Caught in the Act. Gemma Fox

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       TWO

      ‘Are you sure that you re ally don’t mind doing this?’ Carol stood near the front door. Her suitcase was over by the hall stand, she was just about ready to leave, and was only too aware of what a stupid question it was. What on earth would she do if Raf turned round and said yes?

      ‘I’ve already told you a dozen times, it’s fine. Besides, you’re always telling me that I’m a Friday-to-Sunday thing. Today’s Friday, I know my place.’ Raf grinned at her grimace and waved her away. ‘Relax, go, have a good time and don’t look so worried. We’ll be all right. I’ve got the list. I know what to water, who to feed and what to turn off. You’re OK about the directions? You know where you’re going? You’ve got everything you need?’

      Carol patted her jacket theatrically. ‘Uh-huh, I think so—let me see: dagger, eyeliner, bad attitude—just about wraps it up. I’m just going to go and say goodbye to the boys and then I’ll be off. Oh, and did I ever mention, don’t fuss?’ she added, acting playfully grumpy, touched that he cared whilst all the while struggling to suppress the feeling that she was sloping off for a dirty weekend.

      She glanced in the hall mirror and tugged her hair into shape. She’d had it cut and coloured. It looked great. She looked great.

      So, OK, Gareth Howard was going to be at the reunion too. So what? So what did that re ally add up to in the great scheme of things? Nothing, not a thing. Anyway, he was probably old and bald and…Carol stopped herself from conjuring up an image of an older worldweary Gareth Howard, aware that Raf was still talking and that she was still smiling and nodding inanely and not listening to a single word he was saying.

      The fantasy Gareth refused to be old and bald; instead he looked more or less exactly the same as when Carol had last seen him, just slightly thicker-set with greying hair, swept back from bold regular features that made him appear distinguished and sexy as hell. Carol sighed; the bastard.

      Tucked into the top of her handbag was a battered copy of Macbeth—stolen from the English and Drama Department twenty years earlier and autographed by all the people who had been there on that last summer tour. Gareth had signed his name with love to her, love and a single kiss. It looked very classy amongst a sea of bad jokes, slushy sentiment and poorly drawn hearts and flowers. Doggedly Carol dragged her attention away from the book and the memories, but it was like trying to take a steak away from a terrier.

      ‘Have a good drive,’ Raf was saying, ‘and don’t worry about anything or anybody here. We’ll be just fine. I’m considering renting a few of those films you said you don’t ever want in this house, and filling up on fast food, pizzas, beer and take-out burgers.’

      She couldn’t think of a smart reply quickly enough, so Carol plumped for looking at Raf all damp-eyed and feeling guilty instead. She’d done nothing at all and yet she felt guilty, horribly guilty. Ridiculous. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Ridiculous.

      Raf put his arm round her waist and kissed her, and Carol immediately found herself wondering if Gareth would kiss her when they met. Did he still kiss the same as he had all those years ago? She seemed to remember he was a re ally good—and then, suddenly horribly aware of Raf’s lips on hers, Carol hated herself for thinking about Gareth. What a cow she had grown up to be.

      Raf looked her up and down admiringly. ‘You know, you’re gorgeous,’ he purred. Carol softened. This man adored her; he cared for her, stood up for her, stood up to her and wanted to be with her. Raf wanted to marry her, for God’s sake—how crazy was that? Over a glass or two of wine out on the terrace he would look up at the stars and wax lyrical about the house they would buy together, the house they would love and grow old in together. He cooked, he bought her flowers and presents that she liked and wanted. He made her laugh; when she was sad or feeling down he brought her carrot cake with proper cream cheese icing from the baker’s on Bridge Street, or lemon drizzle cake with crystallised sugar on the top. Carol looked up into Raf’s big brown smiling eyes and tried very hard not to cry.

      Carol loved Raf and she knew he loved her and yet…and yet, that thing, that, that little zing wasn’t there, that thing that made something happen in your gut every time you saw someone. It was the bastard factor that was lacking, that little edge of unpredictability that adds a bit of a challenge, a bit of bite. Raf was too nice, and it worried Carol. What if she got bored; what if, despite all evidence to the contrary, Raf wasn’t the one after all? What if loving him turned out to be a terrible mistake? What if…? The possibilities haunted her. Raf was so safe, so kind, so right for her—so why was it exactly that she was thinking about the might-have-beens with a man she hadn’t seen for twenty years?