on the day that you have a job interview for the job of a lifetime, or when you've got a really hot date, or on the first day of the sale at Harvey Nichols, or when you are expecting fifty friends for a buffet lunch and champagne, in less than two hours. We dash in and out of the shower, up and down the stairs, in and out of the freezer, up and down the garden. We clean, dress, sauté, spice and set up deck chairs and umbrellas. We tidy magazines and strategically place nibbles. We arrange a hundred silver helium-filled balloons, we stack up film for the camera, polish flutes and dress in our Armani. We shout fuck a lot, too. Caterers have prepared and delivered the food; all we have to do is take off the plastic wrap. I like to feel I've made an effort. It looks fantastic, set out on our big wooden table (an investment -- both coming from large families we plan to have at least four kids). I look at the food with a mix of pride and amazement. Zucca gialla intere al forno con pomodori secchi (roasted peppers stuffed with sun-dried tomatoes), zucchini carpaccio (skinny bits of zucchini), insalata prosciutto e fichi (ham and figs -- you wouldn't have eaten it if your mum had put it in your sandwiches at school), then a whole load of pasta and polenta salads, a stack of vegetables that no one ever knows the name of, and piles of fresh summer berries (color coordinated). It looks just like something out of the BlueBird hyper-trendy supermarket on the King's Road, but that isn't so surprising because the caterers are from the BlueBird hyper-trendy supermarket on the King's Road. Frenzied activity is such fun, and I run around with my camera taking arty photos of food through champagne flutes, and food reflected on helium-filled balloons, and champagne flutes reflected on helium-filled balloons, and helium-filled balloons reflected on champagne flutes. Luke, rather more practically, remembers that we have four crates of champagne to chill and so while I am doing a good impression of Lichfield, he fills the bath with ice and about twenty bottles of fizz. As the food comes out of our huge, canyon-sized fridge the rest of the champagne goes in. Finally at five to one we congratulate ourselves on our indisputable hospitality, style and general success.

At five past one I check that the invite definitely says 26 July. No one has arrived. At seven minutes past one I check and re-check the doorbell. By ten past, I snap, "Nobody is going to turn up." Luke pours me a drink. "People don't enjoy our parties," I add. He hands me the drink and rubs my shoulders as I ask, "Do you think that we have a reputation for meanness?" He kisses the top of my head as I bitterly mutter, "It was stupid to think that anyone would give up a Sunday to celebrate our anniversary." At eleven minutes past one I start to rewrap the zucca gialla intere al forno con pomodori secchi and I console myself that we won't have to visit Sainsbury's for a month.

The bell rings. Luke stands up to answer the door. He smiles at me and resists saying anything stupid like "I told you so," or "Patience is a virtue," as I am forever being reminded. He knows that my retort would be: that above all virtues, patience is the most overrated. Our friends begin to arrive, literally pouring through the door. All of them say nice things about the house, the food, me. All of them look marvelous and are carrying even more booze.

Luke and I have great friends. Really brilliant. They are all successful, healthy, intelligent, fun, good-looking and nice-natured. Sure, why wouldn't you be nice-natured if you are successful, healthy, intelligent, fun and good-looking? However, none of them are all of these things, all of the time. Without exception, at one point or another, our friends have had their moments. They have failed at things: relationships, exams, jobs. They have been ill but (touch wood) nothing too awful: flu, and dodgy knees brought on by overtraining for the London marathon, are about the sum of it. There are times when each of them can be really dense, dull, irritating or spotty, just like Luke and me. But generally they are extremely fit, bright and beautiful. But then I'm biased, because they are my friends.

So when they all arrive with their young, tanned, hopeful faces, absolutely gunning for an afternoon of hilarity and frivolity, I can't help but feel very proud. Proud of Luke, proud of our life, proud of our friends, and proud of myself.

Names to love and hate. Because life's like that -- try as we might, and we all try to varying degrees, we can't like everyone. Wouldn't life be simple if we could? And a bit dull.

Luke, lovely, wonderful, kind, generous, clever Luke. Lucy and Daisy have been my friends since university. Rose, Daisy's sister, has come, too, with her husband, Peter. It was at Rose and Peter's wedding that Luke and I first met. And Sam, my closest friend at work.

Lucy is skinny (size two), tall, with clear skin, huge green eyes and long, straight, natural (ish) blond hair that swings down her back. She is by anyone's estimation a great beauty, a stunning-looking woman; small ass, large breasts, tiny waist and rib cage. It is not possible to say she is unaware of her looks. She would have to be deaf, dumb and blind, living in solitary confinement, not to have noticed that she is absolutely modelesque. To her credit, she doesn't rely on her stunning looks to get along in life and yet she does get along in life. She trades derivatives (whatever that is -- it's long past the time when I can politely ask), earning a ridiculously large amount of money and respect in the City. Not easy with her attributes. Both men and women assume that stunning women must be stupid. Both sexes want to believe this for different reasons. Men, because such affirmations of stereotypes save them from uncomfortable thoughts. Women because really, there has to be a God.

Lucy finds it hard to make friends. Men always say they want to know her more when what they mean is that they want to know more of her. Women find her too much competition. Lucy doesn't worry about this. It would be churlish to worry about being beautiful, clever, successful and rich. Instead she has adjusted to being alone.

She likes it.

To an extent.

Lucy comforts herself with the thought that few people are as interesting as her anyway. It isn't as if she is ever without company. There is always someone who wants to be her best friend, even if it's only long enough to find out if she diets or works out (moderately and moderately). There's always some man who wants to take her for dinner and invariably he is obscenely wealthy, with film-star looks and a lifetime membership in MENSA. The only thing is, it is never the same friend wanting to talk about her diets or the same man wanting to fatten her up. As a result Lucy has developed a brittle, impenetrable aloofness. This is her defense but the appearance is all attack. Most people find her impossibly intimidating. I guess they're right. I guess they are jealous. I guess they are a bit right and a bit jealous. She says I am her first, best, possibly only real friend. And I don't think she says that to absolutely everyone.

We met a lifetime ago, on our first day at university. Lucy's father parked their Daimler at exactly the same moment as my dad parked our Citroën in the hall of residence car park. I was a nauseating mass of energy, exuberance and optimism. I saw Lucy straight away and I also saw her give me a quick once-over. It was with a swift and practiced eye that Lucy mentally noted: Connie (that's me) size four, small boobs, 5 feet 4, good figure but not a sensation; long blond hair but (unlike Lucy's) mine is a mass of mad ringlets and curls, not silver blond but natural streaks of numerous golden hues (magazine ad-land bollocks), odd-looking streaks of yellow (accurate summation by the jury). I hate it, everyone else loves it. Later Lucy told me that she thought my face was stunning and that was what had caught her eye. She describes it as the face of a cherub, but a cherub with a filthy, wicked, exciting secret. I find this description a bit embarrassing but definitely flattering.

Moving on. Daisy and I also met at university. We were both waiting to register for our supplementary subjects. I watched Daisy patiently and nervously queuing, carefully avoiding the eyes of the other students. I, on the other hand, chatted and smiled at absolutely everyone, desperate to ingratiate myself with anyone who'd give me a chance. I thought she was cool, calm and aloof. As Daisy turned the final corner of the queue and was about to pass through the door that signified the possibility of registering and being released to the Uni Bar, I rather too loudly called out to her. My voice cut through several other conversations, leading to an excruciating silence. Everyone seemed to be waiting for me to talk.

"What sup subject are you signing for?" It was very "university" to develop an "in" language. Sup for supplementary, Uni for university. Junior Common Room became JC. I was fluent by day two. I'm not good at languages but I do understand the importance of assimilating with the natives. Never carry a map, never ask for directions and never trust a driver wearing a hat.

I thought that Daisy looked really interesting and intelligent. She looked just like the kind of person I'd hoped I'd meet at university -- all serious and worthy and challenging. She also looked astounded that I had called out to her in such an abrupt way. She later told me that her astonishment came, not from my calling out, but from me calling to her. She hadn't wanted to answer me, in case I was talking to someone else. We were all so lacking. Lacking in confidence, lacking in trust and lacking in reality. Youth really is wasted on the young. They are too poor, emotionally and financially, to enjoy it. I can say that now because I'm thirty, an age of confidence. Except when it comes to throwing parties. I'm assured, but not invincible.

Daisy had fumbled for an engaging or witty reply. Stumped, she settled for factual and told me she had chosen Classics, then she disappeared around the corner. Later, sitting in the student bar, on orange Formica chairs, I discovered that Daisy had loads of worthy reasons for her choice. She had some knowledge of Greek and Roman mythology and found it fascinating. She hoped that the classical references in English Literature (her main subject) would become clearer if she had a deeper understanding of the divas and Diomedeses.

I chose it because she did.

We subsequently shared lecture notes, secrets, tensions, successes, the usual thrills and spills of university life. We grew closer day by day. While I widened my circle of friends to an extraordinary array (some spectacular and difficult, some shallow but easygoing), Daisy limited herself to a few soul mates. Out of all my friends, Daisy considers herself my most true and dull. Lucy considers herself my most true and sensational. I guess they are both half right.

Daisy is 5 feet 10 and back then believed herself to be oversized and ungainly. She battled simultaneously with her weight and her self-esteem, one rose proportionally as the other decreased. She was ashamed of her glasses, her red hair, her M&S clothes and her spots. She perceived herself to be a fairly bright, but very plain girl. It amazed Daisy that everyone else seemed so very unaware of these shortcomings. She has beautiful eyes, quick wit, fair nature, unparalleled honesty and sensitivity. Try as I might, I could not see the drawbacks that Daisy insisted on periodically presenting.

"My hair is so wiry and unmanageable."

"It's just like mine but red." We stared at one another, aware of the enormous implication of the disparity. I ventured as comfort: "Pre-Raphaelite muses all had hair like yours."

Over the years Daisy has eventually been reassured that if I can see these good bits and Lucy can too, then perhaps, just perhaps, they really are there. Just before we all gave up and went home, convinced that Daisy would never like herself, she seemed to get the hang of it. She's swapped her glasses for contacts and as she relaxed her skin was less prone to stress-induced breakouts. Her hair remained curly and red.

Rose, Daisy's sister, is three years older than Daisy which makes her thirty-two, nearly thirty-three. I first met Rose when she visited Daisy at Uni. She was twenty-one but seemed about thirty-two, even then, when thirty-two was ancient; Rose now seems about fifty-two. It's not that she looks especially old. She looks perfectly fine. She looks perfectly thirty-two, or perhaps what you imagine thirty-two is when you are eighteen. She is a comfortable size ten. She also has red hair but it's darker than Daisy's. She has the same lovely eyes and smile. She wears leggings and comfy jumpers, the same ones that she wore in the '80s when she visited Daisy. She gardens. She sews, too. She makes her own jam. Not only does she have time but more peculiarly she has the inclination. Rose is married to Peter. When Rose first brought Peter to meet Daisy, Lucy and I hung out of the hall of residence bedroom window, ruthlessly elbowing one another aside to get the best view. It was worth it. Peter is tall, athletic and handsome. Later we discovered he is also clever and charming. Lucy would not admit Rose had secured a catch, instead she mumbled that he "wasn't ugly," which Daisy and I knew to be high praise from Lucy. They have twin baby boys, Sebastian and Henry, who are just adorable. They seem happy and sorted and it's nice having them to our parties, because Luke likes Peter, everyone likes the boys and Rose helps with the washing-up.

Finally there is Sam. Not finally in the sense that I have no more friends. This is not a finite list of people I know and love. Although, thinking about it, I guess four really close friends is quite a lot. Really close. Bridesmaid material. Although, hell, what a combination -- every shape and size in baby blue imaginable. I didn't consider this, even when I was linking my first name with his surname, but now I always advise the newly affianced to take a long hard look at their best friends and try to imagine what can possibly be bought in rose-petal pink that will make Sue look a foot taller, Jane look leggy and reduce Karen's waistline.

I've known Sam for just over two years. We work together. She is hilarious. She looks like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, but it's been melted on every part of her anatomy, once when she'd had a few. Sam is simply lovely. She is kind and forgiving and sympathetic and generous and she mixes it all up with being fun. Sam is the type of person who likes spring mornings and autumn evenings. But, for that matter, she likes autumn mornings and spring evenings, too, and all the bits in between. She is thirty-three, which surprises everyone, including herself. If Sam had to describe herself she would forget to tell you that she has literally dozens of really cool, committed friends that she's earned through her unflinching loyalty. She would omit to tell you that she has the most stunning brown eyes, big velvet splashes (that's not very poetic, but believe me, they are fantastic). She would also omit to tell you that she can reduce people to tears and incontinence pads with her funny antics. She would say, "Hello, I'm Sam Martin, I'm thirty-three and I'm single." Because she is ridiculously honest, she might add "and it bothers me." Because she's a little bit obsessed about the situation, she might go further and add "a lot." Or she might just ask you to draw up a chair while she, in detail, documents love affairs and disasters from A to Z, or from age fifteen to thirty-three. Sam has been trying for over half her life to get married. It amazes me that women like her still exist. Women that are beautiful, popular, ambitious, stylish and still alone. But there are lots of them, hundreds of them, offices are full of them, armies of them, here in the metropolis of London. They walk around with everyone else; with people who are married, people who are single and like it, people who never give their marital/romantic status a thought (I'm not convinced that there are an awful lot of these, but I have heard that there have been reported sightings). Women like Sam are identifiable because they wear that distinguishing look that is so late '90s, the look that asks, "So where did I go wrong? Why was it so easy for my mother and so bloody hard for me?" They are always sniffing under their own armpits and breathing on to the backs of their hands, but they can't attribute their loneliness to stray body odor because these women don't smell. These women are gorgeous. I mean, I'd marry Sam and be proud. I'm not a lesbian. But if I was, and Sam was, and marriage between two consenting adults of the same sex were possible, then I would marry Sam.

It beats the hell out of me.

The party is going off brilliantly. There's loads to drink and eat, all our beautiful friends are having a fabulous time. People are dancing, or at least bouncing up and down doing star jumps, gesticulating madly. My female friends are lusting after chocolate profiteroles and my male friends are leering down the tops of my female friends. Due to the abundance of champagne we start doing the Macarena, but not the Birdie Song, which is only performed if we have whiskey chasers. It's an outstanding party, people are drinking from the bottle, others are feeding each other zucchini carpaccio, although invariably the people feeding each other are not the people who ought to be feeding each other. There are people inhaling helium from the balloons, bent double with hilarity at, "Hello, I'm Minnie Mouse." It's all here, at our party: the surprised, the delighted, the riotous, the earnest, the cheeky, the flirtatious, the skeptical, the elated, the ludicrous. I measure the success by the number of people who are drunk and trying to look sober. The only people that actually look drunk are the unlucky ones that are driving and who are, in fact, stone-cold sober. It's a tribal thing. I can't explain it but I catch it all on film.

I watch Luke as he threads among the guests; filling their glasses, laughing at their jokes and listening to stories about their disappointments in love. People tell Luke things, they trust him. Everybody likes him and he likes everybody. Which is largely wonderful but does have two small drawbacks. One, he will not gossip. My telephone bills to Lucy are enormous. She is on my BT friends and family list, we often qualify for 20 percent volume discounts. Two, I sometimes wonder if only really nice people would like me and only extremely exceptional men could fall in love with me. But these lapses in confidence are immediately repaired when again I think of Lucy.

"Are you dancing?" I grin, hopefully, at Luke.

"Are you asking?" He laughs.

I'm always asking, I love dancing. I'm good at it. I adore the sheer indulgence of it. Flailing my arms and legs, shaking my head, letting it out, letting go. Mostly I ignore the actual melody and beat but happily this doesn't seem to matter. My enthusiasm more than compensates. Luke is also a good dancer. His style is quite different. He carefully learns steps and routines. He's cautious and measured. I always leave the dance floor with a clammy stomach, hair sticking to the back of my neck, blistered feet, smudged makeup and exhausted, aching limbs. Luke rarely sweats. We used to club together a lot when we first met.

"So?" I ask again as I begin to move toward the rug, the area naturally carved out to act as a dance floor. But Luke doesn't follow me. He's probably spotted an empty glass that needs refilling or noticed that the char-grilled peppers with anchovy and capers are being neglected. Luke is a far better host than I'll ever be. I don't look after people at my parties. More often than not, it's all I can do to look after myself. My idea of being the perfect hostess is to supply an array of good food, copious amounts of champagne and attractive and absorbing people. I put these ingredients in a room and see what happens. I enjoy the chaos of watching people mix with one another. I would never dream of introducing Bill to Jo because they both have an interest in Alfred Hitchcock. I expect my friends to have the sense to introduce themselves to one another, to find the loo, and I'd be positively concerned if they didn't