Chapter Eleven
When the sandwiches were made, I excused myself and went to pack my things, taking the opportunity to write down some of what Midge had told me. Not that I enjoyed facing up to my flaws – although it served as a reminder to contact Judy, one of Coaches for Growth’s associates, for some professional supervision.
I’d just finished my notes and was rummaging in my suitcase for the cropped trousers I’d worn yesterday, when Jack came in. I straightened up instantly. ‘Very nice,’ was all he said, looking me up and down.
My throat felt inexplicably dry. ‘Actually, I’m about to take them off.’
‘Your legs?’
Nervous giggle. ‘No, silly. My shorts. I can’t wear these on the train.’
‘I don’t see why not. They’d certainly brighten someone’s day.’
I flushed, awkward as a teenager. But it was the opening I wanted, and my gaze held steady. ‘It’s like a replay of our first meeting, isn’t it? You eyeing me up and making personal comments. Perhaps, back then, I over-reacted because I bought into your playboy image. But apparently your media campaign was just an act, to put Karina off.’ Deep breath. ‘I don’t know about her, but it had me fooled – you were a condemned man as soon as I started my research. Even worse, I brought my prejudices to that first meeting. I owe you an apology, so,’ – another deep breath – ‘I’m sorry.’
His eyes widened. ‘Apology accepted. Some of the things you said and did – they make more sense now.’ A rueful laugh. ‘Believe it or not, it was quite a challenge to organise a different woman two or three times a week, especially for me.’ A flash of that wide, wicked grin. ‘I’m more of a rifle than a scatter gun – I like to identify the target, take aim, then fire.’
A sudden intensity in the air; I groped for a way to defuse it. ‘Interesting metaphor. Maybe we should explore it at our next coaching session.’
‘Why not now?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Maybe my eyes gave him a different message, because he moved closer. The edge of the bed trembled against the back of my knees. I waited – the butterfly on the point of a pin; except … No, I couldn’t – I wouldn’t – play the part of a victim. Not this time.
He said, soberly, ‘I know how you kiss when you want to say thank you. I wonder how you kiss when you want to say sorry?’
‘Let’s find out.’ I framed the words, but no sound came. And, in any case, words were redundant … We sank as one onto the bed, in a kiss that was startlingly slow and deliberate and tender; yet it wasn’t long before it began to build towards something else. We rolled over, mouths still fused, so that his hands could discover unhindered the loosening of my clothes. In an almost leisurely fashion, he reached under my shirt to play with the clasp of my bra, a tease to my growing impatience. Then, at last, he undid the hooks, and his warm fingers skimmed my bare skin to claim my breasts—
The trill of a phone. My phone. My work phone, with its special ring. Just the wake-up call I needed!
He broke off the kiss to say, ‘Don’t answer it.’ It was almost a plea.
But I scrambled off the bed before he could stop me, pulling my shirt down and myself together. ‘It’s my boss, it must be urgent.’
‘Urgent?’ His tone sharpened. ‘On a Sunday?’
‘I’m still working, remember?’ It was a reminder to myself as much as to him. I grabbed my phone from the kitchen counter and turned my back on the bed; more of a statement to the man lying there than an attempt to keep the conversation private. ‘Yes, Stuart?’
‘You sound out of breath, Alicia. Hope it’s not an inconvenient time.’
‘Not at all.’ In fact, Stuart, you’ve just saved my life. What the hell was I thinking, letting Jack Smith hit on me? I swiftly suppressed the thought that I’d been a willing – no, an active – partner.
‘Good. I’m leaving for the airport shortly – a week of golf in Portugal, remember? – but I’ve got a favour to ask. You know that international conference in London next weekend?’
I recalled reading about an inaugural event for some new life coaching organisation or other, a passing reference on our online bulletin board. Life coaching was, of course, a related field to executive coaching; but its focus was more personal and – in my experience, at any rate – its practitioners were less likely to follow a professional code of practice. My mind teetered back three years to that New Age-style course I’d taken in California, the chance meeting on the last day in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, and all that followed. Because the chance meeting had been with one of the life coaches from the course; and not just any coach, but Troy Randall Travers – the most handsome, the most charismatic and the one who, towards the end of the course, seemed to have eyes only for me. Oh, definitely more of a rifle than a scatter gun – and I still had the scars to prove it …
‘Alicia, are you still there?’
My mind swerved back to the present. ‘The conference next weekend – what about it?’
‘They’ve booked Judy for the Saturday, a session about transferring learning from the executive coaching world. Unfortunately, she’s just been rushed into hospital with appendicitis – the operation was straightforward enough, but she’ll be out of action for a few weeks.’ This got my full attention. So much for that reminder I’d just written myself! I would just have to wait until she was better; I certainly wasn’t going to bare my soul to any of the other supervisors on Coaches for Growth’s payroll.
Stuart went on, ‘So I wondered …’ I waited while he floundered towards the inevitable question. He cleared his throat. ‘Could you take her place?’ A pause; then, his voice squeaky with discomfort, ‘Please?’
I considered my answer carefully. It was tempting to refuse – on the basis that he couldn’t reasonably expect me to work two weekends in a row. There were several other factors to weigh up, however. For a start, Judy had a reputation for choosing quality over quantity in terms of her speaking engagements, which meant that the conference would be worth attending. And then, even though – given my lack of personal commitments – I was probably the only coach free at such short notice, doing Stuart this favour would give me some extra bargaining power as and when needed. Last but by no means least, being fully occupied next weekend might help me to forget the events of this one.
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ I said at last. ‘Can you send me all the details and copy in Celia?’ I heard the bed creak behind me; before I could escape, Jack’s arms were round me, hands clasped loosely under my breasts. A gesture of solidarity, I sensed, rather than a sexual overture; and all the more powerful for it. Yielding to one last role play, I leaned back against him and continued, ‘And forward any notes Judy’s given you about her talk – I’ll have a look on the shared drive as well, once I’m back in the office tomorrow. Oh, and Stuart?’ It was as if I didn’t want the call – or the embrace – to end.
‘Yes?’
‘I hope you have a great time in Portugal. Where are you staying?’
‘Near Albufeira – six of us in a villa. Thanks, Alicia, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you bailing me out here. By the way, how’s your work going up north – everything on track?’
‘Of course.’ The lie came easily, but perhaps it was simply another version of the truth, relating to the track of my own coaching journey. Because, in spite of everything, this weekend was allowing me to address one problem – even if it might be giving me another.
‘And what about supervision? As Judy’s not available, shall I ask Tom to give you a call?’
A half-formed decision crystallised in my mind. ‘No need. I’ll get Celia to arrange a debrief meeting for when you get back. You, me and Gary,’ I added, pressing my mobile even closer to my ear in anticipation of his reply.
‘Good idea. Looks like we’re getting a new assignment that I’d like you to lead on, so the sooner you hand Leo Components over to Gary, the better.’
‘Excellent.’ A sudden comprehension that today might be the last time I saw Jack, unless … I blinked rapidly – which cleared the mist from my eyes, but did nothing for the lump in my throat. ‘See you a week on Monday.’
The call ended but the embrace, thankfully, did not. Maybe I’d underestimated the therapeutic value of being held by a man with no obvious agenda. That had never happened with Troy. Looking back, his agenda had been perfectly obvious; I’d just misinterpreted it as something else.
It was Jack who stepped away, breaking the spell and the silence. ‘Are you ready to go?’ His voice sounded strained.
‘Give me five minutes.’ I kept my back to him as I fumbled with the fastening of my bra.
‘Here, let me.’ His hands took over the task – efficient and deft, with no thought of lingering. Not like before the call. He cleared his throat. ‘Why don’t you get what you need from your case? Then I can take it to the car while you change.’
Without a word, without even a look, I retrieved my trousers and closed my suitcase. It was easier than expected to busy myself with bed-making until he’d gone. I changed my clothes in slow motion, as if putting off my goodbyes – and not just the ones with Midge and Bill. Finally, I was ready to leave; I twisted the shorts into a tight ball and buried them in my laptop bag. Symbolic, no doubt – but this wasn’t the moment for self-analysis.
I could hear the others as soon as I entered the house: a blend of laughter coming from the kitchen, Jack’s long and low and instantly recognisable. I paused, welded a smile onto my face, then stepped purposefully through the doorway.
Midge spun round. ‘Hi there! We were just planning where to go next time you come—’
‘And Jack said he doubted that’d be any time soon,’ Bill put in, ‘because we’d probably frightened you off.’
‘Me especially.’ Midge giggled. ‘And I told him he was just trying to shame me into some sort of confession about all the dirt I’d dished on him.’
‘But I said she was way off the mark,’ Jack said, meeting my gaze at last, ‘and that it was more about the Hermann effect.’
‘The Hermann effect?’ I echoed stupidly.
Jack came straight over and put his arm round me, and I realised, with a pang, that this was the final act of our role play. ‘You weren’t expecting to sleep in a vintage motorhome, were you, love? You like your five-star luxury.’
My smile flickered as I lifted my eyes to his. ‘But maybe Hermann has something that money can’t buy.’ And I felt my cheeks burn as I recalled recent events in the motorhome …
Midge was talking; I made a determined effort to concentrate. ‘… And we’ll get the spare room sorted, so you’ll be able to sleep there next time. Not that it’ll be five-star luxury,’ she added hastily, ‘but it’ll be a lot more comfortable – and much nearer the bathroom, of course.’
I shot a desperate look at Jack, but all he did was tighten his grip on my shoulder. ‘Great, we’ll look forward to it, although Alicia seems to have a soft spot for Hermann after all.’
We said our goodbyes to Midge and Bill. The warmth of their hugs disconcerted me, but only for a moment; the extraction of my promise to come back soon weighed more heavily on my conscience.
In the car, Jack launched straight into an account of the fishing, while I stared out of the window. I wondered if he was talking about his one-on-one time with Bill to provoke me. Not that I needed reminding how badly I’d neglected the business agenda in favour of a far more personal one. As a result, I had merely the sketchy beginnings of a deep dive, instead of the detailed output I needed for the debrief with Stuart and Gary.
Except … it was worth it, in spite of the emotional upheaval. If this weekend – this man – has taught me anything, it’s that I’m ready to live my life in colour again, not black and white. It might be the delicate hues of a Midge landscape – that’s more my style than a vibrant oil painting – but it won’t be the tentative, easily-rubbed-out lines of a pencil drawing. Not any longer. Even if, like last time, I get hurt …
For now, though, I had to pull myself together. And, fortunately for me, I suspected that Jack Smith the temporary boyfriend would provide some key insights into Jack Smith the company director. I’m more of a rifle than a scatter gun – identify the target, take aim, then fire. As I’d said at the time, it was an interesting metaphor. And the demonstration that followed … I closed my eyes – to shut it out or re-live it?
‘Sorry, Alicia, didn’t mean to give you a lecture on trout flies.’ His words hinted at a change of subject, and I roused myself for more of a two-way conversation. He went on, ‘Call it nerves, I suppose. Because, now that the role play’s over, we can go back to normal. Trouble is, I’ve forgotten what normal feels like.’
‘Same here,’ I said, without thinking.
‘I’m glad about that, I knew it wasn’t just me. There’s a – a connection between us, on all levels, isn’t there? I don’t know how else to describe it – maybe you should have a go.’
But I can’t, Jack – not while I’m still your coach. Trust me on this – it won’t work.
I cleared my throat. ‘As I said at our first meeting, coaching requires rapport—’
‘But I’m not talking about the coaching.’ A pause, while he overtook a dawdling caravan. ‘Look, Alicia – right here, right now, we’re in between the two sets of roles – aren’t we? We’ll never get this chance again, and there’s so much I have to say to you. Let’s spend the rest of the day together!’
Scary to hear that animation – no, excitement – in his voice. Reminds me of the union meeting, when he outlined the new corporate vision. Except then I was impressed, whereas now …
He went on, as if oblivious to my silence, ‘We’ve got enough sandwiches to feed an army, or we could go to a pub – my local does a great Sunday lunch. And, of course, I’ll take you into Manchester for your train home whenever you want. How does that sound?’
Fraught with danger. Need to put some distance between us, in case I say – or do – something I’ll regret. I said, with cool conviction, ‘Please drop me at Preston station as soon as possible – I noticed on Friday that it wasn’t too far from the motorway. And thanks for the offer of lunch, but I’ll eat my sandwiches on the train.’
A pause; then a terse ‘Ouch’.
I risked a glance at his face, but its shuttered look told me nothing. I pressed my point home regardless; perhaps it was as much to convince myself. ‘We have to return to our proper roles, executive coach and coachee—’
‘If that’s what you think we are.’
‘The role play was a means to an end – you said so yourself when we arrived at Threlkeld. From an executive coaching perspective, we’ve made some progress – just not as much as I was expecting.’
‘And from other perspectives?’
‘We made far more progress as a man and a woman.’
‘But, as I’ve said, that was merely a means to an end—’
‘If that’s what you want to believe.’
I did want to believe it. I had to, even though the memories collected along the way were proving impossible to erase. I lapsed into silence – it was by far the safer option.
After a while he said, ‘What happens next?’
I fought back a bitter little laugh; was he talking about us as a coach and coachee, or as a man and a woman? As always, it was easy to pull on my professional mask. ‘Well, based on the last few days, I produce a summary of your current reality—’
‘My “current reality”? How the hell would you know anything about that? I don’t even understand it myself.’
I continued, as if he hadn’t interrupted, ‘Then I send it to you for review. Obviously, I would restrict it to the learning that this weekend provided about your business relationships—’
‘How can you? For me, it’s jumbled up with all the other stuff.’
He was right, of course; except that I couldn’t afford to admit it. I said, as calmly as I could, ‘Once you’ve reviewed the summary, we can explore your options and agree which one’s best.’ Little do you know – you’ll be doing all that with someone else.
‘You make it sound simple.’
I stared out of the window again. ‘Simplification is one of the advantages of a structured process.’
‘But it’s not simple, is it? Not any more. Everything’s changed since you kissed me last night …’ His voice trailed away.
‘I don’t know what to think, Alicia. All I know is – I’m finding it bloody hard to separate the coach from the girlfriend.’
I sensed him glance swiftly at me, but I refused to meet his gaze. ‘It’ll be different when we’re back in a business setting.’ The sudden patter of rain on the windscreen was a welcome distraction. ‘Looks like your warning about the Lakeland weather wasn’t in vain. How far is it to Preston?’
‘You’re sure about Preston?’ His voice was flat with disappointment.
‘I’ll get the train from there, if you don’t mind.’
‘And if I do mind?’
Deep breath. ‘Jack, you’re being ridiculous. This is a business contract and you’re putting a lot at risk if you think it’s anything else.’ I forced myself to look at him. ‘Role play’s a fundamental coaching tool that I’ve practised for years—’
‘Not that sort of role play, I’ll bet.’ A sardonic laugh. ‘Maybe I’m wrong, maybe I’d better give Adam Chesterfield a call in the morning to compare notes. No wonder you came so highly recommended.’
‘How dare you even think that!’ I managed to bring my trembling indignation under control and salvage a brisk, almost dismissive tone. ‘All I’m saying is that the kissing, and everything else, was just a requirement of this particular role play. Let’s face it, Jack, we’ve spent the entire weekend pretending to Midge and Bill that we’re romantically involved – and that I can’t be your coach for exactly that reason. But in reality it’s the complete opposite. I am your coach – and that’s why we can’t be romantically involved, even if we wanted to be. Whichever way you look at it, there’s a conflict of interest.’
I watched anxiously as he frowned at the road ahead for several seconds. In the end he said abruptly, ‘Sounds like I’ve got the wrong end of the stick. I’ll drop you at Preston, then.’ To my relief, he switched on some music, as if to discourage any more discussion.
When he pulled up outside Preston station, my heart started to thump; this was the moment of parting, when words could so easily be overruled by actions. While he went to fetch my suitcase from the boot, I grabbed my bag and darted into the ticket hall, telling myself it was purely to keep dry.
He strode grim-faced through the doorway, the shoulders of his T-shirt flecked with rain, and handed me the suitcase. Our fingers met and, inevitably, I felt the spark.
I blurted out, ‘There’s a train due.’ I had no idea if there was, but I was desperate to get away. ‘Thank you for the lift, and I’ll be in touch.’ I edged towards the barriers.
‘Alicia, wait.’ He moved closer, and I glanced up at him – wary, almost fearful. ‘When will I see you again?’
‘I’ll email you over the next few days to arrange a meeting.’ An evasive reply, designed to buy me time and space. ‘And now I’d better go—’
‘Just let me give you this.’ From the pocket of his shorts, he pulled out a crumpled yet distinctive paper bag: that mysterious purchase he’d made in Keswick, when we’d been picking up the Chinese takeaway. After the detour to Ashness Bridge, and the revelation about his father. Was it only yesterday?
‘A souvenir,’ he said softly, as he leaned in. ‘Of the Lakes.’
‘Please don’t.’ Did I mean the gift, or the kiss? Either way, it was too late. I couldn’t stop him from slipping the souvenir into my bag – just as I couldn’t stop his arms from enfolding me, and my mouth from opening under his.
He broke off to say, ‘Let’s go somewhere – anywhere. We need to talk.’
I looked around wildly – a man in railway uniform a few steps away – my brightest smile, as I wrenched myself out of Jack’s grasp. ‘Excuse me, I’ve got a ticket for the next train to London—’
‘Best come straight through, love,’ the man said, instantly. ‘You’ve only got three minutes and those bags’ll slow you down.’
He opened the ticket barrier for me, and I stumbled through its jaws. I heard them clamp shut again, and a heated exchange break out behind me. The man was refusing to let Jack follow without seeing his ticket first, thank God – but what if he had time to buy one and catch the same train?
I battled the temptation to look back and dashed to the platform. The train was just pulling in, and I waited impatiently for the door locks to be released. As soon as they opened, I jumped on board, and collapsed into a pair of empty seats halfway along the carriage, straining to listen for any telltale sounds above my gasping breath. No running footsteps, no shout of my name – I was safe.
The train eased away from the station, gathering speed at a relentless rate. But it wasn’t until we were past Manchester that I tore my unseeing gaze from the rain-streaked window and fumbled in my bag for Jack’s gift. I unwrapped it, carefully, and found a cocoon of white tissue paper. Inside nestled a sturdy painted china figure, only a few inches high.
She was just as I remembered: little black snuffly nose and bright eyes, peeping from under a white cap that barely contained her prickles; starched white apron over a bulky striped petticoat; tiny front paws holding two long, freshly laundered, pale-yellow gloves … No, aren’t they some stockings belonging to one of the hens who’s always scratching in the farmyard?
For this was Mrs Tiggy-Winkle, Beatrix Potter’s little washerwoman-hedgehog who lived over the back of Catbells …
I cradled her in my lap for the rest of the journey and stared out at the blurred world beyond the window. Only when we reached Euston did I realise that the misted view had nothing to do with the rain.