The Godmother by Carrie Adams Page B

chatted about Cora, how school was, her health, her latest favorite teacher.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Billy. “This is boring. You’ve got a party to go to.”
    â€œNonsense,” I replied in jest. “Knowing this stuff makes me feel part of the human race.” I didn’t realize the accidental truth of my words. “But I am beginning to wrinkle, which will not help my ever-diminishing ability to pull.”
    â€œYou’re gorgeous—stop it.”
    â€œI’ll see you next week.”
    â€œLove to. Bye, Tessa. Thank you so much for calling.”

    I made a real effort with my clothes and make-up for one reason and one reason only: I imagined there was a slim chance Sebastian would be at the party. One friend of Samira’s was likely to know another, right? The hair wasstraight, the boobs were out, the legs were on show. Normally I don’t do legs and boobs, it’s a little over the top and I’m the wrong side of thirty-five, but I was feeling daring. No, not daring. Hopeful. I would not use the word desperate. Earlier in the week, I had sat in front of my laptop and flicked at Sebastian’s card. The one he gave me before we shagged. The one he probably wouldn’t have given me after we shagged. But I wasn’t thinking like that. I was hopeful. He’d reawakened my taste for lust. Fuel for the soul, which I feared I would never have an appetite for again.

    I don’t want to go over and over what happened with my boss. I’m bored of it. But there were times when I thought I was wholly responsible, just for being the way I was. It was noted that I had been out to drinks with him. I had, that was true, but only ever with the rest of our department. It was said that I sometimes dressed provocatively in the office. Every working girl has an outfit that transforms itself into evening attire. The hours I kept didn’t make room for time to go home and change. With a different top and fabulous shoes I often tottered out of the ladies to meet friends. I knew I had not done anything to lead the man on, but sometimes I doubted myself.
    In the fallout of the whole debacle, there was rage. Pity. Sadness. Guilt. Disbelief. Meeting anyone during that time was not going to be successful because I wouldn’t have let it. But then that thing with Sebastian had happened. And now my taste buds were alive again, I wanted more. One sweet wasn’t enough. I wanted the whole damn factory. I had “recovered” so well that I could even see the fuzzy outline of a fairy-tale ending to a story that hadn’t yet made it to print.
    Eventually I had succumbed and typed in his email address and started writing a jaunty “don’t worry I’m not crackers, I’m a perfectly well-adjusted, independent (but not aggressively so) woman.” It didn’t work. Even the “Hi” looked suspicious. I deleted it and threw the card in the bin. It was not a particularly rash act as I knew I could get his number from Samira at any time. But perhaps I wouldn’t have to. Perhaps he’d see me, looking fabulous, at the party, come marching up to me and tell me he couldn’t get me out of his mind, and how did I feel about the suburbs, since his salary wouldn’t be able to buy a place big enough for the kids…

    The taxi pulled up outside the address given to me by Samira. I glanced up at the illuminated five-storey house in Belgravia, and wondered if the driver had got it right. Excited, I opened up my wallet to pay when I remembered I had completely forgotten to get cash out. It didn’t matter. I always had a £50 note stashed away for emergencies. And for times when I forget to go to the ATM. It had been there for ages. I looked but the fifty quid wasn’t there. I checked again in case I’d missed it the first time, but it was not there. Was I going mad? Had I spent it and forgotten?
    I offered the driver a card; he