Sweet and Sour

CHAPTER ONE

London, September

Voices in a tunnel, echoing and bouncing off each other. My head hurts. I don't want to open my eyes. The world is going to be too bright, too harsh. And too embarrassing.

‘Water. Get her some water.’

‘We should call an ambulance - she's been out for too long.’ A woman, sounding irritated.

‘I think she's coming round.’

‘Yes, her eyes are opening.’

No they bloody well aren't. I clench them shut.

‘Well, they're twitching.’ The woman again.

Twitching! My eyes don't twitch. I open them and shut them immediately. I need to gather my thoughts. This was intended to be a controlled and gracious faint not the catastrophe that has actually happened. I groan and move my left leg. Mistake. The groan becomes a howl of pain. This was not what I'd planned.

‘I'm so sorry,’ an Italian sounding voice whispers. I open one eye. There is a waiter kneeling next to me, dabbing at my forehead with a wet napkin full of ice. ‘I didn't see you in time.’

I glare at him. This has gone so badly wrong. But it's not his fault and he seems quite nice. He's young and has dark brown eyes that are welling up with tears.

‘No burs’ What was that? It came out of my mouth but is not what I mean to say. I try again.

‘No worries.’ Better. But I don't want to talk. I just want to go home.

Another voice from the other side. ‘Where does it hurt?’

‘My head, my leg.’

‘What about your back? Your neck?’

‘Don't think so.’

Arms lift me into a chair. A cushion behind my head. A glass of water is put to my mouth for me to sip from. My skirt has ruckled up round my thighs and I've lost a shoe.This is beyond humiliating. Not in the script.

The waiter is still hovering. Behind him are more people, staring and gawping at me like I'm some sort of sideshow. Their faces move around, looming in and out of my vision. I didn’t lose consciousness but I must have hit my head harder than I thought.

Another voice, this time behind me.

‘Let's give her some air.’

Then the woman's voice again, suggesting they call a doctor.

‘I'm fine. Really.’ I'm not. But I don't want a doctor. I don't want to be carted off to A&E for X-rays and tests. I got myself into this party and I'm not going until I've given it my best shot. I might not get such a good opportunity ever again.

‘Xand, I don't think she is.’ It’s her again but now I know who she's talking to. Maybe I can use this.

I try to focus and make my voice crisp. ‘I'm fine, I promise. I just need a minute.’

The crowd is dispersing now, the waiter retreating, and I'm looking at a tall blond woman in white and him. I have his attention. It’s what I came here for.

‘I'm sorry to be a pain.’ I'm feeling a bit more with it now. The words are starting to form coherently and come out right. ‘I don't want to disrupt your evening.’

‘It’s not a problem. What happened?’

I decide to skip claiming I fainted. The waiter cannoning into me was a complete accident and I couldn't have foreseen it, but the combination seems a bit over the top. Keep it simple.

‘I turned and lost my balance just as the waiter came round that pillar - we got our timing wrong.’ I laugh. Mistake - it hurts. A lot. But I press on. ‘Poor guy. I hope he doesn't get into trouble.’

‘I'm sure he won't. And we're winding up anyway, so you've probably given a load of bored people a bit of excitement. They can stop being polite to me and gossip about the drama instead. They'll have something to talk about over dinner.’ He pauses and we look around the room. Sure enough, people are collecting their coats and leaving and from the babble of conversation snippets are audible - Did you see her fall? Whose fault was it? Is she OK? Was she drunk?

I feel the need to address that one. ‘I'm not drunk.’

‘I'm not surprised. The wine is disgusting. They obviously didn’t think I’d sell enough paintings to make it worth buying the good stuff.’ He shrugs and I try to balance making a laughing sound with keeping the pain under control. It doesn't work. He stares at me.

‘It hurts, doesn’t it?’

I'd nod but I know that would be a seriously bad idea so I just say, ‘A bit.’

The blond is back, tugging at his elbow. ‘Peter's leaving. You should say goodbye. He's bought two and he's interested in another one. Just needs to measure the space.’

‘Okay.’ He turns back to me. ‘Don't go anywhere - I'll be back in a minute.’

I'm not going anywhere.

#

The taxi pulls up and he pays the driver. Excellent. He's getting out with me. I was quiet in the cab, just shut my eyes and leant back against the seat hoping he’d be worried about me. It seems to have worked.

He opens my door and offers his arm. I lean on it and, very gingerly, disembark. I give a little moan as my foot engages with the pavement and lift it again very quickly. And not for effect. Everything has stiffened up in the twenty minutes we’ve been in the cab and walking is not an option.

‘Let me help you in.’

I hesitate. Is this a good idea or should I quit while I’m ahead? Follow up with a polite note tomorrow and the suggestion I buy him a drink to say thank you. But then again…

‘I promise I’m not some sort of weird stalker.’ He laughs, nervously. ‘Although if I were, I suppose that’s exactly what I’d say.’

I decide to go with the flow. ‘If you really don’t mind, that would be brilliant. I’m a bit wobbly. But I’ve already messed your night up enough.’

‘No worries – let’s just get you in safely.’

Luckily my building has a lift. Stairs would be many steps too far at the moment. I press the button and we stand in silence, me on one leg. I'm not sure what to do next. Things are moving way faster than I could have imagined.

I rummage in my bag for my key and turn it in the lock. He is standing on the doormat looking awkward. Probably wants to shoot off as quickly as he can now he's done his knight in shining armour bit but as he’s here I'm not going to waste this opportunity. I stagger slightly and grab the door jamb.

‘Sorry. Bit dizzy.’

He takes my arm again and I lean on it. It feels good. He's better looking than in the pictures I've seen. Taller than me and muscular but in a low key way. All of which makes my idea much more appealing. Not that it’s relevant. I have bigger issues in play. But still.

‘Thank you. I'm not usually this pathetic.’

‘You're not being pathetic at all - that was quite a knock you took.’ He guides me to the sofa and lowers me on to it. ‘What can I do?’

‘Nothing - you've been so kind already.’ I close my eyes and wait.

‘But I can't just leave you here. Don't go to sleep.’

I sit very still.

‘You're not going to sleep are you? I don't think you're meant to do that when you might have concussion.’

I feel him nudge my shoulder and allow my eyelids to flutter. I’m pretty sure I’m not concussed, but there’s no harm letting him worry about it.

‘I don't even know your name.’ He shakes me a little harder and I open my eyes.

‘What? Oh, Poppy. What's yours?’ As if I didn't know.

‘Xander.’

‘Oh my God it was your exhibition, wasn't it? You’re the actual artist – your work is fabulous by the way.’ It is. No white lie needed. ‘I’m so, so sorry - I wrecked it for you.’ I give a little sob. ‘I feel dreadful.’

‘Don't be silly. It was pretty much over. I was glad to get away. Otherwise, there's always someone saying come for a drink or dinner and I have to go on being polite. Nightmare.’

I smile at him. ‘We could have a drink now. There's some Meursault in the fridge.’ It's my father's flat and he can be relied on for certain things. Not many, but quality wine is one of them.

‘Should you drink?’

‘I don't think one will do me any harm.’

He looks doubtful but I point him in the direction of the kitchen and tell him just to rummage in cupboards to find the glasses and a corkscrew.

CHAPTER TWO

Frankfurt, September

Shutting the hotel room door, Laura heaves a sigh of relief. As ever, Frankfurt is wonderful but each year it seems more tiring, more demanding. She runs a hand through her hair. No need to wash it; it still feels clean, has a bit of bounce. She hangs her trousers in the wardrobe and slips her shoes under the shelf before dropping her shirt and underwear into her suitcase, as usual operating as her impromptu laundry basket. A glance at her phone confirms she has time for a quick shower.

Standing under its massive rainwater head, she changes her mind and whips off the shower cap. She wants the refreshing feel of the water on her head. Who cares if she doesn't have time to blow dry it. She'll suggest staying in the room for a drink; no need to brave the bar and spend time making small chat with people she's spent the last couple of days being polite to. She's sure he'll prefer this too.

She wraps herself in the fluffy bath sheet and creates a turban with another smaller towel before slipping into cashmere track pants and a lace trimmed camisole. A touch of glamour to show she’s made some effort but home clothes. Such a relief. Sitting on the edge of the bed to towel her hair to at least some semblance of dryness she gazes at the photo on the bedside table. Taken nearly twenty years ago it still has the power to catch her unawares despite the fact she looks at it every single day. Their last holiday, a trip to Barcelona. The three of them are on the beach in front of an enormous sand dragon with flames blowing from its nostrils. How amazed Xander had been by the creations along the shore. They all looked so happy. There had been no warning of what was to come. Standing up, she opens the drawer and carefully places the picture face down in it before sliding it shut. Maybe she will never feel comfortable with her two worlds clashing.

A tap on the door. Pulling a brush through her hair, she goes to open it, moving easily into the arms of the man standing there. He smoothes her hair back as they close the door.

‘Nice to see you've cleaned up for me.’

She pulls back and strokes his cheek. ‘And that you haven't shaved for me. I love your stubble.’ She knows that at home he is always clean shaven. A dividing line between his lives. The quotidien one with his wife and his escapist one at industry events and occasional fictional work commitments spent with her. It suits them both. If he wanted more, she'd run a mile.

‘So how's it been so far? I didn't get in until two and I've only seen you in the distance.’

‘You know how it is. How it always is. Meeting after meeting, breakfast and coffee and lunch. At least it’s not as bad as London with all those desperate writers pushing their manuscripts at me but I'm not sure I can face going downstairs.’

‘Good.’ He smiles. ‘It's been too long. I want you to myself tonight.’

They are past the days when they would have dragged each other into bed. He picks up the room service menu and offers it to her before opening the mini bar and taking out two beers and waving one at her. She nods and he opens it, pours it into a red wine glass and hands it to her. She can feel herself relaxing. The ease of being with someone who knows your little foibles, how you can't bear drinking from the bottle or even a highball tumbler. The knowledge that you can just be yourself for a few hours without thinking about who you need to speak to, what preparation you need to do ahead of meeting someone, the spiel you need to perfect to sell that particular book into that particular market. Bliss. Laura settles herself on the sofa and sighs.

‘Like that, huh?’ There's a hint of a laugh in his voice.

‘Totally. You'll be the same tomorrow after a day of 'Hey Piers, can you just, do you have a minute, while I've got you, I want to talk to you about' and all the rest of the shit.’

‘I don't take it all as seriously as you do. I do what I can with the time and resource I have, no more, no less. I'm not going to put myself under the sort of pressure you do. If people want to talk to me enough, they'll find me later - it doesn't all have to happen here.’

He goes back to reading the menu. ‘What do you fancy?’

‘You order for me. Otherwise, I'll just go for what I always have.’

Piers picks up the phone and she listens as he asks for the mixed sushi plate, two prawn Caesar salads and a chocolate mousse. He has to repeat it back several times before he's sure the person on the other end has it right. ‘Oh, and a bottle of the Montrachet.’

He nudges her to move along the sofa so that he can squeeze in and let her lean against him. His chest is wide and firm and she loves the sense of security he offers. They've known each other for years and it had come as a complete shock to her when, three Frankfurts ago, a business dinner had proved so boring that they had both retreated to the bar as soon as politeness permitted and let off steam over a bottle of the same wine as he had just ordered. Their wine, she now thought of it as and she didn't tend to drink it unless she was with him. He'd ended up in her room that night and that had been the start of this new chapter in her life.

When Xander was younger she had flings of course, but always hesitated before introducing any potential longer term partner to him. The two of them were so tightly bound together, she was only twice tempted to allow someone else in and both times were disasters. Her closeness to her son only seemed to cause resentment and the relationships petered out quickly. Things became easier once Xander went to art school but nobody she met inspired enough interest to upset her calm life. Her work, her son, these were what mattered to her. And Piers fits perfectly. Frankfurt, London, nights here and there when he is in London, or they both find themselves in the same city and his wife isn’t with him. She doesn't often travel with him. They don’t have children and she is an artist with her own studio and a gallery attached in Devon; they live in a pretty village on the edge of Exmoor and Piers works partly from home partly in the main Oxford offices of his publishing house. Laura visited him there a couple of times in the heat of their early days, but it didn't feel right. She felt she was intruding on his real life, the one he shares with Beth and she has refused to go again. She thinks he’s happy about this, but it is something they never talk about.

Sometimes she wonders about his marriage and whether she should feel guilty. But he doesn’t seem to, so she doesn’t. From what she can gather, Beth is tied up in her own world and she and Piers live fairly separate lives, but it may just suit him to give that impression. She remembers her own marriage, how difficult it could be at times and how she might have welcomed a relationship with someone like Piers as a counterbalance to the intensity of her existence with Matt.

Piers flicks on the television. The news is playing, in German, and he channel surfs until he finds SkyNews. Laura snuggles further into the crook of his arm and picks up her Kindle to go back to the submission she started reading in the taxi. She is so far behind on her slush pile. This one is interesting. She’ll ask for a full manuscript. She picks up her daybook and scribbles the title of the book and a strange hieroglyphic that nobody other than her assistant would understand. She carries on reading - it is rare for her to feel such enthusiasm. Maybe she should move fast on this one.

‘Good?’

‘What?’ Laura realises that Piers has been talking for a while. ‘Sorry - I was lost there.’

‘I could tell. Must be something special.’ He goes to grab it. ‘Maybe I'm going to want it.’

She holds it away from him. ‘Maybe you are but you're going to have to compete for it. If I take it on. I've not read the synopsis yet, It might be one of those where the opening is brilliant, but the rest just doesn't live up.’