Worst Idea Ever

by Jane Fallon

  CHAPTER 28

  ‘I think I believe him.’ Joe is wolfing down the pizza I prepared as if he thinks he might never see food again. Whenever he thinks I’m not looking he flicks a bit into the dog’s bowl. Igor gazes at him as if he’s met his god. ‘He seems really fed up.’

  I’m feeling bad that I blurted out the truth. Edie had called me back, tearful, after Joe had broken the news. ‘Is it really true?’ she’d said hopefully, as if I might be able to tell her that Joe had got it all wrong. I’d gone through the whole story again, as gently as I could. Nothing good can come of pitting them against their father. I murmur now something about it all working out in the end. I don’t mean it, obviously. I’m desperate to quiz Joe about what exactly his father said but I know that’s probably item 41 in The Bad Parenting Handbook, so I leave it be. ‘Well, I’m glad you saw him, anyway.’

  ‘Dom’s place is hideous,’ he says, folding a slice of pizza in half and then quarters. ‘Imagine somewhere Donald Trump might live if he had no money and even less taste. Lots of black and chrome.’

  I laugh. ‘Has Dad got his own room?’

  Joe shakes his head. ‘On the sofa. He looks a mess.’

  Despite everything that’s happened it still hurts to think of Nick like that. I’d hate him to be living in the lap of luxury, don’t get me wrong, but I get no pleasure from imagining him sleeping in someone’s front room like a student couch-surfer. ‘Was Dom there?’

  He pushes his plate away; then remembers the dog and puts it on the floor in front of him. ‘Joe!’ I say over the ecstatic slurping.

  ‘What? No point it going to waste.’

  ‘Honestly. I’m trying to teach him manners.’

  Joe ruffles Igor’s head. ‘Good boy.’ Between the leftover pizza and the praise I think my dog might explode with happiness. He thumps his tail on the floor and the whole room shakes. ‘He was out, thank God. Dom. I didn’t have to go through the whole “What would I give to be back at college, all those fit birds. Are you pulling?” routine.’

  ‘Yes, because they’d all be fighting over a fat, sweaty, balding forty-five-year-old man, I imagine.’

  ‘It’s all muscle,’ Joe says in Dom’s booming public-school tones. Sometimes I’ve felt a bit sorry for Dom. His glory days are firmly behind him. All that wasted privilege, everything handed to him on a plate and nothing to show for it. Just memories of his time at school and university when he thought he was someone special. Obviously that thought disappears as quickly as it comes every time he opens his mouth and spouts some unreconstructed piece of nonsense. I can only be so tolerant.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ I say, tears springing to my eyes. I turn away to the freezer and rummage around for something I can conjure up a dessert from. I know the way to my boy’s heart.

  Once Joe has left on Monday morning, weighted down with home-made biscuits that I got up at six to rustle up, and every carton of toothpaste, bottle of shampoo or tin of beans I could lay my hands on (‘This is like Buckaroo,’ he said, protesting as I handed him a stuffed carrier bag for each hand), I go through my Twitter ritual, making sure I’m on Patricia’s account in case I accidentally like or respond to something. There are no private messages. No enticing little ‘1’ in the corner of the screen. I check Lydia first. She’s put up a couple of photos of the graffiti exhibition she went to last night. Of the artwork, not of Wes, her date.

  Cool, Patricia says, as if she would have any idea.

  Next up is Siobhan. There’s a comment about the weather (Really, Nick? You’ve left me for a woman who tweets about the weather?). I work backwards and there’s a photo of her and the Viking at a party. They make a striking couple. Her petite and red-haired, him the size of a shipping container and pale blond. Big old beard. He’s good-looking if you’re into brawn. Which I’m not. I’ve never seen the appeal of being with someone who could squash you in the throes of passion. Who has bigger breasts than you do. They seem to have a dog that looks a lot like him. Large, golden and a bit thick. It’s cute. I have to admit they look happy. Well suited. He has a protective arm around her and they’re both beaming at the camera. If I’m being truthful it’s hard to picture her sneaking off and meeting my somewhat metrosexual husband. And would he risk being torn apart by this monster if they were caught out? Would it be worth it?

  I’ve saved the best till last. I open up Lou’s page. There’s something about Lou that I find compelling in the worst way. She’s so awful. Such a type. Every tweet is about Prosecco, girls’ nights out or Chris Hemsworth. She loves a meme with a pithy saying. Wake me up at wine o’clock or Of course I have my 5 a day. Wine is made from grapes! She’s like an overgrown teenager. There’s a new picture of her on a night out, arms drunkenly round her friends, sticking her tongue out at the camera. I expand it as much as I can, looking for Nick’s face in the background, but there’s not a man in sight. Before things got messy!! the tweet reads, followed by a variety of incomprehensible emojis. Hashtag LoveTheseLadies. I have no doubt this woman would steal your husband soon as look at you.

  As if by magic I’m saved from stalking Lou when I notice a message has popped up. Lydia.

  Patricia, are you there???

  Hello! I was just looking at your pictures of that graffiti exhibition. It looks fabulous. I must try to get there.

  Shit, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t want her to think Patricia being available to come up to London to look at art is a possibility. Knowing Lydia she would suggest meeting up. I crank the radiator up while I wait. Flick the kettle on.

  Have you got a moment to dispense some Patricia wisdom?

  Always, I type.

  It’s an age till she responds. I potter about tidying the kitchen. Joe has left a tsunami of devastation in his wake and I’m glad of something to do. This morning he and I took Igor on a long trek round Regent’s Park and we all trailed mud and God knows what else back into the house. Joe seemed calmer. Happier now he’d seen his dad and declared a potential mistrial.

  I saw Nick the other night. I was on a date of all things and he called me sounding so angry. Georgia had told their son (he’s 18, they have twins) that he’s having an affair and he – the son – had stormed straight round there. He was furious (Nick)!!! And then at one point he said, ‘What if she’d been there when he came round?’ Meaning the girlfriend!!! He admitted there is one!!!! But he managed to convince Joe there wasn’t. Which, I suppose, is a good thing for now. Sorry, I’m rambling! But what do I do??? I don’t want to be put in this position where I know things I shouldn’t. I don’t want to be the one to tell Georgia that it’s definitely true. And that he’s basically told me while he’s still refusing to be straight up with her!! God, he’s such a bastard!!!!

  I reach out a hand to cling on to the back of a chair. So he’s still seeing her. And he’s prepared to admit that to anybody except me and our kids, it seems.

  I sit in my office and stare at my drawing pad, Igor at my feet. I need to do something proactive. I can’t just let myself be manipulated like this. Now that the kids know at least part of the story I have nothing to lose except my dignity, which actually seems to be long gone. Usually I find sketching calming. Therapeutic. Today it feels like pulling teeth. My computer pings to tell me an email has arrived. Bibi. I wondered if you’d had any thoughts re our chat the other day? I think about responding Yes, I did. It was absolute bollocks, but instead I slam the lid down and leave the room.

  So you’ll talk to Lydia about it, but not to me? I text to Nick. I know he’s at work and probably won’t read it for ages, but it makes me feel better. I pace around the house, unable to settle to anything. This is the problem with working from home. No one else is around. I can’t just call Anne Marie or Lyds for a debrief. I have no colleagues I can distract myself with. It’s just me and my own brain. And my dog. I’ve never found it lonely before but now I feel desperate for company.

  We need to talk about what happens next, I send an hour late
r when I haven’t heard from him. You and whoever can run off into the sunset. I don’t care any more. We just need to sort out the practicalities and we can only do that if you’ll stop playing games. I feel better once it’s gone and then immediately much, much worse. What have I done? Apart from anything else I’ve probably dropped Lydia right in it.

  I pace the house. This is agony. Why isn’t he responding? I decide to walk up to the shops, just for a change of scenery. It’ll give me an excuse to get dressed, apart from anything else.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m halfway to looking human but it feels like too mammoth an effort to actually leave the house. I circumvent the front door and head down to the kitchen. I’ll just have a coffee first.

  Eventually I drag myself out, Igor straining at the lead. We walk past the shops and just keep going, up the hill through Steeles Village and Belsize Park. I’m sweating despite the cold but I keep pushing the pace, trying to drive the thoughts out of my head. We walk for what feels like hours before we turn back for the – thankfully – downhill trek home. Somehow the sweat and the freezing drizzle have silenced my brain. I’m not thinking unhappy thoughts; I’m no longer thinking at all beyond how to put one foot in front of another. By the time we reach Primrose Hill again I’m feeling weak from the exertion. Igor pulls ahead, back on familiar territory, eager to get home and sleep probably. I know how he feels.

  We turn the corner and I stop when I see a familiar figure standing on my doorstep.

  Tall. Long, straight, dark blonde hair. Sneery expression. She probably barely recognizes me, having only met me once, but I know every inch of her face. I’ve been picking over her photos on social media like I was a forensic scientist and she was blood spatter. I think about turning away, walking back the way I came. But she’s seen me.

  ‘Lou?’

  ‘Can I come in?’ she says. ‘It’s fucking freezing out here.’

  CHAPTER 29

  ‘Have you been waiting long?’ I say as I open the front door. What do I care if she has? What is she actually doing here? How does she know where I live? Has she been here before? It occurs to me briefly that this is like the opener to one of those true-crime TV shows. Hapless wife allows scheming mistress into her home and is never seen again. At least my fearsome hound will protect me. I let him off his lead and he rushes over to Lou, tail wagging as if she’s his long-lost mother.

  ‘Hello, handsome,’ she says, putting out a hand and stroking his head. I want to tell her to get her mitts off my dog. I know where those hands have been.

  ‘I only just got here. It’s my lunch hour so …’

  ‘So, to what do I owe this honour?’ I interrupt. I should probably offer her a drink or to take her coat or something but I don’t want to give her the impression that she can stay. She peels her damp layers off anyway, draping them over the banister, leaving her in a tightly fitted jumper and snugly tailored trousers. She has an incredible figure. It’s impossible not to notice. I look away.

  I’m desperate for a coffee. Anything hot. A sit-down. My feet ache and I’m soaked through. But I don’t want to invite her in any further, so I stand there in my wet things, waiting to hear what she has to say.

  ‘I’m not having an affair with Nick.’

  ‘Right …’

  ‘I know you think I am. Or Siobhan. She’s not either.’

  ‘And you’ve come all this way to tell me this? Protesting too much, don’t you think?’

  ‘I have no idea what that means. But yes, I have come all this way, on my lunch hour, when I’d much rather be eating or shopping or even sleeping at my desk, to tell you that I think you’re wrong. I don’t think Nick is seeing anyone, if I’m being honest.’

  I don’t know what to think. Do mistresses do this? What would it achieve?

  ‘And how would you know that?’

  ‘The state of him. He looks like death and it’s affecting his work. Badly. And the rest of us are running around like blue-arsed flies having to cover for him. Listen, I know you don’t like me – for whatever reason – but I’m worried about Nick and this was the only thing I could think to do.’

  I’m so confused. If I didn’t know better I would think that this woman was totally genuine. I’m racking my brains, trying to think what she could gain from this visit.

  ‘Can we sit down somewhere? You look like you need to anyway.’

  ‘Downstairs,’ I say, letting her go ahead while I take off my coat and throw it over hers.

  She turns back and looks at me. ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘How is that any of your business?’

  She stops on the stairs and I almost walk into her. ‘Because he’s my boss and he’s falling apart and that’s affecting my work and everyone else’s. Because I’ve been working for Nick for four years and I’m really fond of him actually. Because it just fucking is. You made sure of that.’

  ‘I was told …’ I say.

  ‘That he was shagging me?’ She throws herself down at the table, takes off one painfully high shoe and massages her bare foot. Pink toenails. Who wears heels and no tights in this weather? I turn on the kettle. I want to hear what she has to say now.

  ‘That he was sleeping with one of his department. That whoever it is she was there the night I came to the pub.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Oh well, if you say so …’ I hold up the coffee jar, somehow making it an aggressive act. She nods.

  ‘Listen. I didn’t come here for your sake. I don’t know you; I couldn’t give a fuck about you …’

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ I say, sploshing milk into the coffee without even asking her if she wants any. She ignores me. ‘We should do it more often.’

  ‘… I came because Nick’s my friend, as well as my boss. And because I don’t want our team to all look bad because his eye’s off the ball.’

  ‘How selfless of you.’ I plonk the coffee down in front of her.

  ‘You know what?’ she says. ‘If I thought he was playing around I’d take great pleasure in telling you because you really are a class-A bitch.’

  ‘Takes one to know one.’ I’ve never spoken to another woman – another person – like this. I’m finding it strangely liberating even though I know I’ll probably hate myself for it later.

  ‘Oh, forget it,’ she says, standing up. ‘Think what you like: I couldn’t care less. He’ll probably soon realize he’s better off without you.’

  I close my eyes briefly. Tell myself to calm down. I might never get an opportunity like this again to ask the questions I need to ask. ‘Wait. Don’t go yet. I apologize.’

  She huffs and plonks herself down again, face like a sulky adolescent.

  ‘This isn’t me,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m not like this. Jealous. Nasty. Tell me what you came to tell me.’

  She takes a long sip of her coffee. ‘Here’s what I know about Nick at work. He’s a nice bloke. Well thought of. And I’ve never in the four years I’ve worked for him seen him so much as flirt with anyone. I mean, literally no one. There’s never any gossip about him. No one’s ever said they think he’s a player or a sleaze or that he’s come on to them. Nothing. He talks about you all the time. And not in a “my wife’s a pain” eye-rolley way. I swear on my life that I’m not having an affair with him and I’d put money on the fact that no one else is either. The only person even less likely than me is Siobhan because she’s completely loved up with Colin and she doesn’t even notice other blokes exist.’

  I’m momentarily distracted by the fact that the Viking’s name is Colin. It seems so unlikely. But then I think about what Lou is saying. It sounds as if she means it.

  ‘Apparently not everyone at Diamond Leisure thinks the same.’

  She leans back, big grey eyes fixed on me. ‘See, this is what I don’t get. Obviously I don’t know half the people who work there – nine-tenths, probably – but I imagine if this person knows Nick as well as they’re making out, I would have come across them. He said
you think it’s an Emma? Emma who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So she didn’t tell you directly? You don’t actually know her?’

  I shake my head. ‘She’s a friend of a friend.’

  Lou looks at her fingernails, which are painted a deeper pink, hand splayed. ‘Surely you’ve asked your friend? So you can check her out?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ I say. ‘But, no.’

  ‘There’s no Emma in the London office, I can tell you that much.’

  I rub the back of my neck. I can feel a migraine creeping in. ‘She could work anywhere.’

  ‘I can only tell you what I know. This Emma definitely said it was someone in our department? That he was seeing?’

  I nod. ‘She said they were gloating about it the next day.’

  ‘Absolutely no way. I mean, really. No way. You’ve met them all …’

  ‘Camilla …’ I say, even though I know it’s supposed to be someone who was at the pub that night.

  She looks at me with a confused frown. ‘Camilla’s gay.’

  ‘Ah.’ I sit back. I’ve got nothing else. ‘You couldn’t know for sure, though, that it wasn’t true. Why would someone …?’

  ‘Perhaps she thinks it is true for whatever spurious reason, I don’t know. She might be confusing Nick with someone else, or, maybe someone made up a rumour about him to be spiteful and she believed it.’

  ‘She heard it from the woman he’s sleeping with herself apparently …’

  Lou shakes her mane of hair emphatically. ‘Then maybe Emma’s the one making it up. Whoever she is. Either way it’s not me. Or Shiv.’

  I exhale slowly. ‘How did you know that I thought it was you …?’

  ‘What? Apart from the fact you practically accused me in the pub? Because I forced it out of him. I’m worried about him. He’s falling apart. I mean, I never really understood what people meant when they said that but with him I can actually see it. I made him tell me what was going on.’