of those über expensive suit trousers, screamed SEXY, with the caps lock on. She gave herself a mental kick. What the hell was she thinking? After Awful Alastair, she was steering clear of men. Especially men with choppy brown hair, and definitely arrogant gits like this one. Her resolve was strengthened now she was well on her way to the financial independence she’d always craved. She bit her lip, and blew again.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
His gravelly voiced query sent goosebumps scurrying up her arms, hotly pursued by a large dose of self-disgust. She was in the shit here on every level, and it was time to admit defeat.
‘Actually, I can’t get out.’
She lowered her eyes, tried to swallow the shame-faced words, desperate not to acknowledge the gleeful sneer chasing across that disgustingly beautiful face of his.
‘Not so stroppy now, then.’ He gave a low grunt that might have been a laugh. ‘What do you suggest? Shall I come to help you, or will I get accused of sexual harassment?’ His tone was lazy, and he didn’t move, but the flash of humour in his eyes had Izzy’s heart skipping a beat.
‘Just sling me a pallet, stop gloating, and shut up. Please.’ She watched him stroll forward, grasp a pallet, and swing it high into the air with brutal ease. A hollow clang rang out as the wood thumped down on the skip base, and sent reverberations through the soles of her feet.
‘Thank you.’ She pulled herself up to her full five foot four inches. Then grasping the pallet, she heaved it into position against the skip side, and checked out its stability with one foot.
‘Careful. If you’ve invalidated my public liability cover, I don’t want any accidents.’
God, this guy was a stuffed-shirt. She let out another impatient snort. ‘If you don’t stop going on about insurance, I might have to squash you on my way down.’ And it was bad news that he made her even more insolent than usual, but at least she hadn’t sworn at him yet. She already owed Luce, and her Customer Service Initiative swear box a bomb as it was.
Izzy clambered up the pallet, nudged her way onto the skip edge, and it was just too bad that her skirt was riding up somewhere around her bottom as the guy looked up. She really hadn’t planned to give him an eyeful of underwear.
He staggered backwards, clearing his throat and looking away quickly. ‘Alright up there?’
She dreaded to think what kind of acreage of her knickers she was showing, but frankly she no longer cared. Two kicks sent her pumps flying through the air, then as she splayed her legs, ready to jump, she heard a rip. Crap. The last thing she needed here was to leave her skirt behind her.
‘Hang on…’ The guy sprung towards her with a strangled squawk.
‘Okay, keep your hair on.’ Izzy gasped. Two strides later his hands closed around her waist. The breath left her body as he spun her through a glorious crazy arc, before setting her lightly and neatly on the ground beside him. For a moment she wobbled against the soft fabric of his jacket, getting a blast of aftershave that was way too delicious for someone so bad tempered. And then he stepped away, and she was the one left with wide eyes, and a sagging jaw.
Wednesday Evening, 4th June
DIDA
In the kitchen at Alport Towers
One husband, thinly spread
NEW MESSAGE TO: THE CREW @ VINTAGE AT THE CINEMA…LUCE, IZZY, OLLIE, LYDIA, DAMON, HENNI, DECLAN, SUZIE, ARTHUR, LEIGHTON, MAGDA, THOM, ALLIE
Dida checked the names on the email, crossed her legs, and gave a heartfelt sigh. Even if Aidie had slammed the cinema building on the market, it was doubly important to carry on as normal. However determined Aidie was to put a hatchet through her proverbial baby, not to mention her success, she was ten times as determined not to let him succeed. Though she hadn’t yet managed to track Aidie down to actually speak to him in person, or at the end of a phone, she was certain that her husband’s motivation for selling the building was as much about trying to limit her new found success, as it was about making a profit now the property market was improving. Although Vintage at the Cinema had started out as a tentative experiment, so much creative energy and talent had gone into making it what it was now, there was no way was she giving it up without a fight. Even thinking about it made her feel like her head was about to implode with rage at Aidie for doing what he’d done, and rage at herself for being so powerless to stop him. Whereas she should have been floating around on a champers-induced cloud, basking after a fabulously successful celebration, she was instead grinding her teeth in frustration, and biting on the bitter taste of humiliation.
Tonight she’d already bustled her youngest child, Lolly, off to bed in a blur, and now she was ready to sweat the bigger stuff. The disembodied roar of a football crowd meant that Eric was fully engaged with FIFA14 in the breakfast room.
Dida scowled round her apple green kitchen. The vile green paint was another reminder of Aidie’s tyranny. That Aidie flatly refused to let her get the fifty seven kitchen units repainted in a more appropriate colour sent her round the bend on a daily basis and it was so typical of him to make this into a battleground. Now, her perpetual fuming about the argument she referred to as Granny Smith-gate only aided her incandescent rage about what had happened today at the cinema.
It was alright for Aidie, he was hardly here long enough to get tired of anything, even something as extreme as vommy green paint. He flew in, then he flew out again. Right now he was in Lithuania, working on “something big” to do with pipes, and as usual she had zero idea what. In fact some weekends he was home so little, they had barely enough time for an argument. Unfortunately for Dida there was always enough time for sex, and that would be sex not once, but twice a day. She gave a rueful eye roll at the thought of his whale-like bulk grunting on top of her, and thanked her lucky stars it was only Wednesday and so she didn’t have that to look forward to. Although given what he’d pulled today, she’d be withdrawing that privilege until further notice. As far as the kitchen repaint went, if there was any excuse to wield his power over her, Aidie grabbed it with both his chubby hands. It was time she gave him a taste of his own medicine in the bedroom.
Her husband hadn’t always been bloated. The twenty something guy she first hooked up with at the office Christmas party back in ’94 had been relatively slender, albeit in a chunky kind of way. She’d first noticed him because he was the only one in the office with his own house, and she had an idea his sense of humour had been better in those days too. But years of expense account dining had pushed his BMI through the red zone, and straight on out the other side. His success had turned into one big power trip and now he pretty much claimed to be in charge of the world as far as the pipelines industry was concerned. He got his rocks off all week, ordering people around at work, and at weekends he brought his testosterone excess back home, and slammed them all into submission here too. And today he’d even managed to exert his power remotely, in the most awful of ways.
Aidie and his control issues. Dida gave a grimace. She was well used to them. It was an ironic twist that if Vintage at the Cinema hadn’t dropped into her lap to take her mind off the most difficult thing in life, i.e. her husband, she wasn’t sure she’d even still be here, despite the gorgeous home she’d thrown herself into creating. Ice cream was a crutch she leaned on in her struggle to stay cheerful. Usually, at ten o’ clock, in a mere seventy six minutes from now, she’d be having a two scoop helping, and tonight she should be dipping into dark chocolate and raspberry, and pralines and cream. But this evening she was so wound up, she had no appetite at all, not even for ice cream.
‘Mum, I just went up a league on FIFA, have you got any cake?’ Eric, play station controller in hand, wandered into the kitchen, his floppy fringe only partially masking his glazed expression, and walked towards a large pile of plastic containers stacked on the work surface.
‘Nope, hands off those, they’re Vintage at the