Worst Idea Ever

by Jane Fallon

  He sighs. ‘It’s not exactly where I imagined myself at forty-five.’

  She gives a rueful laugh. ‘Well, join the club. What a pair of saddos.’

  ‘She’ll come round, won’t she?’ He looks at her so hopefully that it’s all she can do not to give him reassurance. It would be so easy to give him his life back. All she has to do is tell Patricia that it turns out her friend had got it all wrong, had mixed Nick up with someone else, and the whole episode has been a ghastly mistake. But this is not about giving him his old life back. It’s about giving him a new one. With her.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She reaches over the table and lays a hand on his arm.

  It’s time to move things up a notch.

  CHAPTER 36

  Nick texts me to say that they are stopping for a drink, post flat-viewings. Can I come home yet? I’m knackered.

  No! You have work to do! Unless you think you’ve found out what she’s up to already?

  This is exploitation, he writes. I’m calling the union.

  Call them when you get home. Meanwhile get on with it!

  Igor and I have already been for a long walk and he’s settled down by the wood burner for the evening. He’s a lazy boy at heart. I try to occupy myself by reading a book that Anne Marie lent me, the latest big domestic noir, but I realize I’ve skimmed a whole page and not taken in anything that’s happened so I give up. My phone beeps, I assume with a reply from Nick. It makes me so happy that we’re back to our easy banter, our teasing and in-jokes. How many years does it take to get that with someone? How would I ever have found it again?

  There’s a message, but it’s not from him.

  I stare at the name at the bottom. Lou.

  What can she possibly have to say to me now? I read the text nervously.

  Do not tell anyone I sent you this! I thought it might be helpful. This is all of them.

  I look at the picture that’s attached. It’s a list of names and phone numbers. Seven in total. All for women called Emma who, I assume, work at Diamond Leisure.

  That’s fantastic, I text back. Obviously I no longer feel the need to check up on Nick, but Lydia is a whole other story. I really appreciate it, thanks.

  That’s my evening sorted then.

  I get myself a glass of wine, settle down on the kitchen sofa, phone in hand. I’ve copied the numbers on to a piece of paper and I start to work my way through them. The first one answers almost immediately. I can hear a TV in the background and the sound of kids arguing. I have my spiel prepared. I need to get it out quickly so she doesn’t hang up thinking I’m some kind of phishing call.

  ‘Hi, is that Emma? Sorry to bother you but I’m trying to contact a friend of mine, Lydia Somers, and I remember her mentioning that she had a mate called Emma who worked at Diamond Leisure …’

  ‘Lydia …?’ she asks hesitantly. She’s probably trying to work out what the scam is.

  ‘Somers.’

  ‘No. Not me. There are a few Emmas though …’

  ‘I know, thanks. Sorry to bother you.’

  I cross Emma Bartlett off my list. On to the next. Two voicemails later (I didn’t leave messages; I didn’t think they would ever call me back) I get through to Emma Thornberry and basically have the same conversation. Then with Emma Sanders, Emma Sharpe and Emma Thurlow-Witt. They’re all very pleasant, very helpful, and I believe them all when they say they don’t know Lydia. Why would they lie?

  While I’m waiting for a bit of time to pass before I try the two final candidates again my phone rings. Nick.

  ‘Are you on your way home? Did you find anything out?’

  ‘I’m in the toilets,’ he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him.

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says, back to his normal voice. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Something weird is happening—’

  ‘Well, we know that,’ I interrupt.

  ‘No. I mean, I think she’s flirting with me. It’s making me really uncomfortable.’

  ‘No way. She wouldn’t,’ I say, struggling to get the words out. Would she?

  He tells me how she linked her arm through his on the walk to the hotel (‘She supposedly slipped but then she just didn’t let go’) and how, while apparently being sympathetic, she put her hand over his on the table and left it there until he moved (‘Which was quickly, trust me’).

  ‘And now I feel as if she’s giving me meaningful looks. Honestly, George, I just want to get out of here.’

  No. Not that. Whatever else Lydia might do I can’t believe she’d do that. Could she have contrived this whole situation just to try to get Nick for herself? Knowing that he would never look at her so long as he thought he still had me? I’m fuelled with anger and my heart shatters in two at the same time.

  ‘I can’t … She wouldn’t do that to me …’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I think she is. You know I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t really believe it …’

  ‘This is like a nightmare.’

  Once I’ve said goodbye, Nick telling me he’s going to make his excuses and leave, I try the other two Emmas again. I get through to both. I go through my prepared speech. They both tell me that as far as they know they’ve never even met a Lydia Somers.

  So it’s true then. Lydia has made this whole thing up.

  She has tried to sabotage my life.

  And it looks as if she is trying to steal my husband.

  CHAPTER 37

  I feel as if I’ve neglected Anne Marie the past few days. So much has been happening. Not that I think she’s sitting at home wondering why I haven’t called, but everything that’s going on with Lydia has made me realize how important real friends – true friends – are. Nick and I decide to invite her and Harry over. That is, I will invite them over and we’ll surprise them with the fact that Nick is here. Swear them to secrecy just in case one of them bumps into Lydia. Although as that has never happened in all the time I’ve known them it seems unlikely.

  Nick was full-on PTSD when he got home last night. Try to imagine it. Your husband or wife’s best bosom buddy making a play for you. Not even a drunken pass to be bitterly regretted as soon as they open their eyes next morning. A calculated move with careful preparation to leave the field clear.

  ‘Are you really, really sure?’ I asked him for the third time as we sat drinking tea in the kitchen. ‘She wasn’t just trying to be nice? Sympathetic?’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish you could have been there to see it. Although obviously then she wouldn’t have been doing it.’

  I filled him in on the Emmas, made him swear not to mention it to Lou. ‘It was kind of her to send me the list,’ I said. ‘Given how I treated her.’

  He nodded. ‘It was.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Fucked if I know,’ he said, pulling me on to his lap as I walked past. Igor sat up, excited, clearly thinking it was wrestling time.

  Today both Patricia and I have received reports of last night from Lydia. To me: He was giving nothing away about whether he’s moving in on his own or with her. Sorry! I’ll keep trying!

  And quite a different story to Patricia: So, he told me that he wants a lease for at least a year!! He’s definitely not thinking he’s going back home any time soon. And I’m sure I heard him saying something to the agent about his girlfriend needing to give notice on her flat when he thought I wasn’t listening!!

  Drink tomorrow? To me, obviously. And, although I would rather do anything else, I say yes.

  Harry and Anne Marie arrive promptly at seven, wine, a box of my favourite salted caramel chocolates and a jar of home-made chilli pickle in hand. Going overboard to make me feel that someone is thinking of me, even if my husband isn’t. What they don’t know is that he is currently shivering in the back garden, waiting to jump out and surprise them like a snowman-themed strippergram. Igor, of course, gives it away.
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  ‘What is he looking at?’ Harry says, going over to check it out for himself. ‘Is there a cat out there, boy?’

  ‘Probably a fox,’ Anne Marie says, joining them. ‘What … Is that Nick?’

  ‘Surprise!’ he says, emerging from the shadows and flinging open the patio door somewhat half-heartedly, knowing he’s been rumbled.

  Both Anne Marie and Harry turn to look at me. I slip my arms round Nick to warm him up. ‘We’re back together,’ I say. ‘I’ve found out it was all lies.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Harry says emphatically.

  ‘He did,’ I say to Nick. ‘Harry never really doubted you.’

  ‘Oh God, this makes me so happy,’ Anne Marie says, and then she starts to cry and laugh at the same time.

  We tell them the whole story while we wait for our pizzas to arrive. Their expressions change from delighted to horrified disbelief when we start to outline Lydia’s guilt, tripping over each other’s sentences to get the story out.

  ‘We’re only telling you two. No one else. And the kids know we’re back together, obviously.’

  ‘So, what now?’ Anne Marie licks margherita topping off her finger. For someone with so much colour in her life her taste in pizzas is very vanilla.

  Here’s the thing. I have no idea where this is going. None. If Lydia is making a play for Nick, trying to ruin my life, then our friendship is over, obviously. I could never trust her again. I feel as if it rips my heart in two thinking about it, but it’s the truth. I have to face up to it. But do I confront her or just pull away? Stop returning her calls? Ghost her? It’s unthinkable. I might have got Nick back but lost Lydia in the process. It’s not a choice I ever thought I’d have to make. I almost don’t know which loss is worse: I’ve spent my whole adult life so enmeshed with the two of them.

  ‘Shit!’ They all turn to look at me. ‘The awards do! I invited her when I thought Nick and I were over.’

  ‘You uninvited me?’ he says. He’s pretending to be hurt but he probably really is underneath.

  ‘Well, obviously. Sorry. If I’m not telling her we’re back together then how do I get out of her coming with me? She’s already planned what she’s wearing and everything.’

  I don’t say anything but it’s also just occurred to me that if she came she and Bibi would be in the same space. How could I get through a whole evening without Bibi realizing who she was and all but offering to publish her book on the spot? I haven’t even told Nick about Bibi’s request to be put in touch with her. I don’t want anyone to think I’m that person who deliberately sabotaged their friend’s chance at their lifelong dream. Even if she’s not my friend any more. Even if I now know she’d have no hesitation about sabotaging mine.

  ‘I think we have to tell her,’ Nick says, looking serious. ‘Let her know we’ve caught her out. What’s the point of dragging it on forever?’

  ‘I agree,’ Anne Marie says. She gathers our empty pizza boxes and tips the discarded crusts into Igor’s bowl before stacking them up. Why does everyone feel the need to feed my dog? He’s eaten them before they’ve even landed. ‘Now you know what she’s doing, cut her off. She’s unhinged, if you ask me.’

  I look over at her. ‘I thought you got on OK with her, didn’t you? When you met.’

  Anne Marie shrugs. ‘She was always a bit territorial about you. I felt as if she thought we were in competition.’

  I think about how snippy Lydia was the first time I introduced them. I’d always hoped Anne Marie had been oblivious to Lydia’s rudeness.

  ‘I just want to look her in the eye,’ I say decisively. ‘It’s as if, if I don’t, I’ll never accept that it’s real. I’m not saying I don’t believe you …’ I say quickly to Nick. ‘It’s not that at all. It’s like, if I don’t see it for myself, I worry I’ll be taken in by her again. I’ll never be able to cut myself off completely.’

  I close my eyes, steady my breath. ‘I want her to have to face me.’

  CHAPTER 38

  She’s meeting Georgia at the Princess Louise. She’d offered to go over to Primrose Hill – even though it was further from both work and her flat it was somehow less hassle. She was tired of being out night after night and – however weird this might sound to an outsider – Georgia’s home still felt like her home. Somewhere she didn’t have to try too hard – but George had pushed for the pub. ‘I never go anywhere these days,’ she’d said. ‘And besides, I have to be in town earlier so I might as well just hang around.’

  Georgia seems a bit better. As if she’s getting used to the idea that Nick is gone. Moving on. Lydia raises her umbrella in the doorway of her office. The doorman steps out to cover her as she does and she rewards him with a big smile. It’s all coming together. She can’t quite believe it. Now her job is to make her friend feel whole again. Give her hope for a new and happy chapter of her life.

  Leaving work always feels like an escape. Her days are interminable. Endless. A drudge from beginning to end. She has a good job, she knows that. But she isn’t cut out to sit in an office. She isn’t cut out to spend her days showcasing someone else’s talent (or lack of it) while her own atrophies. Her life is passing her by. She’s thought about trying to change jobs, of course she has. To move to a company that would actually interest her. With a big children’s department. But she’s afraid she would have to listen to her new colleagues discussing the phenomenal success of Wilbur the Wallaby and how could they find their own Georgia Shepherd to try to capture some of that market for themselves?

  And now Georgia has been nominated for the fucking Gordon’s Book Emporium award which, even though most people had probably never even heard of it, is pretty prestigious. Certainly in the industry.

  She’s eaten up with fear that Georgia will win. She’s not a jealous person by nature but surely no one could fail to see the injustice here? It’s hard enough that Georgia is published, let alone a bestseller. It’s actually mind-blowing that legions of the three-to-fives are obsessed with Wilbur. That he’s shaping their childhood. But the fact that she might win a fucking award? It doesn’t bear thinking about. It’s a joke. It really is.

  She calls Georgia’s mobile as she walks along Theobalds Road.

  ‘Hey,’ she says when Georgia answers. ‘Do you fancy the Fitzroy Hotel instead? I’m not sure I can face the Princess Louise. It’s always so packed.’

  She wants to be in her and Nick’s place. To feel close to him.

  ‘I’ve just got off at Holborn,’ Georgia says, slightly huffily. ‘It’s a bit of a trek and it’s pissing down, in case you haven’t noticed.’

  ‘It’ll be much nicer when we get there, though. You’ll thank me.’

  Georgia laughs as Lydia knew she would. ‘I’m not sure I will. See you in fifteen minutes. Find towels.’

  She’d worried she’d moved a bit too fast when she put her hand on his arm. Nick’s. He’d looked a bit shocked. And then he’d pulled away, but gently. Reluctantly. Hopefully she’d styled it out. Played up the sympathetic-friend angle. She didn’t want to scare him away before he was ready. But then again, she didn’t want to be so slow on the uptake that he moved on with someone else before she registered her interest. It was a minefield. She’s pretty sure there had been a moment when he looked into her eyes for a fraction too long while she sat with her hand over his. She’s pretty sure there had been a spark, however faint. She just needs to keep it alive so she can rekindle it when the time comes.

  She smiles at the waiter as she walks into the bar, shaking the drops from her coat. He clearly doesn’t recognize her even though she and Nick have spent two whole evenings being served by him. Is she becoming invisible? Is this what happens? She’s always heard that women over a certain age feel as if they disappear into the background, ignored by barmen, shop assistants and cat-calling builders. She’s always thought she’d escape that fate somehow. Not that she wants the cat-calling builders – in fact, she isn’t sure that even happens these days. Building sites all have notices up
about how considerate they are, and phone numbers to call in any bad behaviour – but she isn’t ready to be written off just yet.

  She settles at a table just as Georgia arrives, wrestling to contain her umbrella as she tries to close it. Lydia takes her in for a moment without Georgia noticing. She’s looking better. Less haggard. Human resilience is amazing. Or maybe it turns out that Georgia isn’t as in love with Nick as Lydia has always thought. That would make life so much easier. That would be the fairy-tale ending.

  She stands up to greet her. ‘I’d hug you but I’m soaked,’ Georgia says, putting up a hand to keep her away.

  ‘You look good,’ Lydia says. ‘Apart from the half-drowned rat bit.’

  Georgia waves the waiter over. ‘I actually am. I’m much better. Surprisingly so.’

  She should have known then. Alarm bells should have rung. But she wasn’t paying attention to the right things.

  They order drinks. A gin and tonic for her and a red wine for Georgia. Georgia nibbles on a couple of nuts from the bowl on the table. Lydia is always too aware of how many fingers have rooted around in there during the course of the day – and where those fingers might have been – to ever indulge herself. She’d read a statistic once about the amount of human faeces on communal snacks that had left her gagging. They sit for a moment in a silence that is usually comfortable but tonight, she realizes, feels a little off. It’s her own feelings of guilt, she assumes, getting in the way of their usually easy flow of conversation.

  ‘Your friend Emma,’ Georgia says out of nowhere. ‘What’s her surname?’

  ‘Um …’ Lydia says, taken aback. Stalling for time. ‘Emma?’

  ‘The one who works with Nick.’

  ‘Oh.’ Shit, she has to think fast. ‘Do you know, I don’t even know. That is, it used to be Baker but she got married a couple of years ago and I can never remember what her second name is now. Cook? Cookson? Something beginning with a C, I think. Or it might be an S.’