Chapter Eight
Want to know how Frank and I met? He gets really embarrassed when I tell this story, but that’s Frank, so fuck it. He gets embarrassed by tons of stuff anyway and if I worried about that I’d never tell anybody anything! So, I was on Twitter just messing around and this fan tweeted me with ‘Hey, did you know that Frank Callis fancies you?’
Frank’s not on Twitter, obviously. He’s the least chatty person ever. So though they hashtagged him in the tweet he didn’t see it or anything. But they posted a link – apparently some journo from the Sun asked him who his celebrity crush was and he said me. I’ve got a suspicion that he was hoping I might hear about it – Frank would never normally tell a journo who he fancied, he’s very private!
Now, here’s something I’ve found out over the years to get a bloke interested in you. Trust me on this. It works. If you’re crushing on someone, and you don’t look like the backside of a bus, tell some of your mates that you fancy him. It’s bound to get back to him, and when it does, he’ll think: ‘Oh, really? I wouldn’t mind giving that a go!’ It’s human nature to sit up a bit when you hear that someone likes you and think: ‘Well, what about it then?’
I must admit that Frank hadn’t been on my radar. I usually go for the more outgoing types. Ones who are naughty like me, if you know what I mean. I knew his name, of course, but I couldn’t give a shit about sport, which is ironic considering how many footballers and basketball players I’ve been out with.
Oh, talking about that, here’s another bit of advice: if you’re going out with men who play sport for a living, but you don’t watch it, don’t fake it and be all, ‘Oh I thought the ref was really out of order with you on Saturday’ or, ‘They should’ve been playing 4-4-2’ or anything like that. I’ve seen endless girls do this to suck up and try to show that they’ll be good girlfriend or wife material, but trust me, the guys can smell it from a mile away. They might fuck you but they’ll take the piss out of you behind your back. It’s much better to go, ‘Hey, I don’t know WTF you do apart from the fact that the ball needs to go into the net, but show me those ripped abs again, why don’t you?’
Anyway, I googled Frank and I liked what I saw. He was a bit different, and to be honest I thought I needed a total change from Jamal. God, Jamal was a massive slag. He couldn’t keep his dick in his pants for longer than thirty seconds and he partied so hard he made me look like an amateur – trust me, that’s not easy! Going after Frank wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t think, Oh yay, this guy is my future husband, which is just common sense. I’ve known girls picturing the ring before they even shag the guy, and it never ends well.
I’d’ve tweeted him, started flirting, but like I said, Frank and social media are like carbs and bikinis, you know? They just don’t go together. And honestly I had my hands full with a few other guys . . . But a couple of months later I was at this launch for a new restaurant – I’m not going to name it because the drinks were rubbish and the VIP area was a fucking joke, so I’m not going to give them publicity – and guess who was there too! So I rolled up to him from behind, pinched his bum and went, ‘Hey, sexy, I read in the Sun that you fancy me! When are you taking me out?’
His bum was amazing. Like that bit from Blackadder – ‘Ooh, Nursie, I like ’em firm and fruity’. And then he turned round and frankly – haha – I was a bit dumbstruck, and that never bloody happens. He’s taken, so don’t all you bitches start getting ideas, but Frank is so gorgeous in person, you have no idea. I’d’ve done him then and there if he’d been up for a leg-trembler in the loos.
But that’s not Frank at all. He’s a serious person. I had to practically drag him to bed on the third date. And as it turned out, serious was exactly what I needed to balance me out. I’m a party girl, he’s a family man. I like clubs and parties, he likes the sofa at home and his kids around him.
Trust me, my team was over the fucking moon about me getting together with Frank! Jason, my manager, had been banging on about my reputation ever since I got knocked up by Jamal. I was all, ‘Look, Jason, you’re being sexist, it’s a modern world and I don’t have to get married to have a baby’, but he’d get all snappy and say I was wrong and that a male celeb who puts it about gets flack from the papers too. Sponsors want someone with a pretty wife and a couple of kids.
‘Look at David Beckham,’ Jason said. ‘He had an affair years ago, no one liked that, and now he’s repositioned and rebranded himself as a devoted family man. He even had a baby daughter after the affair to show his wife’s forgiven him. Plus Victoria’s a career woman now, which makes him a modern husband supporting his partner’s ambitions. You’ve got to think differently now you’ve got a kid.’
The way Jason put it, everyone was okay with me having lots of notches on my bedpost when I didn’t have Laylah. My fans really enjoyed seeing what I was up to and reading all the hot gossip in my column – who’s a selfish wham-bam-that’s-me-done-ma’am shagger, who’s hung like a dormouse, who can do it five times a night and still wake up in the morning with a big smile and a tent in the sheets. But now I’ve got a little girl, people aren’t so keen on pap shots of me staggering out of nightclubs at three a.m., falling into limos with my skirt round my waist, some guy I only met that night getting in with me. I mean, I can see it’s not exactly the best image for a mum.
It took a while to sink in, though. At the time I got pissed off and said: ‘Laylah’s being very well looked after and that’s no one’s business but mine,’ but Jason went, ‘Well yeah but you want more kids, don’t you? Sooner rather than later? And what if it doesn’t work out with the next guy, and the next – d’you really want to be a three-by-three or a four-by four?’
Pretty harsh. But I don’t keep Jason around because he’s warm and cuddly. That whole four-by-four thing’s scary – for anyone who’s been living under a rock, it means having four kids by four different dads. I can sort of see how three could be possible, but four’s just bloody sloppy.
And Jason was right. I did want more kids, and it’s not exactly fun dealing with your daughter’s dad not being around. So here comes Frank, getting on with Laylah like a house on fire, telling me after a month he was in love with me, making it clear he wanted kids – just what the doctor ordered. Time to settle down – plus, I could throw a huge, over-the-top wedding, get a ton of sponsors for it and sell the photos to a weekly for a massive great whacking sum.
And don’t go thinking I was conning Frank! He knew who I was right from the start. I didn’t pretend to be a reformed character or promise that I’d never go out clubbing again once that wedding ring was on my finger. Actually, I sat down with him and went, ‘Look, if you’re taking me on, you know I’m always going to want to do my reality show and a ton of appearances for publicity, that’s never going to change.’ He was okay with being on the show, as long as he didn’t have to do anything embarrassing – he said he was on TV anyway, so it wasn’t a big deal.
He said he wanted to live in Sandbanks, not London, and I was okay with that. It’s not like we can’t afford a driver or anything. But of course we got a place in town and I need to spend a lot of time there, what with everything I’ve got on – meetings for my product ranges, promo stuff, shopping and yeah, going out to launches and premieres and seeing my mates. After all, I’ve got a rock-solid husband at home now with the kids, so who cares if I go out with the girls every so often and let my hair down?
Well, Frank does, unfortunately. He’s not over the moon about my staying over in London – he keeps saying it’s not every so often, but all the flipping time. He wants to get a dog or two to keep him company, but I’ve put my foot down on that. I know him. If he gets the pair of golden Labs he keeps banging on about, he’ll spend all his free time walking them on the beach, use them as an excuse never to go up to London with me for charity auctions, awards shows, red-carpet dos – he just doesn’t get that we need to be photographed together at that kind of thing!
Plus, he wants more kids, ASAP, and he keeps nagging on about getting started. I must admit I did make a promise on that one – I said we’d try for a houseful. But I ate like a starving pig when I was knocked up with London and I’m still not ready to go through that slog of diet and exercise and How I Got My Bikini Body Back photos for the tabs again quite yet . . .
Caroline stopped, staring at what she had just written. What was she thinking? Where on earth was she going with this? For starters, the book was supposed to stop at Lexy and Frank’s triumphant wedding, not cover their marriage at all. Today’s writing session had started out really well, with a flow like a river in spate; it was out of sequence, of course, a section that would come towards the end of the book. But Caroline had already learned that it was best to let Lexy talk about whatever subject she wanted to that day; that was how she came out with the most personal, revealing information, like her fear of turning into a three-by-three or a four-by-four.
God knew what Lexy would think of that particular line when she read it over. But over the fortnight that she had been working on the book, Caroline had discovered that her employer did not react badly when faced with her own words turned into prose. Lexy was no hypocrite. She wouldn’t deny that she’d said something shocking or self-revelatory after knocking back plenty of white wine with a slice of lemon: at the worst, she would comment, with an easy shrug: ‘Cut that bit. My fans won’t like it.’
Well, her fans certainly wouldn’t appreciate Lexy confessing that she was refusing her husband both the kids and the dogs he wanted! Additionally, this information had not all originated with Lexy. Although Caroline was not interviewing Frank for the book, she had already forged a rapport with him. The cook/housekeeper prepared lunch every day for the household at one, and when Caroline knew Frank would be at home that day, she made a point of setting her alarm twenty minutes before so that she could put on some make-up, brush her hair, apply some eau de toilette, before heading down for, hopefully, a rendezvous with him.
That was by no means the only time they spent together, however. As Caroline was staying there during the week to make a push on the novel, she had already shared a pizza with him and the kids several times on the nights that Lexy was out in London. And, chatting over lunch, or clearing up as the nanny put the kids to bed, it was very natural that Frank should mention his wish to expand his family and get a couple of dogs, fill the house with activity, have his wife home more than a few nights a week . . .
Caroline pushed back her chair and stood up. She needed to reset her brain, get Frank’s perspective out of it and Lexy’s back in. Crossing the living room of her suite, she stopped in front of the picture window, staring out at the breathtaking view. The chainlink ferry that crossed between the Sandbanks peninsula and the Studland nature reserve on the other side of the narrow mouth of Poole Harbour was making its way over to their side of the water, the clanking noise of its mechanism now so familiar to Caroline that she no longer noticed it. Far out to sea, a much larger boat was heading away from the English coast, making for one of the Channel Islands or for Cherbourg. It was beautiful, hypnotic, the sight of the ferries voyaging back and forth as fishing boats, sailing yachts and motorboats wove around them in a slow, gracious saraband.
In high season, Frank had told Caroline, she would be amazed at how full the waters around the coastline became, how packed the beaches were. But it was early spring, still chilly, and the sea was more steel-grey than blue. The sandy shores of the nature reserve, across the harbour mouth, were only sparsely populated by dog walkers and the occasional jogger.
That should be me, Caroline thought suddenly. I should be out there every day, getting fit. Toning up. Losing weight. I need a break from work anyway. I’ve obviously got onto the wrong track . . .
Before she could talk herself out of it, she went into the bedroom and pulled on her trainers. Though she had bought them at Sports Direct, she had never actually used them for any form of exercise; she had no idea if they were even running shoes. But if she could walk in them, maybe she could run in them too? God knew she wouldn’t last long at it!
Caroline was already wearing tracksuit bottoms and a loose T-shirt. Perfect exercise wear: ironic again that she was dressed for it, that nowadays everyone wore loose-waisted exercise gear while rarely using it for the purpose for which it was intended. But it meant that she couldn’t delay by making excuses about not having clothes in which she could work out. Grabbing a fleece top and some change for the chainlink ferry ticket, she made her way from the guest suite along the corridor to the main wing of the house and down the central staircase.
As she came down the stairs, Frank was crossing the hallway, fresh from a vigorous workout session in the basement gym. He was lightly sheened with sweat, his curls damp; his pecs, delineated by his tightly clinging Under Armour T-shirt, were swollen and pumped, the nipples pointed. He must have been lifting weights. Caroline stopped in her tracks, clinging to the rail of the staircase for support at the sight of Frank’s body so very clearly outlined by his tight workout gear, the healthy flush on his tawny skin.
‘Hey!’ he said with a friendly smile, pulling off the towel round his neck and wiping his face down with it. ‘You going out?’
Caroline hesitated. With Frank standing in front of her, a perfect physical specimen, she was embarrassed to admit what she was planning. It was like a five-year-old informing Albert Einstein that she had just learned how to add two plus two.
Ooh, she thought, that’s a nice little line! I should remember that!
She was finding, after a fortnight of doing very little else but eat, sleep and write, that clever one-liners or observations kept popping into her head, funny little comparisons that were perfect for the book. It was as if she had been tuning up an engine she’d rarely used before, working it, oiling it, so that it ran more and more smoothly, turning over by itself now without help, throwing off creative sparks.
‘I was going to go for a run,’ she blurted out.
‘That’s great!’ Frank’s eyes lit up. ‘Good for you! I didn’t know you ran, Caroline.’
‘I don’t,’ she admitted. ‘It’s my first time.’
‘Wow. Brilliant. Are you going to use the treadmill?’
‘No. I’m going over to Studland so I can run along the sand.’
Frank’s heroic effort to keep his face straight made her heart sink to the soles of her cheap trainers.
‘Don’t put me off!’ she heard herself begging. ‘I want to do this! I’ve got it into my head and if I don’t go and do it now, I might never manage it!’
‘I got it,’ Frank said gravely, draping the towel around his neck again. ‘Okay, can I give you two pieces of advice?’
‘Um, yeah. But please don’t scare me . . .’
Caroline was fidgeting like a restless horse, wanting to get going before she lost her nerve.
‘Stretch your calves a lot before and after,’ Frank said, walking over to the front door and gesturing to her to follow him. ‘You can hang off the edge of the stairs on the ferry going over and coming back. Have you got a watch?’
Caroline shook her head. Frank unfastened his own and handed it to her.
‘Walk fast for five minutes to warm up,’ he instructed. ‘Run thirty seconds, walk for two minutes, repeat. Try to do that for half an hour if you can. If you need to run for a shorter time, okay, but make sure you alternate actual running with the walking, even if you only manage a few steps. Then walk for at least fifteen minutes afterwards, as slow as you want, to cool your muscles down and stop lactic acid buildup. Can you keep all of that in your head?’
Caroline nodded.
‘And when you get back, come and find me and we’ll get you stretched,’ Frank finished, crossing the hall to open the door for her like the gentleman he was.
Yeah, that is not going to happen, Caroline thought, even as she smiled at him and stepped outside into the fresh, cool spring air. No way is Frank getting his hands on my bulgy, sweaty, post-exercise body.
She walked briskly along the pavement of the curving road towards the tip of the spit of land where the Ferry Hotel stood next to the sloping dock of the ferry. Lexy was fond of unleashing her wit on the subject of the hotel, which she felt, considering how smart Sandbanks was, needed a full revamp; she described it with great relish as ‘Fawlty Towers designed by Travelodge’.
The ferry was coming in, a local bus sitting on its deck; it was still amusing to Caroline to see a double-decker being ferried across the water. A line of cyclists in tight Lycra and cleated shoes had formed already, waiting on the dock, ready to ride a big loop around the nature reserve. Caroline followed them onboard and obeyed Frank’s instructions, putting her toes on one step and hanging her heels down below to lengthen her calf muscles. Then she did a stretch she’d seen runners perform, standing on one leg, grabbing the heel of the other and pushing it as tightly into her buttock as she could.
She felt the pull at the front of her thighs, one after the other, and was pleased with herself. She could do this. She was ready. She was going to time herself just as Frank had suggested. After all, how hard could it be to run for just thirty seconds at a stretch, with a generous two-minute walk to recover each time? The watch was heavy in the pocket of her tracksuit bottoms, still warm from his body. She had heroically resisted the urge to lift it to her nose and sniff Frank’s sweat on the leather strap. She was a grown-up woman out for a run, not some stupid teenager crushing on a married man.
The links of the chain groaned heavily, pulling taut as the ferry reached the far side of the harbour mouth. The cyclists pedalled off down the road; the beach was right there, on the far side of a low sandy wall. In a few steps Caroline was on the sand, walking briskly to warm up. She could totally do this.
Only a few minutes later, she knew that she couldn’t. Not at all. Merely walking fast left her breathless, and by the time it came to running she was panting like a dog. The wind whipped slices of sand off the top of the beach and drove them into her face as if she were moving across the Sahara in a scirocco. It made it even harder to catch her breath, because every time she breathed in she inhaled grains of sand with the salty air.
Additionally, it had dawned on her almost immediately that she had entirely failed to consider the issue of adequate support for her breasts. Even in her full-coverage bra, they were bouncing around like a pair of melons in a thin mesh bag. It was so uncomfortable that she had to press them to her chest with her hands to stop them moving as much as possible, her palms not big enough to contain them, their sheer weight making her realize how much excess flesh she was carrying around, why it was so hard for her to move fast.
Not being able to use her arms to help propel her forward made jogging even more difficult. In no time at all, Caroline was both winded and coughing.
No wonder Frank had been trying to control his expression! She had seen people on TV shows running with seemingly effortless ease along Santa Monica Beach, barefoot, hair blowing in the wind, but the reality was slogging along as if wading through mud, her feet dragging, the flanges on the bottoms of her trainers struggling to work free with every step. The thirty seconds of running slowed down to twenty, the two minutes of walking lengthened to three, then four. Whenever the inexorable watch display told her it was time to run again, she wanted to cry with sheer misery.
To add insult to injury, the beach was much harder to traverse than it looked from the far side of the water. It was impossible simply to run, or walk, along it. Rivulets of water remaining from high tide trailed from the low dunes right down to the water’s edge, wide enough in many places to make it impossible for Caroline to jump over the broad gullies. She had to go right up to the dunes, hop and skip around the channels and puddles of water, the effort truly painful when she was running and needed to keep moving. She knew, from the way other people on the beach tactfully averted their gazes, that she looked ridiculous. A chubby madwoman, holding her own chest, clumsily trying to ford the pools of standing water at a stumbling run.
Eventually she noticed a little path rising up through the thick grass of the dunes. At least that would be easier to run on than a deep layer of sand that yielded beneath her feet and made every step much harder to manage. Chest heaving, every breath by now a sharp wheeze of agony, she scrambled painfully up the side of the dune and found herself in front of a mauve-painted stake in the ground with a small sign on it indicating that it was a ‘heather path’.
Alas, the heather path brought its own set of challenges. Yes, the terrain was much easier to run on, but the path was so narrow and bumpy that her feet kept getting caught in the grass that bordered it. She was terrified of twisting an ankle, having to limp back to the ferry landing, her first attempt at exercise ending in utter humiliation . . .
The intervals of jogging became speed-walking, and the walking itself slowed practically to a standstill. She had turned around to retrace her route when she was about halfway, but she hadn’t calculated for the fact that she was moving so much more slowly now. The fifteen minutes of cool-down stretched into thirty, maybe even more; she couldn’t bear to look at the watch, to fully take in how long she had been lumbering through this landscape of waist-high heather in bloom, the wind turning the grasses into a rippling sea. It seemed to take forever for the road which led to the ferry landing to come into view.
Caroline knew she shouldn’t stop moving. Frank had mentioned the lactic acid issue. So she shifted from one foot to another repeatedly while waiting for the ferry, as if she had drunk too much Red Bull and couldn’t stand still. Her entire lower body felt as if it had been beaten with hammers, her lungs were on fire, and a glimpse of herself in the wing mirror of a lorry waiting to drive on board showed that her face was both turkey red and sallow in unattractive patches. Her hips were aching badly, and when she made it off the ferry at the Sandbanks side she found herself limping back to Lexy and Frank’s mansion as gracelessly as if she had advanced osteoporosis, fighting the urge to burst into tears at how out of shape she was.
It took her last shred of energy to climb the marble stairs that led up to the front door, leaning heavily on the balustrade. Her only hope was that she could get back to her room and into the shower before Frank could see the state she was in.
So when the front door swung open as she was fumbling for her keys, she screamed in shock and clapped her hands to her face in a vain attempt to shield her ugly blotched skin, dripping with sweat, from the sight of the man about whom she was now fantasizing on a nightly basis.