Other Half - Softcover

1


There were three men opposite her, all hard at it. One had been going for ages and had worked up a real sweat. Every stroke was accompanied by a noisy “ooof.” The other two seemed more blasé. Chloë struck up her own rhythm, feeling self-conscious.
There’s something sexual about rowing machines, she thought, with their rhythmic propulsion backward and forward. Particularly the machines at this gym, which are set up facing each other, toe to toe.
As she realized this, it seemed the men did too. They appeared to be looking at her, and trying not to. For the briefest moment, she knew what it might be like to have sex with them all. Simultaneously.
The “ooof” man was the fittest—a muscular, ruddy-cheeked, rugby type, determined to go faster than anyone else. He’d be crap in bed, she decided, governed by his own ego. To his right, a nice guy. He smiled at Chloë when she caught his eye and looked skyward, as if to say in camaraderie, Why are we putting ourselves through this? Yet it was the man on the far left who looked the most appealing: a slender, long-distance-runner’s body, a poetic face. And inevitably—once he’d given her a cursory glance—no interest in Chloë whatsoever.
However hard she worked out, Chloë would never have the kind of physique that was attractive to all men, which, of course, was what she wanted. Instead she was lumbered with a voluptuous appeal that a few found irresistible but many far too much. She had a bosom, hips, a tummy. And whereas some women seemed to gain a certain something when they “glowed” in the aftermath of exercise, Chloë simply looked dishevelled and hot. Momentarily she worried that this was how she looked during sex—a nightmare thought, best not contemplated.
I’m at that point in life, thought Chloë as she left the gym, where men don’t wolf whistle as much as they used to. And although publicly she liked to dismiss whistling as animal behavior at its vilest, privately she found it galling to be no longer readily appreciated.
A short walk up Battersea Rise and she was home. Experience had taught her that unless a gym was on her doorstep she’d find any excuse not to go.
“Hiya,” she called. As the front door banged, the whole place seemed to shake.
“Hi there,” came a familiar voice. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
A delicious smell was wafting toward her. Chloë dumped her bag on the chair kept in the hall because one of its legs was broken and there was no room for it elsewhere, and went into the kitchen.
“Love one,” she said, picking at the spaghetti.
“Stop it!”
“Oh, Rob.” She leaned her head on his shoulder and messed his blond hair. “What would I do without you?”
He passed her a glass of red. “Starve.”
* * *
Chloë Appleton was hurtling toward thirty years of age with a speed that made her feel compelled to get a move on with her life. Thanks to an impatient and demanding nature, in those decades she’d already experienced a great deal to distress and irk her. Born to an affluent intellectual couple in comfortable West London, vexation had started at three with the arrival of a younger sibling, a round-faced, fat-limbed baby whom everyone—especially her parents—adored. She didn’t like sharing them, yet she was also wooed by her new brother, and photos of the time showed her veering between anxiety and sisterly affection; one of her father cuddling her while she squinted worriedly at the camera, another of her leaning over Sam and stroking his apple cheeks.
Over the years they’d grown closer, united by the adversity of their parents’ divorce. Now he lived in California with an affable Australian who, Chloë acknowledged, was probably his soul mate. The patterns of old reemerged: on one hand she envied their relationship, on the other she enjoyed their company. Above all she missed Sam. So after supper she sat down at the desk in her bedroom, shoveled her way through a mountain of papers, and turned on her laptop to type him an e-mail.
To: Sam Appleton
Subject: Spaghetti
How goes it? Has our dreadful cousin gone yet? Did you do that Couples’ Weekend Michele had her heart set on? (I have a bizarre vision of you both sitting naked banging drums in the desert as you bond with your Native American souls—correct me if I’m wrong…) Or did your English cynicism win through and see you pull out at the eleventh hour?
At this end all is much the same—still got the bargain apartment, the job at Babe’s going well, and I’m hardly Chloë No Mates—yet occasionally I wonder if something’s missing. Rob and I are getting on fine, but I’m beginning to think there’s a limit to how long we can carry on sharing the same space. Sometimes my head feels like a plate of spaghetti (and that’s not because he’s just cooked me some—he’s great in that way) that could do with unraveling.
I suppose this mood will pass. Anyway, I haven’t time to worry—I’m presenting that proposal I told you about tomorrow. And if that takes off, I’ll have heaps to keep me amused. On that note, I must finish it before I go to bed, so best stop procrastinating and crack on.
Love,
Chloë
Xox
By the time Chloë had finished, Rob was already brushing his teeth in the bathroom.
“All done then?” he said, mouth full of toothpaste.
“Yup.” She struggled to squeeze the last remnant from the tube. He gargled while she brushed, sharing the basin. Although she occasionally griped about Rob, she loved these moments of intimacy. There was no one she felt more able to relax with, even after so many years.
In many ways I’m lucky, she thought. We rarely argue, we give each other unconditional support, and our friends get on like a house on fire. Some married couples do a lot worse.
Ablutions completed, it was time to hit the sack.
“Night, then,” said Rob, disappearing into his room and closing the door.
“Night,” said Chloë. She stripped off her clothes, throwing them onto the floor where they added to the growing pile. Exhausted, she climbed into bed and turned out the light.
* * *
The alarm went off at seven forty-five. Chloë checked she was okay after her workout. “Good, don’t seem too achy,” she muttered. (First sign of madness, talking to yourself.) She listened to Thought for the Day, gleaned a sound bite of spirituality, and threw back the duvet.
Kettle on, swift rinse of a dirty mug to make it fit for coffee, feed the cat.
That’s the last of the Whiskas, she thought, I must remember to buy more—and toothpaste. Why do I never have time to go to the supermarket? I always seem to end up paying over the odds at the corner store.
Rob, dead to the world, wouldn’t be up for another hour. Chloë envied his ability to sleep that soundly.
So, what to wear? She had a meeting with the new publisher at ten thirty. Her Whistles suit. Shit! She’d splodged Bolognese down the skirt last night. A riffle through her closet revealed nothing appropriate was clean.
I’ll never make it to editor at this rate, she thought. What I need is a wardrobe of natty little numbers, all interchangeable, carefully ironed and perfect for impressing one’s superiors.
Over the years Chloë had commissioned numerous articles about the merits of coordinating colors and capsule wardrobes, yet she was still more inclined to buy clothes when she fell in love with them rather than because they fulfilled a useful...