by Jane Fallon
‘Do you know what? I do know what it feels like to be laughed at. Because my wife showed up at my work drinks last night, got absolutely shitfaced and made a complete fucking fool of herself. And me. Maybe you should be apologizing to me.’
I feel like tearing my hair out. I know I’ve probably handled this all wrong but I have to keep reminding myself that I’m the wounded party here.
‘I don’t understand why you’re being like this,’ I say, faking calmness now. Maybe I can appeal to his better nature, if it’s still in there somewhere. ‘OK, I admit it must have been embarrassing for you last night but I didn’t set out to humiliate you. Unlike what you’ve been doing to me.’
‘Georgia. I have no idea where this has come from. No idea what you think you know. But I am not having an affair. And if you don’t believe me then that says more about you than it does about me.’
He stomps down the stairs again, grabs his coat. ‘I’m going to Dom’s.’
‘No … Nick. We need to talk about this …’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he says. He has never stormed out in anger in the whole twenty years of our marriage. Then again, I’ve never accused him of repeat offending before. I want to say don’t go round to Dom’s. At least try Anne Marie and Harry first. People who like me. Who like us, as a couple. I know Anne Marie would do her best to persuade him to come clean. But what if he then decides to go to Lou’s or Siobhan’s …?
‘Oh yes, run off to your Neanderthal of a mate. You can go out on the pull together,’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘Why would I want to do that when I’m already having an affair with Lou and/or Siobhan apparently?’
‘Just tell me which one it is.’
‘Jesus Christ, Georgia! Where the fuck has this come from?’ He’s shouting now. Igor lets out a little whine and slopes off down to the kitchen. I feel awful for him, but I can’t follow him now.
‘I know, Nick! I know. Don’t you understand? There’s no point in trying to deny it any more.’
He grabs his phone and his keys. ‘You have lost your mind.’
Then he walks out of the front door and slams it behind him.
He doesn’t come home all night. I have to stop myself from calling Dom to ask if he’s really there. What difference does it make? We’re past the point of no return.
Obsessively I google Lou – Louise is my best guess – Talent Liaison, Diamond Leisure. And there she is: Louise Carlyle. There are even a couple of photos. Work-related. I find her Instagram and she’s there in all her glory, pouting at the camera, holding her cockapoo, hugging her mum. Her bio just says Loving Life! so I know she’s pretty much an idiot. No sign of Nick but then no sign of any other suitor either. Lots of friends – sunbathing, skiing, drinking. Her Twitter page is easy to find because she’s with the same little dog in her profile picture. I scour her photos but I’ve already seen most of them. I search the word ‘Nick’ on her timeline and there’s nothing. I check I’m on Patricia’s account, like a couple of photos of the dog, and hit follow.
Next up is Siobhan. There only seems to be one at Diamond Leisure. Siobhan Farrow. Events Coordinator. Her Instagram account is private but her profile picture is of the same red-haired, pale-skinned woman I met. Her Twitter is harder to find but I cross-reference possibles with people Lou follows and eventually there she is. I hunt through her pictures. There are several with the same man, a striking white-blond Viking. The most recent is from two weeks ago. Not that that means anything. If Nick had a Twitter account he would probably have pictures of him with me on there. Patricia follows her too. Hopefully she and Lou aren’t sad enough to discuss new followers but, just in case, I take Patricia on a random following spree adding twenty-odd unrelated strangers to her list.
While I am getting ready to go to bed – it’s barely even nine o’clock but I just want this day to be over – Joe rings. Like every parent, calls from my kids are the only ones I can never ignore. It’s out of the question that I let it go to voicemail, but it’s also out of the question that I allow him to pick up on what’s going on, so I tell myself to get a grip and answer in my happiest voice.
‘Maaaaaaaate!’
‘Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaate!’ he replies, so I know that all is well.
‘Why in’t you down the pub with some sort?’
‘Early night, innit?’ he replies. Sometimes our whole conversations are like this. It’s as if we silently dare each other to give up first. It’s become like a code. If we’re both playing along then all is right with the world. Usually I’m the one to crack, desperate to hear the real goings-on in his world, but tonight I could stay locked in our in-joke forever.
‘Put the old fella on,’ he drawls.
‘He’s at Dom’s,’ I say, breaking character.
‘Ah. Lovely Uncle Dom.’ Joe and I have bonded over our lack of enthusiasm for Dom before. Always jokingly, and always in front of Nick, of course, because I didn’t want my kids to think I’d be disrespectful to their father like that. Joe once described him to Nick as ‘your unreconstructed lunk of a friend’ and I think that sums him up pretty well. He and Nick have been mates since college – Dom is my Lydia equivalent – and they don’t have much in common these days except a shared history, which, to be fair, you really can’t underestimate. Dom is divorced and refers to his ex-wife as ‘that bitch’. Her crime? Realizing what a 1970s throwback she’d married and wanting out. I can imagine him now, encouraging Nick to come back to the single life. He’s always wanted a wingman on his nights out.
‘I’m surprised you didn’t go along,’ Joe says.
‘Maybe next time,’ I say and we both laugh, knowing that would never happen.
I manage to get through the call without giving anything away and, despite everything that’s happening, I feel a lot better by the time we say goodbye. Somehow I sleep, arm draped over the comforting heft of my dog. He uses Nick’s absence as an opportunity to conquer more of the bed, sprawling out across the whole space, sighing contentedly. For a blissful moment when I wake up everything feels normal until the memories come crashing in. My world has gone to shit and I have no idea how to fix it.
CHAPTER 18
Of course I’ve completely forgotten that my mum is coming to stay. Of course I have.
She comes for two nights every February. One with us and one with my auntie Liz in Leigh-on-Sea. Usually the dates are imprinted on my brain. Except that this year isn’t like any other year. I barely even know what day it is.
‘Mum, could we maybe put it off for a few weeks?’ I say tentatively when she calls first thing to remind me what time she ’s arriving at Stansted. ‘Things are a bit fraught here. I’m really behind with work …’
‘I always come at this time, Georgia,’ she says, as if this is news to me. ‘I’ve got all your Christmas presents.’
Mum and Frank spend Christmas Day at ‘the Club’ these days, with their cronies. They took me there the one time I went to stay and it was like walking on to the set of a film about the Kray twins. I was terrified someone would light a match because the heady combination of hairspray and Old Spice would have killed us all in a second. Their friends were all very pleasant, if a bit bemused by my job (‘What’s your old man thinking of, making you work like that?’) and my personal style (‘You could be a stunner if you dressed a bit more ladylike’). ‘She’s a famous author,’ my mum kept saying to anyone who’d listen, me cowering with embarrassment, but once they’d established I wasn’t Len Deighton they all pretty much lost interest.
‘Frank’s booked to play golf with the boys.’ By boys I assume she means his bunch of seventy-five-year-old friends, most of them made up entirely of joint replacements. There’s not a real knee, hip or elbow among them but nothing will keep them from their eighteen holes in the blistering sun.
‘It’ll just be me, I’m afraid. Nick’s had to go away for a work thing, he had no choice about the dates. And obviously the kids aren’t here this year.�
� There’s no point fighting it, and I don’t want to upset her. I can’t bring myself to tell her the truth though. She’d probably get Frank to organize a hit on Nick.
‘Well, we’ll have a lovely girls’ night in. Or out. We could go into town. Where’s good these days?’
‘I’m knackered, Mum.’ Sometimes I feel as if I’m the parent in this relationship. My mother would be out partying every night if I let her. ‘We can stay home and chat. I’ll cook you a roast.’ That gets her. She loves her little corner of expat Spain but she misses a traditional roast by a fire. Snow outside. ‘The weather’s awful; you’ll love it.’
‘Ooh, good. I’ll pack a scarf.’
I send Lydia a quick text. Mum over tomorrow! I completely forgot. Can you come?? Nick and kids not here and I need reinforcements!
Of course!!! she texts back. I have a thing at 8ish but I’ll come up first.
A date???
Sort of. Gallery opening in Westbourne Park. With that Simon I met in Pret.
I do remember. Not Simon but ‘Seeemon’. French, I think she said. Only Lydia could go to buy a lunchtime sandwich and come out with a number in her phone and an entry in her diary.
Are you sure you can face coming up here first?
Definitely!!! I wouldn’t miss your mum for the world! And it won’t matter if I’m late the other end xx.
Clearly poor old Simon’s days are numbered before they’ve even begun.
At three o’clock the following afternoon I’m waiting in arrivals, trying to spot my mum’s bottle-blonde heavy fringe. She’ll be dragging a wardrobe disguised as a carry-on bag and I know that in there she’ll have a carefully coordinated outfit for every possible occasion. Just in case. Finger- and toenails pristine. Thick black eyeliner. I don’t think I’ve seen her without make-up since she had food poisoning when I was about twelve. Even then she tried to get me to help her apply some before my dad came home from work. She’ll be clicking along on high heels, tan the colour of gravy.
Suddenly there she is – one advantage of us both being tall is that we can easily spot each other in a crowd – looking as if she’s being sponsored by Louis Vuitton. As ever, when I see her I’m hit with a rush of love and guilt. I don’t visit her often enough. I should make the effort to go over and see her, Frank or no Frank. I should insist she stays for longer. She always used to, but without meaning to I kept finding reasons to whittle the days down. Her face lights up. Big open smile, arms outstretched. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted my mum.
On the drive back we catch up on everything with the exception, of course, of Nick. I sent him a text last night. Mum here tomorrow. Told her you’re away for work.
Fine, he sent back.
Talking to my mum in person is an entirely different experience to talking to her on the phone. She hates the phone. Conversations are an exchange of information only. A Q and A. Are you well? How’s the weather? Did you finish your book yet? In real life she’s garrulous and funny. A compendium of stories about her neighbours, Frank, our relatives. During the rest of the year I worry about her. Is she happy? Is her age starting to show? And then I see her and those worries just dissipate. I wish she’d come over more often. I’ve offered to pay her fare, not that she needs me to, but she says she doesn’t like to leave Frank. And, unspoken in that sentence, is the fact that she knows I’d rather she didn’t bring him with her.
It strikes me suddenly that I have no right to judge the man my mother is in love with on any other basis than does he make her happy? Does he treat her well? And the answer to both – unless she is a brilliant actress and, having once seen her in the Harrow on the Hill am-dram performance of A Streetcar Named Desire I am pretty confident she’s not (‘Aah have awlways deehpended awn the koyndness of strayngeers’) – is yes.
‘How’s Frank?’ I ask.
She beams at me. ‘He sends his love.’ I’m guessing he didn’t. He picked up on my disapproval early on. Kept out of my way.
‘You should both come over sometime. In the summer maybe.’
‘Really?’ she says, and that one word breaks my heart. ‘Well, we’d absolutely love that.’
We spend the rest of the afternoon cooking together like we used to when I still lived at home. She’s still in her heels. Igor follows her around, staring at her feet as though he’s never seen anything like it. Every time she moves he wags his tail. ‘He’s got a foot fetish,’ my mum laughs. ‘Weirdo,’ she says affectionately, ruffling his head.
Lydia shows up just before six. Squeals when she spots my mum. ‘It’s so lovely to see you!’
‘You’re too thin,’ is the first thing Mum says. ‘We’re cooking a roast.’
‘I can’t. I’m going out,’ Lyds says, shrugging out of her coat. ‘What time did you get here?’
‘Don’t try and change the subject. At least have a couple of potatoes.’
Because my mum has absolutely no filter she fires questions at Lydia that are so direct even I wouldn’t ask them. Why don’t you just pick a nice bloke and settle down? (Because I’ll regret it. I’m holding out for the big one.) Why don’t you look for another job if you hate it so much? (Because then I’ll just be stuck doing something else I don’t want to do.) Why don’t you get George to show your drawings to her publishers? (Awkward silence.)
‘It’s not really the done thing, Mum. Me and my new editor don’t really get along …’
By the time Lydia leaves – on her way to being at least twenty minutes late for poor old Simon – she looks as if she’s just faced an inquisition, but I know deep down she loves it. Only someone who considers you family would badger you that much without worrying that it might piss you off.
Once she’s left, Mum and I share a bottle and a half of wine, sitting on the sofa, FaceTiming the kids somewhere along the way. She tells me that Frank is having a bit of bother with his prostate, ‘but nothing that can’t be fixed’. I can tell she’s worried. I squeeze her hand.
‘If you want me to come over when he’s in hospital …’
‘No, no,’ she says. ‘You’re much too busy. I’ve got a lot of friends. I’ll be OK. To be honest, it’ll be nice to have the house to myself for a bit.’ I’m pretty sure she doesn’t really mean it but I don’t want to push. I’ve spent too many years avoiding going out there for her to feel she can accept.
As I hug her goodnight on the landing she puts both hands on the sides of my face.
‘I know there’s something wrong,’ she says gently. ‘But I’m not going to push.’
The temptation to offload, to spill out the whole story, is almost overwhelming. But all I’ll do then is pass the worry on to her. I might feel better for a few minutes, but she’ll be left having sleepless nights.
‘I’m fine, Mum,’ I say. ‘Just work, you know …’
‘If you say so, love.’
Just knowing she’s in the next room – even if my traitorous dog has deserted me to occupy her bed (she’s been sneaking him treats all evening, both of them acting as if they thought I had no idea. Nothing to see here) – means I have the best night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks.
‘I meant it,’ I say when I steer her towards the Leigh-on-Sea train next morning. ‘Both of you come and stay in the summer.’
‘I’d love that,’ she says. ‘We both would.’ I wrap her up in a hug.
‘You know you can always talk to me if you need me,’ she says as I let her go.
CHAPTER 19
‘So, you see, if we can move Wilbur on. Bring him into the 2020s …’
I’m finding it hard to concentrate. ‘You want Wilbur to be more woke?’
Bibi, my editor, nods. Her name is actually Julia, she told me once after a couple of glasses of Prosecco at a launch party, but she felt she deserved something more exotic. Bibi rarely drinks. She thinks it upsets her chakras. She lives in Hoxton and she drops the ‘g’s from the end of all her words, but she’s actually landlady to her housemates in the five-bedroom terrace her parents b
ought her, and she went to Cheltenham Ladies’ College. ‘We want him to appeal to the millennials. So that when they start to have children he’s their go-to book. We need to bulletproof his future.’
‘He’s a wallaby,’ I say. ‘He’s not really political.’
She nods. ‘And I wonder if we should think about his pronouns.’
Bibi hasn’t been my editor long. She took over when Leah, who had looked after my first five books, got promoted. I 100 per cent know she doesn’t have the emotional investment in me that Leah did and that if Wilbur’s sales plummet for whatever reason she won’t be putting her neck on the line to save me any time soon. We’re having the rescheduled meeting that I slept through the other day. I’d assumed it was just of the ‘When will the new book be ready, we’d like to publish in September?’ variety, but it seems not. At this point I’m finding it hard to act as if I care. Nick hasn’t been in touch since he stormed out. Yesterday, after I’d said goodbye to Mum, I called Lydia and she dropped her plans and came over after work – I didn’t want to leave the house for more than about fifteen minutes in case Nick returned to collect more clothes and I missed him. I’d decided I needed to tell her about what he was up to. I mean, she knew, obviously. She knew more than I did. But we hadn’t actually talked about it. At least, not as Lydia and Georgia. Now that Nick had moved out it made no sense for me not to fill her in. It had gone way beyond her confiding in Patricia. And besides, I was hoping maybe it would give her an excuse to tell me what she knew. To let a few things slip. I had to fudge what I said, obviously, but luckily she didn’t seem interested in where my original suspicions had come from. Too much had happened since to eclipse the importance of that. And, of course, she already knew he was guilty, so I knew she’d definitely hear me out.
‘Jesus. You poor thing. Shit, George, that’s awful.’ She was acting, obviously, pretending that what I had to say was news to her. ‘Is that why … what you’ve been arguing about?’
