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Chapter One

It’s just a night out with girlfriends, not the Academy Awards, thinks Gabby, frowning at her wardrobe as she endlessly pushes hangers back and forth, hoping something compelling, something worthy will suddenly appear and jump out at her: the perfect shirt, the perfect dress. It shouldn’t matter, this being a girls’ night out, but of course it matters far more than on a night out with Elliott. Tonight Gabby is dressing for the other women.

She has heard that on these girls’ nights out it is not unusual for men to gather round the girls, not seeing – or, rather, ignoring – the wedding rings they all have on their fingers; ignoring the wedding rings so often on their own. But Gabby doesn’t care about these men; she simply wants to fit in. She wants to at least look like she has made an effort. She wants to show that she too can scrub up into something of a glamour puss, that she deserves her place at the bar, just like the rest of this particular group of friends.

She settles on black trousers all the better to hide her thighs with, and knee-high boots, the only pair in her wardrobe that have any heel. These boots are almost twenty years old, old enough for them to have gone completely out of fashion and then revolve full circle to be not dissimilar to all the boots she passes in the store windows in town.

She bought them when it seemed important to look good, before life, children, motherhood got in the way, before it was easier to slip her feet into furry Merrells and be done with it.

In their thirties, all her friends wore the same dull uniforms, but suddenly, in their forties, these same women are breaking free of their self-imposed cocoons, eschewing the dull blanket of grinding motherhood and emerging in a flurry of bright chiffons and silks. And now that their children no longer needed babysitters they are tripping out on girls’ nights out in impossibly high heels, their hair silky and blown-out, wanting to be seen.

Gabby does not have bright chiffons and silks, would not have bright chiffons and silks because that is not her style, but she does find a black floaty blouse that no one needs to know was bought for $15.95 in Marshalls. As long as you don’t look too closely, you might think it is silk organza rather than the eminently more practical polyester.

There. A shake of her hair, a brush of mascara, a slick of gloss. She looks good, she thinks, without looking as if she is trying too hard. Unlike some of the others, in their plunging necklines and glittery jewellery, Gabby looks as if she is out to have fun with the girls, men be damned.

Gabby orders a second Martini, knowing she won’t be able to leave any time soon, wishing she had turned down the invitation to go out and was now tucked up cosily in bed watching a movie.

When Ella invited her to a girls’ dinner, Gabby had looked forward to a group of women enjoying themselves at a large table in the corner of the Grey Goose, but when she and Claire had arrived the women had already established themselves at the bar, where they were lapping up the attentions of a swarm of eager older Lotharios, flicking their hair back as they gave the men flirtatious smiles, punctuating every sentence with loud, and to Gabby’s ears, slightly forced, laughter.

The energy these women are giving off, their overt flirting, is making Gabby uncomfortable. Used to seeing them with their husbands, or occasionally during the day by themselves, meeting for walks along the beach or for lunch, she is amazed by this transformation. It is discomfiting to see these women, who she had assumed were just like herself, turn into the seductive, provocative creatures who are here tonight. Married to Elliott for eighteen years, Gabby no longer has the desire nor the inclination to flirt. Even if she did, she’s pretty sure she’s forgotten how to do it.

Although, she thinks, examining herself in the mirror lining the back wall of the bar, it would be nice if someone, anyone, looked at her these days. Lately she has been feeling more and more invisible. Last week, when she was in New York, she noticed that as she walked up Park Avenue during what was clearly lunch hour, all the men she passed glanced over at the two younger women flanking her. She didn’t blame them particularly, especially as the women were wearing miniskirts and high-heeled boots, but surely one would catch her eye, look her up and down. Even an old one. Someone. Anyone.

The grey hairs she had, only a handful, were subsequently banished earlier this week with a chestnut-brown dye, and she has made an uncharacteristic effort tonight, but it is nothing compared to the effort her friends have made. It is because I am English, she often thinks. I may have lived here for years and years, but I simply can’t pull off high-maintenance. It’s just not me. Look at Ella, with her bouncy curls, her chiffon blouse that displays more than a hint of cleavage, her high-heeled sandals bouncing prettily at the end of a tanned leg.

Look at the tanned older man – attractive, if you like a touch of lechery – now whispering in her ear as she laughs, her body tilted towards him, her eyes looking up at him through thick lashes.

What are all these women doing? Why are they behaving like this? I know these women, know their families; my children go to school with their children. How have I not seen this side of them before, and what does it say about them? About me?

‘Is this as much of a scene as I think it is?’ murmurs a voice next to her. Gabby turns, finding herself facing a young man. He gestures at her friends with a shake of his head. ‘I feel like I’m in a cattle market.’

‘I know,’ Gabby says with a polite smile. ‘I haven’t been here before. It’s pretty … intense.’

‘That it is. And not my scene. I’m Matt.’ He offers his hand and Gabby shakes it, noting his rolled-up blue sleeves, his strong arms, and remembering for a split second how it felt to have the bloom of youth, for he must be in his late twenties. At forty-three she is almost – almost – old enough to be his mother, and it is this that causes her to relax, to smile as she introduces herself.

‘I’m Gabby.’ She settles onto her stool, relieved to have someone to talk to, someone who has no ulterior motive, who has not come here to pick up women. Even if he had, he would definitely not be interested in her.

She looks at him curiously. He is, by any definition, gorgeous. Blond hair, blue eyes. He has a twinkle and a kindness in his eyes that, if she was twenty years younger and single, she would find utterly disarming.

‘So why are you here, Matt? Particularly if it’s not your scene.’

‘Good question.’ He smiles, showing straight white teeth, and raises his glass to toast her. ‘I’m here on business. One night only. I’m staying across the street, but I thought I’d grab a drink here before I check in.’

‘Business?’

‘I have a social media website.’

‘Like Facebook?’

He laughs. ‘I wish. Maybe one day.’

‘Would I know it?’

‘I don’t know,’ he says, naming a website that Gabby knows well, that everyone knows well.

‘That’s you?’ She looks at him again, reassessingly, because she has read about this company, knows it was started by two young men, the heirs apparent to the Facebook throne. She was mistaken in thinking he was just some kid. He is an accomplished businessman. She recalls articles about him, how they built the company – and she is impressed. And excited.

‘You’re huge!’

He cocks an eyebrow and Gabby blushes and starts to laugh. ‘Sorry. I mean, I know exactly who you are. I’ve read about you.’

‘It’s such a weird thing, that I have this strange kind of celebrity that isn’t. No one would have any idea who I am, but as soon as I mention the company, everyone knows.’

‘At least you’re able to sit anonymously at bars. And I bet you have an amazing house.’ She peers at him with a teasing smile.

He snorts with laughter. ‘It’s true. I do have an amazing house.’

‘Isn’t it in LA?’

‘Better. Malibu.’

‘Oh God,’ she groans. ‘Do you step outside your living room onto a beach?’

He grins as Gabby prods him for a description of the kind of house she has always dreamed about.

They keep talking, Matt telling her about some of the more glamorous parties he’s been to and providing her with celebrity gossip that is better than that in any issue of People magazine. Gabby hangs on his every word, and as everyone and everything in the room drops away she notices nothing other than the fun she is having.

‘… and it was Lil Wayne,’ he says, finishing a story. ‘Sorry. You probably don’t –’

‘Don’t know who Lil Wayne is?’ Gabby scowls. ‘Believe it or not, despite being a middle-aged mom, I know exactly who –’

She stops, mid-sentence, as Matt lays a hand on her arm.

‘You’re hardly middle-aged,’ he says, frowning. ‘You’re, what? In your thirties?’

Gabby looks down at his hand on her arm, noting how beautiful it is, how smooth and strong. Briefly wondering why he has not removed it, she looks back up at him with a burst of laughter, enjoying herself.

‘Right,’ she says. ‘Ten years ago, perhaps. I’m forty-three, and yes, that definitely classifies me as middle-aged.’

Matt shakes his head in genuine bemusement. ‘I swear I’m not just saying this, but you really don’t look it. I thought you were around thirty-four.’

‘I think I may love you,’ Gabby says happily. ‘Although your point of reference probably stops at thirty-five. At your age you can’t imagine there is anyone older.’

‘Bullshit! And I’m not that young. There’s hardly anything between us.’

‘Let me guess.’ Her eyes run over his face, taking in the smoothness of his skin, the sharp definition of his cheeks and jaw, the lack of lines. She thinks of Elliott: his hair now more grey than brown, the deep lines around his eyes when he smiles, his physique, once so toned, now soft and cuddly, comfortable.

Everything about Matt shouts youth. His jeans, his scuffed-up brown boots. His tucked-in blue shirt that gives hints of intensive working-out rather than the outline of a paunch, like she is used to seeing in Elliott, and in most of the men she knows.

‘I think you’re twenty-seven,’ she says.

‘I knew you thought I was younger. For your information, I’m thirty-three. See, we’re not so far apart.’

‘You may think that now, but wait until you’re forty-three and you look back at how much you changed over those ten years.’

He gazes at her over his glass. ‘How have you changed over ten years?’

‘Seriously?’

He nods, calling the bartender over and ordering another Martini for her, giving her pause to think.

For the truth is that not much has changed in the last ten years. Ten years ago she was married to Elliott, as she is now, only with smaller children. They lived in a different neighbourhood. She drove an old Cherokee. Her life was pre-school and playdates, coffees with women she hardly sees any more. She had fewer lines, less grey hair, was fifteen pounds lighter.

If she thinks back to the years before that, though, to eighteen or twenty years ago, she knows that a lot has changed. Back then she cared about dressing up and going out. Twenty years ago she made an effort, wanting to be popular, pretty, invited to people’s houses for dinner. She and Elliott would go camping, up in Vermont. They hiked, and skied. Now it is all she can do to make herself go for a walk.

What has happened since those days? When did life become so … she won’t use the word ‘dull’, chooses instead to use ‘pots and pans’? How did she and Elliott drift so seamlessly into middle age, and where did all that energy go?

She can’t tell all that to this stranger and decides instead to share the positives.

‘I am more comfortable in my skin. Turning forty was a turning point. I stopped needing to prove myself to anyone. I probably ought to make more of an effort,’ she says, gesturing to her friends, all of whom now make more of an effort, and are currently at the other end of the bar with a new group of men. ‘But I love that it doesn’t matter to me any more.’

‘I think you look great,’ Matt says evenly. There is not a hint of flirtation in his voice, and yet, as he says it, he holds her gaze until she looks away, feeling something inside her give a slight jolt.

Don’t be ridiculous, she tells herself. There is no way in hell this lovely young boy is flirting with me. I have no idea what just happened; I only know that whatever it was is in my imagination.

Gabby covers her embarrassment with a forced bark of laughter. ‘My friends over there?’ she says, nodding towards them. ‘They look great.’

He glances over before turning back to Gabby with a dismissive shake of his head. ‘No. To me they all look overdone. Too much make-up, too much hair, too much flounce. I prefer my women natural. Like you.’ There it is. That gaze again.

Grateful for the low lighting, Gabby blushes as she says thank you, jumping as the phone in her back pocket starts to vibrate. She pulls it out to see Elliott’s name on the screen.

‘It’s my husband,’ she says, hopping off the stool. ‘I’ll be right back.’

Threading through the crowds, she breathes a sigh of relief. Even if she was imagining it, she has not led him on. She told him she is married. That should put him off, if, indeed, there is anything to put off. Which there couldn’t possibly be.

‘Hi, honey!’ She sits down on a low stone wall outside, aware suddenly that she is not as sober as she had thought. ‘Are you having fun?’

‘Not as much fun as it sounds like you’re having!’ Elliott laughs, and Gabby starts. What does he mean? How does he know she’s been talking to Matt? But it’s only talking. How does he know?

‘What do you mean?’ she says slowly, attempting to sound as sober as possible, knowing Elliott will know.

‘First of all it was noisy as hell when you picked up; secondly, I know you’re having a girls’ night out tonight; and thirdly, you’re drunk, and don’t try to deny it because I always know. I can hear it in your voice.’

Gabby laughs. ‘You’re right. I’m stopping now.’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Martinis.’

‘Aha! Just remember that Martinis are like a woman’s breasts: one is too few, three is too many.’

‘I’m on two and done.’

‘Who’s driving?’

‘Ella. How’s the camping? How are the girls?’

‘They’re having the best time. They’ve gone swimming in the lake with Sasha and Jolie, and they’re dying to get to the smores later. This was a great idea, even though we miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ Gabby says, out of habit, although she hasn’t thought about Elliott for much more than a second since he left early this morning.

‘And you were right to suggest I do this with Tim. Not that you and I wouldn’t have a great time, but I know you feel a bit done with sleeping bags and tents.’

Gabby laughs again. ‘Damn right. What time are you home tomorrow?’

‘Not until mid-afternoon, I think. You go and have fun with the girls. I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

Gabby walks back inside, seeing Matt through the crowds, her empty stool next to him. As she moves towards the bar he turns and watches her, smiling, and she feels another jolt.

Don’t be pathetic, she thinks. Don’t think this is something other than a nice guy who’s bored and lonely, eager to have a friendly face to talk to. Not that I wouldn’t be enormously flattered if he was flirting, but look at me! Look at him, now look at me again. Even if he is flirting, which he isn’t, there would be no point. I’m happily married to the loveliest man in the world. But if he is flirting, even though he’s not, it would be nice to feel attractive again. It would be nice to feel that I still have it, even if it’s only for three more minutes.

‘Gabby?’ Her arm is grabbed, and she spins to find herself face to face with Claire. ‘Who is that adorable guy at the bar? I can’t believe you’ve been flirting with someone all evening! We haven’t seen you at all!’

‘I’m not flirting,’ Gabby says, certain that she is not. ‘I don’t flirt. I don’t know how to flirt any more. I’m just having a really interesting conversation with a sweet young guy.’

‘He’s not sweet.’ Claire glances at him. ‘He’s a stone-cold fox!’

‘Right.’ Gabby nods. ‘And he’s twelve.’

Claire squints as she looks across the room. ‘He’s not twelve. He’s at least twenty-five. Old enough to know what he’s doing …’

‘Claire!’ Gabby reprimands. ‘For a start, he’s ten years younger than me, and secondly, hello? I’m married. Remember?’

‘We’re all married,’ Claire replies, and she winks. ‘Doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.’

Gabby doesn’t ask her what she means by ‘fun’. She shakes her head with a laugh as if Claire’s suggestion is ridiculous, then moves towards the bar, where Matt is waiting with a big smile.

On the way there, Gabby is aware that she is holding herself straighter, smiling more widely, giving off an aura that is causing the other men to turn and look at her in admiration.

Because tonight, thanks to this younger man who is paying her attention, Gabby feels alluring. Despite her incredulity that he may be flirting, deep down she is aware of a connection between them. She has no plans to do anything about it – Gabby would never be unfaithful – but it has been years since she felt desirable, years since she felt sexy, beautiful. It is a powerful, heady feeling, and once tonight is over it will be gone. When tonight is over she will once again be a middle-aged suburban housewife, caught up in the pots and pans of life.

What’s the harm in dragging it out just a little bit longer? She isn’t going to do anything.

Absolutely not.

‘Everything okay?’ Matt flicks his eyes to her phone.

‘Just my husband. Checking in.’ Now she has said it again. She has a husband. ‘He’s with our girls, camping in Vermont.’ She breathes a sigh of relief, knowing she is safe now the information is out there. There is no pretence at being available any more, and what man would not respect the presence of another?

‘What’s your husband like?’

This is unexpected. ‘You’d love him,’ she says. ‘Seriously. The two of you would get on like a house on fire.’

‘I’m sure we would. He’s a man of excellent taste.’ Matt grins.

Gabby giggles and teasingly smacks him on the arm. ‘Flatterer.’

‘Truth-teller,’ he counters. ‘So what is he like?’

How does she describe Elliott? From the moment she met him, both of them sitting at the same table, at the same time, at a coffee shop in New York, she knew he was exactly the kind of man she had been waiting for. She was twenty-three, working at a bookstore in the city; he was five years older, a doctor, doing his internship at Columbia-Presbyterian.

He had asked if he could share her table, even though there were several empty ones, then he spent the next two hours distracting Gabby from her work, and making her laugh with his impromptu stories about the people waiting in line, so that eventually she shoved her sketchbook and pencil into her bag and gave up any attempt at drawing.

The next day she met him at Central Park for a walk. He showed up with a hamper that had belonged to his grandmother, stuffed full of badly made sandwiches and packets of crisps in every flavour because, he explained, he didn’t know which flavour she’d like and didn’t want her to be disappointed.

‘I am married to the most wonderful man in the world.’

Matt smiles. ‘What makes him wonderful?’

‘He’s brilliant,’ she starts. ‘And kind. He’s curious about everyone and everything, and is the kind of man that everyone feels instantly relaxed with. He’s warm, and caring. And a great father. We have two girls, and they’re the apple of his eye. He’s a great husband. I’m lucky …’ She tails off, aware she is doing a hard sell, but unsure suddenly of who she is doing the hard sell for.

‘He really does sound wonderful,’ Matt agrees.

‘He is.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a doctor. Gastroenterologist. So, obviously, the good bedside manner helps.’

I am a doctor’s wife, she thinks. Which is exactly what it sounds like. Stable. Safe. And just a tiny bit dull.

Briefly, she indulges in a fantasy. What if she were a dot-com billionaire’s wife? What then? She sees herself padding around a glass house in Malibu, in one of Matt’s shirts, her legs having suddenly become miraculously tanned and toned, her hair a good six inches longer than it could ever be, given that she has been trying to grow it for many years and it still doesn’t reach much further than her shoulders.

Imagine the parties they would go to! She and Matt laughing together as they lean on a deck overlooking the ocean, the wind blowing her very long hair around; no sign of cellulite, children, or ex-husband; no sign of anything from her former life.

She shakes her head. What are you doing, Gabby? Are you completely mad?

‘Another Martini?’ Matt is about to gesture the bartender over.

‘God, no!’ she says. ‘A Martini is like –’

‘A woman’s breasts,’ he finishes. ‘I know.’

‘I should probably think about leaving,’ she says regretfully, not wanting to leave but feeling as if they have reached the end. What is the point in staying, after all? There is a ripple of danger just below the surface of her consciousness, and she knows she has to go.

‘How are you getting home?’ There is disappointment in his eyes. ‘You can’t drive.’

Gabby laughs. ‘Trust me, I know that. One of the girls is driving,’ she says, and looks over to where her friends are, were, but there is no sign of them. ‘Oh shit,’ she mutters. ‘Where are they?’

Matt is amused. ‘They deserted you? What kind of friends are they?’

‘Crap ones,’ Gabby says, annoyed, as she gets out her phone to text them. Matt laughs.

We didn’t want to disturb you ;)

tell us everything tomorrow!

‘They’ve gone?’ Matt doesn’t see the text, but sees the look on Gabby’s face.

‘I can’t believe they left without me. That’s just awful.’

‘Tell you what,’ Matt says. ‘Why don’t you come to the hotel? We can have some coffee and they’ll call you a cab.’

Gabby studies his face. There is no ulterior motive. It is just a coffee, and she could do with a coffee right now.

He pulls notes out of a wallet and lays them on the bar, refusing to let Gabby contribute. Then he stands up and Gabby does the same. He is tall, much taller than she is, and her heart does a small flip as she sizes him up.

Despite being twelve, he is unutterably gorgeous. Oh if only this was several lifetimes ago, she thinks, looking up at him, at the thick brown hair, the strength and breadth of his shoulders.

Matt checks in at the hotel while Gabby curls up on a sofa in the lobby. Suddenly she feels unsure. Why is she here? Why is she having coffee in a hotel with a stranger while her husband is away? Of course she’s not going to do anything, but hasn’t this gone far enough? Wouldn’t it be so very much better if she went home now?

Matt turns round and smiles at her from across the room, and her heart does that thing again, that flip. Not because she’s planning on doing anything, but because being with him makes her feel beautiful again. It’s been so long since anyone has noticed her; so long since she has been seen.

She will not be unfaithful; she would never be unfaithful to Elliott, whom she loves with all her heart and soul. But for years to come her self-esteem, recently so fragile, will be able to treasure this evening, this gentle chemistry, this feeling of someone as gorgeous as Matt being interested in her.

And what would be the harm?

‘I’ve really had fun tonight,’ Gabby sighs, a couple of hours later. Coffee became Irish coffee, and she is aware that her sobriety said goodbye a very long time ago.

‘For the record,’ Matt says, ‘I don’t make a habit of sitting at bars and flirting with lovely-looking ladies. Especially when I’m travelling for work. You have made a boring business trip completely delightful.’

Gabby says nothing, too busy turning the words he just used over and over in her mind. ‘Lovely-looking’! ‘Flirting’! I wasn’t imagining it!

‘I’ll have them call you a cab.’ He doesn’t move.

It is now the early hours of the morning. There is no one else in the dimly lit hotel lounge. One receptionist is over at the desk.

Matt and Gabby stare at each other, and Gabby wills herself to move, to get up, to get out and go home before … before it’s too late. But she can’t move. Her heart is pounding, an unfamiliar heat is coursing through her body, and she knows she has to go, but she can’t do anything other than gaze into the eyes of this man as she lets out a deep sigh.

‘Why are all the women I like unavailable?’ he murmurs, making Gabby’s heart threaten to jump out of her body. She doesn’t know what to say. She wants to leave, knows she has to leave, but oh, how she wants to stay.

‘I should go.’ Her voice is a whisper, and mustering all the strength she can she reluctantly climbs to her feet.

Chapter Two

Minutes stretch into hours as Gabby thinks about getting out of bed. As a student at Bristol University, hangovers were a way of life for her. Her group of friends would toss back shots on pub crawls, but they still somehow managed to crawl out of bed the next morning and make it to lectures.

Despite the hangovers, the nausea, she didn’t stop drinking. It was part and parcel of university life in England, part and parcel of growing up. She hasn’t been drunk in years, not since she and Elliott first started dating. Well, perhaps there have been a few times, a handful – fewer – since the girls were born.

She now knows her limits. Being drunk may be fun, but it isn’t worth it. This isn’t worth it. She had no idea, last night, that she had drunk enough to make her feel as bad as she does now. Martinis. Irish coffees. Mixing drinks. That’s what did it. That’s why she feels like living death this morning.

The bathroom used to be so close, but overnight it appears to have moved three miles away. If I can get to the shower, she thinks, I’ll feel so much better. She can almost sense the cold water pouring over her head, the relief the shower will bring, but making the journey from the bed to the bathroom seems like an impossible task. She actually doesn’t believe she can move. What she wants to do is think about last night, but thinking about it means thinking about the Martinis she drank, and if she thinks about those she may very well throw up. Instead she imagines jumping into a swimming pool, imagines the cool water surrounding her, bringing her back to normality. It helps.

Her head is pounding, her throat is dry. She squints at the curtains, then at the clock, knowing there is nothing to do but wait until she feels strong enough to make it to the bathroom, the shower, life.

Hours later, she stands under the shower, making the water as cold as she can bear, until she finally starts to feel human again. She scrubs her skin, then wraps herself in a terrycloth robe and goes downstairs to make some strong black coffee.

Years ago, watching Cabaret, she was struck by the sight of Sally Bowles swigging a prairie oyster – a raw egg swirled with Worcestershire sauce – as a hangover cure. As a teenager she would do this regularly, not because she was convinced it worked, but because she wanted to be like Sally Bowles.

As a forty-something mother, she’s pretty certain a prairie oyster would make her throw up. Instead she brews coffee so strong and thick it’s almost Turkish, and intersperses sips of that with sips of ginger ale.

Elliott and the girls will be back later. She has hours for herself, but wishes she didn’t feel quite so awful, wishes she could actually do something with this afternoon off, rather than slump on the sofa with coffee and the remote control.

Her phone buzzes.

‘I’ve been trying you all morning!’ Claire says. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I had the sound switched off and the phone was in my bag. I didn’t hear it. What’s going on?’

Claire barks with laughter. ‘Never mind me, what’s going on with you? Or should I say, what was going on with you last night? When we left you were deep in conversation with the totally hot guy at the bar. Tell me you were a good girl …’

There is a smile in Claire’s voice, only because she knows Gabby was a good girl. If she suspected anything else she would never ask with this lilt in her voice, never dare tease about something so serious.

For a second Gabby is tempted to tell her how close she came, and how confusing she finds this today. She loves her husband, so how could she be attracted to someone else? And this morning she is quite clear: she was attracted to him.

A problem shared is a problem halved, and even though this isn’t a problem, there is a part of her that wants to shout out that she is still desirable, that she isn’t as middle-aged and dowdy as she might appear, that someone young and hot wanted her.

But she could never tell anyone what she’s thinking. Not even Claire, whom she trusts above everyone else. Except Elliott.

‘Of course I was a good girl.’ Gabby forces a laugh. ‘But God, he was so cute! And so young! If ever I am going to be a bad girl, please let it be with someone who looks like that …’

‘Aw,’ grumbles Claire. ‘We were taking bets on whether you’d be a bad girl.’

‘That’s terrible!’ Gabby says. ‘This is me you’re talking about, remember? I’m the last person in the world who’d misbehave.’

‘Exactly! That’s what I said, but Ella insisted you were in the zone, and once you’re in the zone rational thought goes out of the window. She was convinced you would have made out with him, even though I told her you’d never do that.’

‘What does that mean, “in the zone”?’

‘When lust takes over and you forget everything except the person sitting next to you at the bar,’ Claire explains. ‘I have to say that when we left you were engrossed. We were all trying to get your attention from the other side of the room but you never even looked up.’

‘Of course I didn’t look up,’ blusters Gabby. ‘How could I have done when the view was so pretty? Have you heard from the boys?’ she asks, changing the subject; there is too much noise in her head and she needs quiet to process what happened, or didn’t happen, last night. ‘Any idea when they’re getting back?’

‘Tim just called. They’re going to leave in a couple of hours or so after some off-roading. I’m glad the two boys did this. It’s good for them to have some time together, and even better for us to have down time. Don’t you love it when the house is completely silent on a weekend? This just feels like luxury. I’m exhausted. I’m still in my pyjamas, and I’m not sure I’m going to get dressed at all. I may just lie on the sofa and watch Downton Abbey, eating chocolates. Want to come and veg with me?’

‘I think I may veg on my own sofa,’ Gabby says, unsure that she can face more interrogation. ‘I’m feeling a day of back-to-back Mad Men coming on.’

‘Okay. I’m going to call Ella. She had to practically push that guy off her last night.’

‘Which guy?’

‘That guy Nick? Oh – you weren’t with us. He’s one of the dads from school, apparently, but he was there with a bunch of guys, and he totally came on to Ella. Can you believe it? I mean, I know Ella was flirting, but we all were. It was just fun. This guy thought she was up for it, and Ella knows his wife!’

‘Who’s his wife?’ Gabby is relieved someone else is the focus of the conversation.

‘Jeannie. Quiet, kind of mousy. Her kid is Phoebe.’

‘I know her. And I know the husband. He’s a sleaze.’

‘Now we know for sure. He invited Ella outside for a cigarette, then he grabbed her and tried to stick his tongue in her mouth! Can you believe it? Isn’t that the grossest thing you ever heard?’

‘Oh my God!’ Gabby says. ‘Ella smokes?’

The truth is that she can believe it. She can believe all of it. When they moved to the suburbs in their late twenties, every couple with their first baby, no one would have dreamed of being unfaithful. Too busy building their families, shuffling to mommy and me groups, bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, the women she knew were all wearing maternity clothes either as they waited for babies to arrive, or because they weren’t able to get their pre-pregnancy figures back.

No one had time to exercise, unless it constituted a leisurely walk along the beach with children strapped safely in buggies. They certainly didn’t have the time, energy or inclination to have an affair.

Even the marriages that perhaps should never have been – the marriages kept together by the glue of their children, by the routine of making new friends, building a home in an unfamiliar town – even these trundled along with no question of either husband or wife ever being unfaithful.

The years have passed, and Gabby and her friends are no longer the newcomers to town, the young women who have just had babies and behave as though they are the only women in the world to have ever had babies, demanding that the world stops to accommodate them.

Gabby finds herself standing in line at CVS as a young mother with a baby stresses out over the lack of the right formula. Everything in her body language, her speech, announces that she is a mother! She has a baby! She is more important than everyone else! Gabby looks around and catches the eye of other middle-aged mothers, their grey roots beginning to show, puffy shadows under their eyes, fleeces and clogs their uniform because they can no longer be bothered to dress to impress, and they exchange understanding smiles at these young, entitled women.

I remember when I too thought the world revolved around me, says the smile; I remember when I too thought I knew everything, deserved everything, was entitled to everything and more.

Oh how little we knew.

Few of the mothers worked when Gabby moved to town. They were, they announced proudly, ‘stay-at-home moms’. They volunteered to be room mothers, joined the PTA, accompanied the children on every field trip, showed up in the classroom having spontaneously baked two dozen nut-free, lactose-free, gluten-free cupcakes.

These same women were left stranded when their children turned eleven and moved on to middle school. The women who didn’t work suddenly longed to have something to do all day, wanted to reinvent themselves, or perhaps find themselves again. They would invariably take up Zumba, yoga, meet friends for lunch every day at the Organic Market, before slowly rejoining the work force, some working part-time, others attempting to be CEO of businesses from the comfort of their kitchen table.

Gabby was lucky in that she was able to follow a different path. Using her long-suppressed creativity, she started restoring furniture. Initially it was for herself, but when the other mothers saw how she picked up cheap tables at the consignment store, or the dump, and stripped them, refinishing them to look like beautiful antiques, they wanted her to do the same for them, and soon she could fill as many hours of the day as she wanted, doing something she loved.

A few of her friends have worked all along. Trish, one of the mothers Gabby knows, was one of the first women Gabby knew to have divorced. Soon after her fourth child was born, her husband announced he was leaving her for his secretary. She started designing accessories for the home – vases, trays, boxes, cachepots – and is now stocked throughout the country. Every time a new range comes out she has a house sale in town, always hosted by a different woman. At the end of the day, the hostess and the various friends who have helped her with the sale all have a renewed sense of purpose and ideas for businesses of their own.

Gabby sees how the bodies of her friends have changed. Once soft and squishy, elastic from the stresses and strains of childbirth, those bodies have, in their forties, suddenly been honed into shape by Pilates, yoga, spinning.

After the dowdiness during the days of early parenthood, Gabby is now surrounded by two extremes of women as she approaches her mid-forties. There are the women like her, in their shapeless, comfortable clothes, secure in their husband’s love, in their place in the world. These are the ones who have not felt the need to change themselves as time slips slowly away. Then there are the glamour pusses like Trish, those who have reinvented themselves in middle age – although Trish has doubtless been perfect since the day she was born.

The other glamour pusses may be forty-something, but they are fitter, prettier, far better-dressed than they were back in their late twenties.

Partly because they have to be. In this affluent town, at this age, there is always someone around the next corner who could take their place. And it isn’t just the women who need to be worried. In the last twelve months alone, four women Gabby has known for years – not friends, but women from the neighbourhood – have suddenly left their husbands.

Gabby found herself sitting in their living rooms, drinking coffee and sympathizing as these women told tales of how unhappy they had been for a long time, how terrible their husbands were. She was surprised because the husbands had always seemed delightful. Then the women suddenly lit up, swooning with delight as they described the perfection of their new man. It turned out that in every single case there was another man involved. In one, it was the husband of her best friend. In the others, it was random men picked up at the gym, at an AA meeting, the contractor.

‘But nothing happened,’ they all swore. ‘He was just a friend until we split up.’

None of them thought of herself as the kind of person who would have an affair. Each time, they described these men as their soulmates. Each time, they believed they had found the one person the gods had chosen for them, the one person they were supposed to have married had circumstances not got in the way and slipped in their boring old husbands instead. Why else would they have broken up their marriages, exploded their lives, alienated or, at the very least, caused immeasurable pain to their children? Why else would they have betrayed their spouse so monumentally, so unforgivably, so heartlessly, unless they had no choice?

Of the four wives that left, three of them are no longer with their soulmates. One of them confessed to Gabby that she had made a terrible mistake. She would do anything to turn the clock back, but her husband had met someone else. He was not only happy, but happier than he had been with wife number one. It was too late, and now she spent her kidless weekends at bars much like the one last night, wondering how her life ended up in such a mess.

Gabby, who has always thought of infidelity as a mid-life crisis, hasn’t ever really understood why these women left their stable lives, their loving husbands, their comfortable homes. Until today. Today, when she slouches back on the sofa, blankly staring at the television screen, she knows exactly how these things happen.

‘You have a choice,’ she was fond of saying. ‘Just because you’re married doesn’t mean you’re not attracted to anyone else. You’re married, not dead. We’re all going to be attracted to other people at some point, but ultimately it comes down to a choice.’ So easy to say when you have never been presented with a choice. And honestly? Gabby has never felt an attraction to anyone other than Elliott since the moment they met.

Last night, Gabby had a choice; she had many choices. She could have gone home with her friends. She could have called a cab from the bar. She could have declined to go back to the hotel with him, because, however much she may try to deny it, even to herself, she knew the possibility was there.

That moment in the hotel lobby, late, quiet, when their eyes locked and held, neither of them speaking, chemistry surging in waves … well, she had a choice then. She could so easily have stayed, let him lean forward, kiss her gently on the lips. He didn’t, but she knows he could have done. She sits, playing this moment over and over again in her mind. He didn’t, but he could have done. He didn’t, but he would have done.

And if he had, how would it have felt?

And if he had, how would she be feeling now?

She shudders with lust, but then guilt replaces the small smile that unbeknownst to her has been playing on her lips since she started thinking about him.

She didn’t do anything. She has nothing to feel guilty about. She is married, not dead. This isn’t anywhere near the big deal it could have been, and if she can’t stop thinking about it, so what? This is just … flattery. This is just … pleasurable. Having the undivided attention of someone other than her husband, feeling the sparks of attraction fly between them, was … exhilarating.

Even now, she is torn between feeling sick with guilt at even considering the thought, and elated at still being desirable, still having a sexual power she’s not sure she was ever aware of having. She and Elliott have always had a great sex life, but it is great partly because they are so comfortable with each other. Making love with Elliott is a tried and tested routine, with little variation. She has never wanted more variation, has been perfectly happy with the routine they have; she is almost always brought to orgasm and feels entirely sated afterwards.

But it doesn’t light fires any more. She’s not sure it ever did.

Last night was a blaze of glory.

She pictures Elliott moving inside her, his eyes filled with longing and love, and feels … content. She pictures Matt, imagines him flipping her over, his fingers inside her, his mouth on her nipple, and she gasps, her entire body flooded with desire.

Thank God nothing happened, she thinks. For if he were to phone now, and say, ‘Come with me; I need you at my side,’ she honestly isn’t sure she’d be able to say no. But there was no talk of them staying in touch. Even though Gabby could get hold of him – his contact details flash up on the home page of his website – she knows already she will not.

He is too dangerous, she decides. She cannot be in touch with him.

So it is with a mixture of horror and delight that she suddenly remembers mentioning her own email address during a silly conversation they had at one point in the evening about vanity number plates, vanity names, vanity email addresses … But she convinces herself he’ll never get in touch. Why would he? He must have thousands of women flocking to him, and she was just a passing fancy. Perhaps he has a penchant for older women; perhaps he is attracted to the unavailable. Either way, last night has to be written off as a fun flirtation. It needs to filed away and never thought of again.

Jane Green

TEMPTING FATE

PENGUIN BOOKS

Contents

PART ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two