EX Files Page 4

  A few weeks ago inviting exes had seemed such a good idea, but now Faye felt mildly nauseous. “It’s going to be a rather stressful couple of days,” she mused.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It sounds intriguing to me. Take a bride and groom, several relatives, four exes, mix with alcohol, and stand well back. Boom.” Adam flung his arms wide.

  Pouring the last of the champagne into Faye’s glass, he waved the bottle at her. “Let’s order another and you can refresh my memory about Rich.”

  Faye handed the gruff, middle-aged man a leaflet entitled “Art Attack, 1997” and flashed him her special megawatt smile. “Do come again, sir.”

  The second his back turned, the smile vanished like ice on a radiator. “Christ, how much longer?” She let out a long sigh.

  The woman opposite glanced at her watch. “Only another five minutes, thank God.”

  Faye fixed her smile back in place as a couple of teenage boys halfheartedly took copies of the leaflet. She was standing at the exit of Chelsea Town Hall, shivering in a wind that was too cold for May, and handing out flyers to people leaving an exhibition of “modern art” that included a montage of spaghetti thrown against a canvas, a broken television with “Unplugged” painted across it, and what resembled an old dog blanket folded on a small white podium. “What a load of crap.” She jerked her head in the direction of the hall. “If I vomited onto a canvas and called it ‘I’m sick of life,’ some artsy-fartsy fool would probably buy it.”

  “Do it. Sounds a great idea.”

  Faye turned to see a youngish man standing beside her, his hand outstretched. Without thinking, she shook it. “Actually, I wanted a leaflet,” he grinned, “but pleased to meet you anyway. I’m Rich.”

  “Lucky you. I’m incredibly poor—which probably explains why I’m doing this.” She was about to tell him her name, when a cough from her leafleting companion interrupted her. “Time’s up,” she said. “I’m off. See you tomorrow.” She stuffed her remaining leaflets into a carrier bag, gave a cursory wave, and left.

  Faye stooped to pick up her handbag. When she straightened up, Rich was still beside her. He looked apprehensive. “As you’re the best work of art in here, I was wondering if you fancied a quick coffee with me?” he said.

  “God, that’s a cheesy line.” Faye hooked her bag strap over her shoulder. She took a closer look at him, sizing him up.

  He was quite tall, a little over six feet, she guessed, and had a fairly average face made distinctive by pale green eyes with thick dark lashes. His clothes were a bit dull but under them his physique looked honed and fit.

  “No, I won’t have a coffee, thanks . . .” she watched his face drop “. . . but I’ll have a glass of wine. Come on. My name’s Faye.”

  Five minutes later they were sitting in a side-street pub that stank of last night’s revelry. The once cream ceiling was covered in the nicotine of ages, and the walls were plastered with old newspapers from the 1960s and 1970s, the occasional dog-eared theater program and fading photographs of not-very-famous people who had popped in for a drink over the years. It was 6 p.m. and they were the only people in there.

  “So,” Rich placed a glass of white wine in front of her and took a swig of lager, “is life as a leaflet distributor rewarding?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s what I’ve always wanted to do, ever since I was a little girl. I took an A level in leaflet distribution, and here I am today.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “And now the real story?”

  “It’s mind-numbingly boring and I hate it, but in the absence of any modeling work, my agency occasionally sends me to be a promotions girl and smile sweetly at people.” She gave him a well-practiced false smile to illustrate.

  “Well, it worked on me,” said Rich. “I’m not sure about your mate, though. I think her smile needs a little work. She looked like she had indigestion.”

  “Can’t have. She never eats.” Faye lit a cigarette and took a closer look at his smooth blemish-free face. She put him in his early twenties. “What do you do?” she asked, blowing smoke to the right of him. “Apart from hang around dodgy art exhibitions chatting up nice, innocent girls like me.”

  “I’m a Formula One racing driver.” He drank some more lager.

  “Ah.” She grinned. “Well, while we’re being so honest with each other, I’m actually a supermodel-turned-actress who’s researching my role as a leaflet distributor in Spielberg’s next blockbuster.” She looked at him questioningly. “And the reality is?”

  “I’m a van driver,” he said sheepishly.

  “Just like Postman Pat,” she teased.

  “Not quite. I deliver flowers. I’d just brought some for the woman who runs that exhibition. I saw you on the way in and thought I’d take a chance on the way out.” He rubbed his right eye. “It’s a stopgap while I wait to hear if I’ve got into the police force.”

  They sat chatting for another hour, during which Rich told her all about his long-standing fascination with fighting crime. It had stemmed from his childhood passion for Starsky and Hutch and Hill Street Blues. “It looked so exciting, much better than sitting behind a desk,” he said. He explained that his father, Roger, had been a solicitor specializing in real estate. He was so wedded to his job that he had often worked weekends and had taken Rich with him, which had convinced him that an office job wasn’t for him. His father followed the same route to work every morning, sat behind the same desk, talked to the same people and performed the same tasks. Familiarity was the glue that held his life together, but to Rich it was akin to being buried alive.

  But his father had been an overpowering man who had forbidden his son to pursue a career in the police force: “It’s dangerous and underpaid,” he had said. So like all too many others, Rich had found himself pursuing his father’s dreams rather than his own. He studied law at London University, and received a degree.

  “But I’m glad I did it.” He smiled briefly at Faye, then his face became serious. “Three months after I finished, Dad died in a road accident on holiday in Spain. But at least he knew I’d got my degree . . .” He tailed off. “He was so proud of me,” he added.

  “I’m so sorry,” murmured Faye. “Is your mother still alive?”

  “Oh, yes. It took her a couple of years to get over his death, but she seems to be coping now. I moved back home to help her through it.”

  “I live with my mother too. It has its bonuses, but it also has huge drawbacks.”

  “I’ll say. Only this morning mine asked if I was wearing a vest when I left the house. She said, ‘Careful, or you’ll—’ ”

  “‘—get a chill,’ ” interrupted Faye, and they both burst out laughing. “Do you like working as a van driver?”

  “It’s OK, but I hope not to be doing it much longer. I had my interview for the force last week, and I think it went well.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I’d better head off now. I’m meeting some friends for dinner and need to go home to change first.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve been rambling on and on about myself, and we haven’t got round to talking about you and how you got into modeling.”

  She rolled her eyes. “God, it even bores me to think about it!”

  “Nonsense. I want to hear every fascinating detail. Can we do this again?” He looked at her expectantly.

  For a moment Faye thought about it. She couldn’t say he’d rung her bell, but neither had he irritated her. There was no other man on the horizon, so that made him worth seeing again, even if it was just as a pleasant diversion until someone else came along.

  “OK.” She took a pen from her handbag and scribbled her number on the back of his hand. “Call me.”

  She rang the doorbell and took a step back to study the outside of the house, bathed in September sunshine. It had suburban sitcom written all over it, with garages to one side, a neat little cobbled driveway, and a front garden whose borders had evidently
been trimmed with nail scissors. A hanging basket swayed gently over the porch, and a hand-painted sign saying “Tintagel” was secured to one side of the glossy red door. Faye saw movement behind the glass and smoothed her skirt.

  A middle-aged woman with curly, salt-and-pepper hair and floury hands opened the door. She wiped her fingers on her striped apron and smiled. “Hello, you must be Faye.”

  Faye shook her hand. “And you must be Rich’s mother.”

  “Call me Marjorie. Come in.”

  Faye wiped her feet dutifully on the pristine mat, and followed her into the hallway. Its walls were lined with pictures of Rich from boy to man, his graduation photographs prominent among them. The brown shag-pile carpet bore stripes of a freshly mown lawn, a clear sign that Marjorie had been busy with the vacuum. “What a lovely house,” she said, straight from the what-to-say-to-mothers handbook.

  “Thank you, dear. I struggle a bit since Roger died, but Rich helps when he can.” She led Faye into the long, narrow living room, partitioned by wooden double doors that had been flung open. It was decorated in a rather overpowering, green Regency stripe, and the two-seater sofa had been pushed back against the wall. A picture of a man who Faye presumed was Roger sat on top of the television. He looked about forty, with slicked-back brown hair and a pencil mustache.

  Adjacent to his photograph, there was an old-fashioned fireplace with several cubbyholes. Each one housed the national doll of a different county.

  Around ten people were gathered in the room, chatting quietly with drinks in their hands. Rich was leaning on the sideboard, next to a photograph of himself aged around seven, with neatly combed hair and wearing a school uniform. “Ah, you’re here!” He leaned between the two men he was talking to and gave her a kiss on each cheek. “This is Brett, and this is Greg. They both started police training this week too.”

  “Hello.” Faye shook their hands.

  Brett looked like Mr. Potato Head. He had small beady eyes, a bulbous nose, and a bushy mustache that might have been glued on. But Greg was something else: blond, with narrow green eyes, he looked like a big cat that might pounce at any moment. Faye perked up at the thought of an afternoon’s harmless flirting and she gave him her best leaflet-dispensing smile.

  Rich was a kind and occasionally witty man, but the bottom line was that, increasingly, Faye had been finding him rather dull. It had taken just two weeks for him to say he loved her and three months later, she still hadn’t returned the compliment. He also made no secret of what he wanted in the future.

  “I’d like to get married and have children” he’d said, over cocktails one night, around six weeks after their first meeting.

  “What, now?” quipped Faye, taken aback by the speed of his declaration.

  “Ha-ha.” He made a face at her. “I just think it’s something you have to be honest about at the start of a relationship because the other person might not feel the same way.”

  I don’t, thought Faye. “I haven’t thought about it,” she said truthfully. “I’m only twenty-three and there’s a million things I want to do before settling down.”

  “Oh. Like what?”

  “Like go to Pompeii, Machu Picchu, swim with dolphins . . .”

  “Can’t you do that with someone you love?”

  “I suppose so. It was the children bit I was referring to, really. I can’t see a toddler wanting to traipse round looking at lava-covered corpses.” She smiled reassuringly at him.

  The rest of the evening had passed in a less than jolly atmosphere, with Faye talking brightly about her day and Rich bordering on a sulk. She knew he had been upset by her lack of enthusiasm for settling down, but she didn’t believe in lying simply to make others feel better.

  For many women, Rich would have been the perfect man. He was straightforward, lovable, and unafraid to show his emotions. Also, as he already had a law degree he would probably rise quickly to a senior post in the police force. But Faye liked a chase, and she liked a challenging relationship. Rich’s uncomplicated, loving nature meant that he presented no challenge and that there would be no chase.

  Since the marriage-and-children conversation, Faye had known she would have to end the relationship. It was only a matter of time before it stopped being lighthearted fun and Rich began to pressure her for commitment. She had avoided meeting his mother until now, because, as far as Faye was concerned, an introduction to parents was one step away from choosing a washing machine together.

  The night she’d planned to deliver the “it’s not you, it’s me; I don’t deserve you” speech, they had arranged to meet in his local pub. That way, she felt she could say her piece, then leave him to find someone he knew to have a drink with. She’d got there first and found a secluded banquette in the far corner, away from the bar and an irritatingly intrusive slot machine that kept beeping and flashing.

  Five minutes later he’d turned up, grinning from ear to ear and waving a letter to say he’d been accepted into the police force.

  Faye could be pretty determined, but realized swiftly that now wasn’t the time to speak her mind and pop his balloon. Instead she’d treated him to dinner and a bottle of champagne in the local curry house and said absolutely nothing about breaking off their relationship. Then he’d mentioned the celebratory party at his mother’s house and she’d felt it would be unkind as well as churlish not to attend.

  Now, the tigerlike Greg was casting an approving eye in her direction. “What made you want to become a boy-in-blue?” she asked him.

  While he wittered on about wanting to help the community, Faye adopted an expression that suggested she was hanging on his every word, but in fact she’d tuned out. She never ceased to be amazed by the stream of bestselling self-help books on how to get a man. As far as she was concerned, it was easy. As Helena Rubenstein had once said, “There are no ugly women, only lazy ones,” and Faye made sure she always looked her best.

  That was step one.

  Step two: pretend you’re endlessly fascinated by him.

  Step three: don’t talk about yourself too much and maintain an air of mystery.

  Step four, when the relationship has developed a little: give a great blow job.

  Men fascinated her, and Faye liked to think she understood them. According to her law, they could be quickly and accurately compartmentalized.

  Rich was Mr. Nice Guy, a simple soul who decided he liked a woman and stuck with her. He would never stray unless he was pushed into it.

  Greg was a tart, pure and simple. It was written all over his face. Any woman with an ounce of self-respect would avoid him like the plague: he would turn even the most relaxed girlfriend into a jealous paranoiac. He and Rich would probably become great friends through training together, but Faye knew that if she gave him the come-on, he’d choose the woman he’d only just met over loyalty to his colleague. Of the two, she’d choose Rich every time.

  She was just about to make her excuses and mingle elsewhere when Marjorie did the job for her. “Would you excuse us?” she said to Greg, took Faye’s arm and led her to a couple of empty chairs at the side of the room.

  Faye’s heart sank. She had resolved to finish with Rich in the next few days, so the last thing she wanted was to get chummy with his mother.

  “Do you mind if we sit down?” said Marjorie. “My back isn’t what it was.” She winced as she lowered herself into a chair. “Now, tell me all about yourself. Rich says you’re a model. How exciting!”

  Faye shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. I do a bit of magazine work from time to time—you know, mail order catalogues, that sort of thing.”

  “He talks about you a lot.” Her eyes were twinkling. “I would say he’s very taken with you.”

  “Really?” Faye felt a thump of dread in her chest. “It’s still early days, nothing too serious.”

  “Nonsense. I shouldn’t tell you this,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but he’s thinking of buying you a special something with his first paycheck.”<
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  Oh, God, thought Faye, please don’t let it be an engagement ring. “How sweet of him.”

  Marjorie sighed. “It’s nice to see him finally meet someone who interests him. The last girl was a disaster.”

  “Oh?” Rich had mentioned someone called Sarah and that they’d drifted apart. “I thought they parted on friendly terms?”

  “Goodness me, no,” exclaimed Marjorie. “They were together for three years and she was desperate to get married, but he didn’t want to. In the end, he came clean and said he didn’t think she was the one for him. She was devastated, poor love.”

  It was right there, sitting on two wicker chairs in Rich’s mother’s living room, that Faye realized you couldn’t help whom you fell in love with. Equally, you couldn’t make yourself love someone.

  Here she was, about to finish her relationship with a man, who was really keen on her, and had recently dumped a woman who’d been really keen on him. She decided to stop beating herself up over it.

  “It’s been lovely meeting you,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ve got to go.” Smiling, she stood up.

  She found Rich in the kitchen, talking with a horse-faced woman about the Criminal Justice Bill. “Gotta go. Call you later,” she said, and backed out into the hallway before he could stop her.

  As she turned the front-door handle, she heard someone walk into the hall behind her. “Here.” It was Greg. He pressed a piece of paper into her hand. “That’s my number.”

  Raising her eyebrows, but saying nothing, she stepped out into the blinding afternoon sunshine and the door closed. She let out a small sigh. “Men,” she murmured, setting off down the road.

  A few yards farther on, she screwed the piece of paper into a tiny ball and threw it into the trash can.

  Friday, June 28

  2:35 p.m.

  Kate got out of the cab and stood looking at the château while Ted paid the driver. She let out a low whistle. “My god, this must be costing a fortune. Either the bride and groom’s careers have taken off big-time, or the wealthy parents have dug deep.”