by Shari Low
More cynical looks in my direction. I ignore them.
Jess isn’t letting it go. ‘Natural course? Didn’t you say that you weren’t supposed to see him tonight but you’re going over anyway?’
I ignore her, mostly because she has a fair point. He plays football on a Thursday night, so it was one of our nights apart. But after three glasses of Prosecco, I’d decided I was missing him and that it was a great idea to go and surprise him. ‘Banoffee pie with ice cream, please,’ I tell the waiter. ‘And if you could tell my pals here to stop judging me, that would be lovely.’
I jump out of the cab at the end of Doug’s street. Eleven o’clock. I’m not sure that he’ll be home yet, but I’m happy to sit on the steps outside until he arrives. What does a case of piles matter when you’re rediscovering a past love?
As I reach his doorway, I see that the lights are on. Yes!
I ring the doorbell once, then again after a couple of minutes. I’m just about to press it again when it opens. But it’s not Doug. It’s a stunning, tall, supermodel type, with raven black hair and a wide smile, and only a towel covering her dignity. If this is his cleaner, then she wears a highly unusual uniform and keeps strange hours.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, smiling.
Silence. My teeth have fused together. Then I realise what’s happened. In my state of catatonic bliss, I’ve rung the wrong doorbell.
‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Doug Cook. I must have the wrong house.’
‘No, you haven’t, he’s upstairs. C’mon in.’ She stands back to let me enter, then follows me.
When we reach the lounge, Doug is just coming out of the bedroom, wearing the ‘his’ version of their ‘his & hers’ matching towels. I want to vomit.
‘Carly, this is a surprise. Saskia, this is Callum Cooper’s sister, she’s here to talk about his birthday party,’ he smiles, oozing nonchalance.
What? But… I don’t… Again, what? It takes me a moment before realisation dawns. The bastard! He doesn’t even look shocked. He’s so smooth you could fucking skateboard on him.
‘Carly, this is Saskia.’
‘Nice… nice to meet you.’ I’m stammering, all signals from my brain to my gob being hijacked by sheer disbelief and total fucking fury.
‘You too. I’m just gonna go throw some clothes on, babe,’ she tells Doug, letting her fingers trail across his hips as she sashays past him. I wait until the door closes behind her.
‘You bastard,’ I spit, articulate as ever.
The smug smile on his face tells me that the insult hasn’t even permeated his brain.
Oh, no. Suddenly, I have a flash of understanding.
‘Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, you don’t play football at all, do you?’
‘Nope. Saskia is an air hostess. Those are the nights she’s in town. In saying that, after we’re married, she’s giving up her career. We’re anxious to start a family.’ He’s enjoying every messed-up, tortuous minute of this.
I struggle to stay composed. I will not let this dickhead see me cry.
‘So what was it, Doug? What was all the “love” crap and the “I’m not letting you go again” shit? Was it all some fucked-up game?’
Is there a world record for the number of times that you can swear in one minute? If so, I’m going for it.
He leans back against the wall, still with that lazy smug grin on his face. I want to wipe it off with a brick.
He laughs. ‘What can I say, Carly? You didn’t really believe me, did you? I thought that’s the way people treat each other in your world – they promise everlasting love and affection while they’re shagging someone else.’
So that was it. Good old-fashioned revenge. What’s the penalty for manslaughter these days?
He’s not worth it, though. I dig deep to try and find a shred of dignity. I hold my head up and stare at him. ‘I feel sorry for you, Doug. You’re a sad, sick, pathetic bastard.’
With that, I turn and walk to the door. Please God, don’t let me trip over anything, not when I’m doing the dramatic departure bit. I slam the door for effect, but forget to check that my feet are clear first. Crack! I don’t know if it’s my toes or the door.
I limp to the end of the street (it was my toes) before disintegrating into a hysterical lump. This is all a bad dream.
I hail a taxi and the driver rolls his eyes as I climb in. Just what he needs – a distraught female. Bet he wishes he’d gone off shift early.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Kate’s kitchen, telling her everything.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, I’m talking gibberish after consuming two bottles of wine in record time, my whole life in the bin with the empty bottles.
When she finally puts me to bed, the combination of exhaustion, grief and half a vineyard has me sleeping in two minutes.
I wake with all the symptoms of a heart attack, and in the depths of my self-pity, I’m disappointed to see that it’s only Cameron and Zoe bouncing on my chest.
‘Auntie Carly, Auntie Carly, Mum says you’ve to get your sorry bum downstairs,’ they giggle, finding the word ‘bum’ highly amusing. They take off squealing, one of them chasing the other along the landing and down the stairs.
I attempt to stand, but someone has put the planet at a ninety degree angle without telling me. I pull on my robe and stagger downstairs like a coma patient in Awakenings.
Kate throws a bacon sandwich in front of me.
‘Right, Cooper, you’re allowed one day of feeling sorry for yourself, then it’s time to snap out of it. Any longer than that and you’ll scare the children.’
I push away the sandwich. There’s only one food for me in times of trauma. I search the freezer but come out empty-handed.
‘Kate, why have you never got ice cream in this house?’
‘Because I’ve got kids. The ice cream’s devoured within ten minutes of leaving the supermarket car park.’
I settle for Ambrosia Devon Custard, straight from the tin. If I’ve only got one day of self-pity, then I’d better get started – there’s still the whole dairy section at Sainsbury’s to get through.
17
Never Ever – All Saints
On Saturday night, I volunteer for babysitting duty and send Bruce and Kate to the pub. I adore Cameron and Zoe, and I’ve decided to spend more time with them from now on, as they’re probably the closest I’m ever going to get to kids of my own. Another huge wave of despair washes over me.
When they finally go to bed, I pour a coffee and settle down with a packet of Jaffa Cakes. This is what it’s come to. My big adventure has ended with me sitting in on a Saturday night with a packet of chocolate biscuits.
After several hours of contemplation and lots of crumbs, I realise that it’s over. I haven’t got the heart to go on with this stupid farce any more. I’ve already lost enough – my job, my house, a couple of thousand pounds, not to mention the not insignificant matter of pride. I feel totally defeated. I’ve cried so much in the last few days that Kate now has a man-made stream in her back garden. Well, no more. I’m going to find a job, somewhere to live, beg the credit card companies for mercy and start again.
I call Sarah, the only other person I know who’ll be sitting in on a Saturday night, but the phone rings out. Brilliant. The whole bloody world is out having a great time except me.
When Kate and Bruce return, I tell them that I’m giving up. Bruce pours us a nightcap, then disappears to bed. That man has the patience of a saint.
‘Are you sure?’ Kate asks.
‘Positive. It’s time I grew up and faced reality, Kate. I can’t keep chasing pipe dreams for the rest of my life.’
She nods like an indulgent mother – a normal mother, that is, not one like mine, who’s probably at this moment doing bedtime crunchies with Ivan. I choose not to dwell on the fact that my mother’s love life is more successful than mine.
‘Well, you can stay here until you get organised,’ she offers.
&
nbsp; What would I do without her?
At seven o’clock the next morning, there’s an almighty banging on the door. On a Sunday! If this is a police raid, then they’ve got the wrong house. Unless they’ve come for me on behalf of Mastercard.
Kate, Bruce and I all reach the door at the same time. We let Bruce open it and hide behind him, brave to a fault.
‘Jess!’ he exclaims.
Kate and I peek over his shoulders. Jess is standing there looking like she hasn’t slept for a week and has been dragged through a hedge backwards.
‘When’s your next trip, Carly?’ she stammers.
‘There isn’t one. I’ve given up on the whole idea.’ I can hardly speak for shock.
‘No, you haven’t, you’re going. Where was the next one supposed to be?’
My mind’s gone blank. No, it hasn’t. Tom, Ireland.
‘Em, Dublin, but I’m not…’
‘YES YOU ARE,’ she bellows at me.
My God, what is wrong with her? She’s always the calmest and most composed of us all.
‘Now, get your bags packed, quick,’ Jess goes on.
Kate finally finds her voice. ‘What’s going on, Jess? Tell us what’s happened.’
She rummages in her bag before pulling out a newspaper. She holds up the News of the World. The headline screams:
BASIL AND THE RANDY RESEARCHER.
‘The press have got my flat surrounded. I’m leaving the country before they find me. Cooper, why are you still bloody standing there? Get a move on, I’m not keeping the taxi waiting all day.’
Oh, the excitement! Just when I thought things couldn’t be any more bizarre, I’m now wearing dark glasses, on the run from the tabloid press and sharing an airline bottle of wine with a Randy Researcher. And I seem to have gone from giving up the search to being right back on it, and not of my own free will. This is a mercy mission, I tell myself. I’m only doing it for Jess. If it was down to me, I’d still be drowning in self-pity and wailing into Kate’s biscuit tin. A few days in Ireland suddenly seems like a pretty good idea.
Jess is bearing up remarkably well. There was a brief moment of panic when a nervous looking girl at the ticket desk informed us that the next flight to Dublin was fully booked, but we salvaged the situation by flying business class. Isn’t this what all fugitives do – flee the country while drinking champagne and eating smoked salmon sandwiches?
Dodging anyone who looks even remotely like they could be carrying a press badge, we keep our heads down as we stride through Dublin Airport and over to the nearest car hire desk.
‘I’m sorry, madam, but the only car we have available today is a Fiat Uno.’
Is she serious? I’m 5’8” and Jess is three inches taller. One of us is going to have to travel on the roof rack and since I was the only one who remembered to bring her driving licence, it would have to be Jess. She looks less than amused.
In the end, by using Vaseline, yoga and removing several layers of clothing, we manage to fit in. Lord knows how we’re going to get out again. We’ll need a harness and a crane.
As we hit the motorway for our drive south, I marvel at Jess’s composure. She hasn’t shed a tear. If this were Kate, Carol, Sarah or me, we’d be on our third box of tissues, wailing and beating our chests by now. But not Jess – she’s always been the strongest of the five of us. I can honestly say that I haven’t seen her cry since she was fourteen and she got drunk on illicit cider smuggled into a school disco. She had been inconsolable because the DJ refused to play ‘Stand and Deliver’, by Adam Ant. It was a very emotional time, fuelled by hormones and Strongbow.
As I drive, she starts to relax, as much as she can in an Uno. I still can’t believe I’m here, although now that I am, I’m feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension. I’m not sure I’m ready to fall on my face again, so if I decide to bail out at any point, then I’m going to give myself permission to do so. Although, I might just tell Jess in a note, because right now, I’m mildly terrified of her reaction.
I decide to try to assess the lay of the land.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask her.
Her feet are on the dashboard and she still can’t straighten her legs. ‘Nothing. I’ll stay out of sight for a couple of weeks, then go back and ignore the stares and sniggers. If nothing else, at least it now forces his lordship to make a decision.’
‘Don’t you think he’s more likely to come to you if you’re in the same country? You know, that out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing?’
She laughs. ‘Carol used to say, “out of mind, out of earshot”. Anyway, I’ve had enough of trying to second-guess what he’s going to do. If he’s waiting for me when I get back, then great, if not, then I’ll live. I’ve had enough of being his bit on the side – I deserve better.’
I give her a round of applause, then panic as the car veers off the road.
‘Besides,’ she adds, ‘if all else fails, then I can always sell my side of the story to the News of the Screws. “Randy Researcher Rights the Wrongs”. I’d make a fortune.’
I nod, going with her thought process. ‘Then there’s the book deal, of course, and the obligatory weekly column in a trashy tabloid. Jess, this could open up a whole new world for you,’ I joke. ‘Just don’t forget your friends when you’re famous. The dosh from that lot would keep us in facials for years.’
I switch on the radio, right in the middle of ‘What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted’.
We burst into fits of giggles, then join in with the song.
By the time we reach the nearest village to Tom’s farm, it’s lunchtime and we’re hungry and hoarse. I’m still not sure I’m going to go through with facing him, but maybe I can at least get some info on where he is and what he’s doing. That way, if he has six kids and a devoted wife, I can back away without causing any damage to his life or my heart.
I push Jess out of the car, then she grabs my arms and pulls. Two dislocated shoulders and a slipped disc later, we’re standing outside the village pub. I bang on the locked doors. After a few moments, an elderly gent with wild grey hair, wearing a woolly jumper and old farming trousers, opens it a few inches.
‘Sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you had a room for a few nights?’
‘Sorry, lass. We don’t open on a Sunday.’
I assume my most crestfallen face. ‘Look, please, we don’t know this area very well and we want to visit friends here, the McCallums at Blue Peacock farm.’
He ponders for a few moments, then opens the door wider. ‘I can’t promise you any food, mind, as I say, we’re closed on a Sunday.’
The door is open wide enough now for us to pass through. As we step into the main body of the pub, we’re stunned to see about sixty faces looking at us. The whole population of the village is in here and they’re all sitting in complete silence.
‘It’s all right, now,’ he announces, ‘these lasses are friends of the McCallums.’
They look us up and down, obviously double-checking that we’re not from the Trading Standards Authority, then immediately start chattering again, presumably continuing with the conversations that they were having before we rudely interrupted them by banging on the door.
I turn to the landlord. ‘I thought you said you were closed,’ I say with a grin.
‘Aye, lass, that we are. Except for regulars, of course.’
Within ten minutes, Jess and I have two pints of Guinness and two geriatric companions. By late afternoon, we’re on first-name terms with everyone in the bar and six different families have invited us to their homes for dinner. When the whole pub breaks into a chorus of ‘The Wild Rover’, I astound them by standing on a chair and singing the third verse on my own. As I climb down to rapturous applause, Jess laughs in wonder.
‘Where the hell did you learn that?’ she cries.
‘My gran used to sing it to me when I was a kid, after she’d given me a nip of whisky to help me sleep.’
‘Cooper, suddenly it’s all
become clear. Now I know the seeds of your delinquency were sown in childhood.’
I give her a hug. It’s great to see her laughing and after the day she’s had, she deserves a bit of fun. I call Kate on Jess’s mobile to let her know we’re okay. Mine doesn’t allow international calls but hers is government issue and on an extortionate price plan that covers calls to anywhere in the world.
‘Carly, I can hardly hear you, what’s all that noise in the background?’
‘That’s our new friends and Jess singing “Danny Boy” out of tune,’ I shout.
‘I’m sorry I asked, and even sorrier that I’m not there with you. It sounds like a riot.’
‘Oh, God, hold on, Kate.’
I throw the mobile down and go and rescue Jess, who’s fallen off her bar stool.
I pick the phone back up. ‘Sorry, Kate, what were you saying?’
‘I have a message for you from Carol. She has to go to Tokyo for a three day shoot tomorrow, but she’s got three weeks off after that. She says she’ll meet you in Shanghai if you’re still going.’
‘That all depends on how it works out here. For all I know, I could be Mrs McCallum by the end of the week.’ Ten drinks ago I was still contemplating backing out, so I realise that this new sense of deluded confidence is the alcohol talking.
‘Nothing would surprise me, Cooper. Just give me enough time to buy a floppy hat.’
At eleven o’clock, having consumed a keg of Guinness, four packets of cheese and onion crisps and two packets of peanuts, the landlord, whom we now know is Seamus, married to Nula, with eight kids and a collie, gives us a room key.
I wake the next morning on a single bed, with Jess’s feet in my face.
Getting her up requires brute strength and violent threats, but eventually I succeed and we stumble downstairs. Seamus is waiting with two cups of tea that could unblock drains.
‘Thanks, Seamus, you’re a star,’ Jess mumbles.
