Could it be that I’ve only got as far at 3L because Richard…? Know I am being ridiculous. Am bloody good at what I do. But suddenly everything feels sordid. Why does it always have to boil down to sex? Why can’t it be more like school? End-of-year exams. Pointless rules. Regulation hockey socks. Gym knickers. But no sex. Well, not for me at any rate.
Ben’s eyes darted along every line, taking in as much as he could in as short a time as possible. Ali was bound to interrupt again any minute.
At least I kept my cool. Didn’t overreact. He apologised. Questionable sincerity. Claimed too much to drink. Got carried away. Should be carried away. Such a smooth operator. I never want to be a wife if this is what happens. Am adult. Can cope.
Still don’t know how EJ managed to be so laid back (laid back!) about NG thing. If it gets out her life at GB is as good as over, and all for the sake of a few orgasms. Then again, when was the last time I even had one of those? Maybe he wanted her to be his in-house counsel. But now his wife is expecting a third. And he never pretended his marriage was in trouble.
And why would I leave one of London’s top firms when I can almost see my name on the headed paper? Guess it’s just business as usual, then. I can do professional and so can he. I’m not the one with a wife and children. Sometimes the world is so disappointing. Wanted my life to be St Elmo’s Fire, not Carry On Up Against the Filing Cabinet.
Ben laughed before attempting to segue into more of a cough when he realised there were other people listening.
Ali waltzed out in a different outfit.
‘Hey. What about this?’ Ali pulled the back of the top down, tightening it across her chest. ‘Is the sweater too pink? Or not pink enough?’
Startled by her speedy return, Ben had barely enough time to tilt the magazine to his chest.
‘Nice.’
‘What?’
‘The pants. I mean the trousers.’ Twenty years of living in London and he was almost fluent in English.
‘Get with it. They’re the same.’ Ali wasn’t doing a great job of disguising her impatience. ‘It’s the top I want to know about.’
‘Quite tight. Good colour on you.’
‘It’s supposed to be tight.’
‘Then it’s fine.’
‘Fine? Just for the record “fine” and “nice” are not acceptable answers when clothes-shopping.’
‘It’s great. Splendid. Marvellous. Exquisite. Really, it suits you.’
‘Not too tight?’
‘No.’
‘And not too big either?’
‘No. Tight. Definitely tight.’
‘Sexy tight?’
‘I guess.’
‘But not tarty tight?’
‘No.’
‘Nor shrunk-one-size-in-the-wash too tight.’
‘No.’
‘Which is a good point.’ Ali twisted the seam until the care instructions were in her grasp. Dry Clean Only. But, fingering the wool, she was sure she could hand-wash it carefully. ‘Do you think David will like it?’ Ali was contorting her chest in the mirror and tilting her upper body through ninety degrees, presumably in case she ever needed to wear cashmere to a gymnastics meet.
‘I’m sure he’ll love it.’
‘And it’s not too pink?’
Too pink? Ben was confused. It was pink, definitely pink, but too pink? He was out of his depth.
‘No.’ He was a little hesitant.
‘I think it’s a great pink. Not too pale, not pastel or insipid, but not puce either…’
Phew. He’d clearly said the right thing.
‘I’ll take it. Shall I get it in black too?’
‘Why not?’ Ben’s attention had been drawn back to the page.
‘You don’t think black’s too harsh?’
‘No…’
‘Good. That’s what I thought.’
‘It’s just a sweater.’ It was a mumbled afterthought. Ali didn’t appear to hear him. Which was a relief. But, slowly taking his eye off the page, he realised she hadn’t retreated to her cubicle either. This didn’t bode well.
‘What are you reading about?’
‘Um, nothing.’
‘Ben?’ Her hand was definitely on her hip. ‘You never do reading unless there is absolutely nothing else to do. And it isn’t even the hundred sexiest women in the galaxy issue.’
‘I do read.’
‘Since when? You skim.’
Much as he loved her, if there was one person who could wind him up instantaneously with a change in tone it was his sister.
‘Everyone reads on the subway.’
‘The tube.’ Ali corrected her brother, making sure to pronounce it in perfect English as ‘tyoob’ and not ‘toob’. ‘Although I don’t know how you’d know. You even bought a scooter because you hate public transport so much.’
Ben refused to rise to Ali’s goading and, with a shrug of his shoulders, returned to his extract—or at least he would have done if she hadn’t snatched the magazine. A few photocopied pages drifted lethargically to the floor.
Ali scanned a few lines as she fought Ben to gather them up, her gaze becoming stonier by the minute. ‘Whose is this?’
‘I don’t know.’ Ben was suddenly sheepish, despite the fact he’d definitely been an adult in his own right for a good thirteen years. ‘I found it…well, I found the original…in a drawer in the room. This is just… I didn’t want it to get damaged… I’m going to hand it in when we get back. Or post it. There was a London address.’
‘There was?’ Ali had turned a different colour, and if he was honest the sweater was now clashing a bit with her skin tone. A sort of raspberry ripple effect. Maybe it was too pink.
‘Calm down. No harm done. It’s not like it’s yours or anything. And I’m just reading it, not auctioning the film rights.’
‘I’m confiscating it.’
‘You can’t. It’s not yours.’
‘And it’s not yours. Honestly, I thought you’d know better…’
‘It was lost. Now it’s not. I’m the good guy.’ Probably not a great time to mention the management search earlier, or the multiple programme ideas that had been bubbling under since he’d started reading it this morning.
‘Hardly. You’re the creep who went to the copy shop.’ Ali took the magazine and the pages and stuffed them into one of the bags he was guarding for her before taking it away.
‘You were having a manicure…and I didn’t want it to get thumbed.’ Ben could see that neither was a winning argument.
‘So, what? Now I have to check your pockets and I can’t leave you on your own? We’ll discuss this later.’ Ali re-entered the changing area.
‘How about I buy you the sweater?’ Ben shouted after her.
‘Jumper,’ Ali corrected him.
‘Just