by Jane Fallon
Georgia nods. ‘Could you maybe put me in touch with her?’
‘Why?’ Lydia says, way too quickly. ‘I mean … I don’t know her that well …’
‘I just thought it might be useful to talk to someone who works with Nick, that’s all. She might know something.’
‘I thought you were feeling better …’
‘I am,’ Georgia says, brushing a strand of damp hair from her eyes. ‘But I still don’t have all the details. Not even the name of the woman he’s gone off with. And until I do I can’t fully get over it. It’s the last piece of the puzzle and then I can move on. Does that make sense?’
‘Sure.’ Lydia has to think quickly. ‘I don’t think she’d know anything though. It’s not as if she sees him all the time.’
‘Where does she work?’
‘One of the regional sites. I can’t remember which one; she moved recently. Why don’t I call her? Ask her if she knows anything?’
‘That would great.’
OK. She might have got away with it. Georgia is looking at her expectantly though.
‘Could you do it now?’
‘Now? Um …’ She has an idea. Probably a terrible one. ‘Sure. I’ll try her.’ She looks in her phone contacts – making sure Georgia can’t see the screen – and hits the number for her aunt Susan. She bought Susan a mobile a year ago but she has never even turned it on, so far as Lydia knows. Susan is Lydia’s dad’s much older sister and, now in her eighties, she firmly refuses to embrace any new technology. Lydia likes to comfort herself with the fact that at least Susan has it in her possession in case of emergencies, but, in reality, she knows that the house could be burning down around her aunt and she wouldn’t even know which button to press to power it up. As expected the call goes straight through to the generic voicemail message.
‘Not there,’ she says, holding the phone away from her ear so that Georgia can hear. ‘I’ll leave a message.’
Georgia nods, smiling.
‘Hi, Em! It’s Lydia. Could you give me a call back when you’ve got a mo? I’ve got a quick question for you. Thanks! Bye! Right,’ she says, putting her phone back in her bag. ‘I’ll let you know what she says.’
They chat about nothing much. Work. The twins. A show they’ve both started watching on the TV. There’s something off though. For someone who claims to be feeling much happier Georgia has a slightly manic energy. There’s a tightness around her jaw, a tiny muscle twitch that betrays her. Lydia feels a rush of guilt. Georgia can protest all she likes but she’s clearly still hurting.
‘So, what do you honestly think? Is she moving in with him?’ Georgia says, bringing the subject back around.
‘I don’t know,’ Lydia says carefully. ‘I think so.’ Shit, what has she told Georgia before and what has she said to Patricia? She really should have made notes. Something about Georgia is making her feel flustered.
‘Didn’t you say he said something to the agent about his girlfriend having to give notice?’
Did she? Not to Georgia, she’s pretty sure. She had saved that nugget for Patricia so Georgia wouldn’t feel she could confront Nick with it. She screws up her face. ‘No. He was just vague, I told you.’
‘So, he didn’t say that?’
‘No. I mean …’ Why was Georgia pushing the issue? She was in danger of giving away again that she had read the messages that only Patricia should have read. Lydia doesn’t like the turn this conversation is taking. Doesn’t feel she can keep the two parts of her dual narrative separate in her head and not give herself away if pushed.
‘Right. Of course not. And your friend Emma doesn’t know? The office gossip machine hasn’t given away that particular gem?’
Lydia clears her throat. Takes a sip of her drink. Her mouth is dry. ‘Let’s talk about something else. Let’s not let Nick dominate our whole evening. I hardly ever see you as it is.’
Georgia looks right at her. It’s so direct that Lydia feels herself blush. ‘I know what you’re doing, Lydia,’ she says. ‘I know this is all you.’
CHAPTER 39
I can hardly get the words out. Even though I’ve rehearsed them in my head over and over they still sound stilted. As if I’m reading from an autocue. All the colour drains from Lydia’s cheeks.
‘Know what?’ she says, an attempt at bluffing it out.
‘I know you know I’m Patricia. I know you’ve been feeding me a load of lies.’
‘Who’s Patricia?’ she says, but her expression – fear mixed with a touch of defiance – gives her away.
I look at her. Say nothing. Let her sweat it out. Eventually she gives a nervous little laugh. ‘George, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on?’
‘Nick’s moved back in with me.’ I wait for that to sink in. Clearly it’s the last thing she expected me to say. She can’t hide the shock on her face. ‘I don’t know why you did it,’ I say, ‘but I do know that you set out to make me think Nick was cheating on me. Based on nothing. Lies. There is no Emma, is there?’
She gets a steely look in her eye, one that I’ve seen before. The Lydia who is defiant, who won’t take any shit from anyone. The same look she gave one of our lecturers when he accused her of plagiarizing an essay (she had. In fact, we both had, but I’d managed not to get caught) and an ex-boyfriend who was insisting he had seen her share a brief kiss with one of his friends (again, she had. There’s clearly a pattern emerging here).
‘Of course there is. Why would I make up something like that?’
‘So that I’d believe you.’
‘Believe me about what? Wow, George, you really have lost it. What would I have to gain from upsetting you like that? Are you saying I was trying to split you and Nick up?’
Last night I debated long and hard with Nick, Anne Marie and Harry. They were all for me accusing her of making a play for Nick, flushing the whole sorry mess out.
‘She’s done some pretty shitty things but that is the absolute worst,’ Harry said. Igor was wedged on the sofa between him and Anne Marie. If they were uncomfortable squashed into the corners while he noisily licked his non-existent balls they didn’t say so.
‘I don’t have any proof of that bit though. I need to stick to the facts.’
‘I know I’m right,’ Nick had said emphatically.
‘She’ll just deny it and we’ll get sidetracked. She’ll turn it round so it looks as if I’m jealous. Irrational …’
‘You tell me.’ I say to her now.
Lydia’s eyes fill with tears. I was expecting it. She should have been an actress really, with her ability to cry at will. Even though I know they’re fake it’s almost impossible not to be moved by them. Not to reach out a hand to comfort her. Tell her I’m sorry and it was all a big mistake.
‘Georgia … what are you saying? I don’t understand. You think I’ve … what? Lied to you about something? Made up a friend called Emma? I know you’ve been going through a hard time but none of this makes any sense …’
Keep calm, I tell myself. Stay focused. ‘Let me see your phone.’
Her forehead creases a little and then her hand shoots out to grab it from the table. I get there first.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
I hold it up to her face to unlock it. ‘Give that back to me,’ she says, raising her voice. Two men at a nearby table turn and look. It distracts me just long enough for her to snatch the mobile back. She gathers up her coat and bag.
‘I’m going. Whatever this is, it’s not funny.’
‘I’ve got it all on my own phone anyway, obviously. I’ll send you screen grabs just to refresh your memory.’
‘Don’t send me anything. Not till you’ve calmed down.’ She struggles an arm into her coat.
‘Nick’s not interested,’ I say as she walks off. So much for not going there. ‘He said it really creeped him out, you throwing yourself at him.’
If anyone in the bar wasn’t listening before, they certainly are now.
Lydia and
I have only ever had one big fight before. We’ve had squabbles, obviously. There have been times when we’ve both taken a step back when something was simmering. Taken a couple of days out from contacting each other. But an all-out shouting match that threatened to ruin our friendship? Only once. We were sharing a flat in Camden. A rundown first floor above a dry cleaner’s that reeked of ether. This was pre Nick, pre Wilbur. Only just post college. I don’t even remember how it started now, but we’d been living on top of one another for a few months, struggling to make ends meet. We both had a complicated arrangement of part-time jobs to stay afloat, coming and going at all hours, sleeping whenever we found ourselves at home. I remember us standing in the tiny kitchen, hurling every buried resentment and stifled irritation we could dredge up at each other. From the mundane – ‘You never clean up after yourself in the kitchen’ (her to me); ‘You make no fucking effort to be quiet when you get in from work in the middle of the night’ (me to her) – to the truly personal – ‘I’m sick of you whining on about how hard done by you are all the time’ (her); ‘You always act as if everything was about you. You’re not the centre of everyone’s fucking universe’ (me). It was cathartic but it was scary. It left me bruised and shattered. Desperate to make up but unwilling to forgive. We didn’t speak for almost a week. I hid in my room until I heard the front door close, only emerging when I knew she had gone to one of her three jobs. When I came home from work I would hear her holed up in her bedroom, listening to music at a volume that said ‘Don’t come near me.’
But – and I think I can speak for her here too – neither of us ever took steps to move out. We knew that whatever had happened it wasn’t terminal. We wouldn’t let it be.
Unlike this time.
I can’t even remember how we made up. Who took the first steps to reconciliation. I just have an image of us hugging in the kitchen. Both laughing, both crying. And the feeling of utter relief.
That won’t be happening this time either.
I pay the bill and manage to leave with – I hope – a modicum of dignity. In the taxi on the way home I delete Patricia’s account.
I no longer care if Lydia admits it or not. It’s enough that she knows she’s not fooling me any more. That I’m on to her.
It’s over.
CHAPTER 40
I have one last thing to do. I send Bibi an email.
My friend Lydia has decided to self-publish (I tried to persuade her you would be better but she’d made up her mind!). She says thanks so much for your interest. Sorry to have wasted your time.
I’m fucked if I’m going to help Lydia get a publishing deal now.
Half an hour later I get a reply back saying no problem and, by the way, any news about Wilbur?
Going well! I lie. Should have something for you any minute now.
As a distraction I allow myself to get caught up in excitement about the awards. I feel lost without Lydia. Completely adrift. But I try to focus on the positive. At least now I can all out revel in the moment without worrying that I’m upsetting anyone. Anne Marie fakes a sick day (‘The kids will not die from lack of music tuition’) and comes clothes shopping with me. She’s as excited about my nomination as me. If not more.
‘How are you and Harry?’ I ask as we browse our way round Selfridges, her steering me closer and closer to the Vivienne Westwoods even though I’ve said ten times that I don’t want to spend a fortune on something I’ll probably get no wear out of.
‘Really good.’ She smiles. ‘I need to thank you. You jolted me out of … whatever it was … before I did something totally irreversible. If you hadn’t told me you’d seen us …’
‘You were already putting the brakes on. Don’t torture yourself.’
‘I have no idea who that person was. None. I look at Jez now and, you know, he’s a nice bloke and all that, but … just … no …’
‘Think of it as a brief midlife crisis. Some kind of perimenopausal madness.’
‘Oh my God, look at that …’ she says, grabbing my arm. It’s a stunning petrol-blue ruched sleeveless dress. It’s got just enough edge to stop it from looking as if you’re trying too hard to look sexy. It’s beautiful. Anne Marie paws at the fabric like a needy cat. I indulge her by trying it on. Which is a mistake because I love it and it does everything for my figure, but it’s nearly a thousand pounds so there’s no way I’m even going to consider it. She looks at me with her mouth open.
‘You have to …’
‘I absolutely don’t.’
‘Look at it though.’
I turn back to the dressing room. ‘You try it on. It’ll look amazing on you.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I could never afford it.’
I grab her hand, pulling her behind me. Grab two other random outfits off the racks as I go. ‘We’re not going to buy anything. We’re just going to play dressing up.’
I snap photos of Anne Marie in the outfits of her dreams – we tell the officious shop assistant who is eyeing us with suspicion that she is the one who has a big occasion coming up.
‘She’s a famous musician,’ I mutter while Anne Marie’s trying on a pair of wide-leg pin-striped trousers. The assistant’s – Lee, her badge declares – eyes widen.
‘Have I heard of her?’
‘Definitely,’ I say, enigmatically.
‘Right, let’s go to Primark,’ I say once we’re out of earshot, having told Lee we’ll be back once we’ve done a quick circuit to satisfy ourselves we’re making the right decision. I text Harry one of the pictures – Anne Marie looking stunning in a floor-length black number. Just picking our outfits for next week! Anne Marie is applying for a second mortgage as I type! I have actually managed to wangle two extra tickets so that our best friends can come along to the do. I keep warning them it’ll probably be really boring and that I definitely am not going to win, but they’re still doing a good impression of being delighted.
‘If it’s really bad we can sneak out after my category and go for a drink somewhere,’ I said as I asked if they were up for it.
‘Oh no. I am going to milk the free champagne for all it’s worth,’ Harry declared. ‘I mean, I’m not going to embarrass you by getting drunk or anything …’ he added hastily.
‘Oh God, I am,’ I said.
Both Anne Marie and Harry are being extra solicitous since my confrontation with Lydia. I’m trying to act as if everything is OK, but the truth is I feel as if I’ve had a limb removed. I hadn’t realized how often I think about Lydia each day, how many times I pick up my phone to text or call her. I’ve had a couple of pleading texts: Please George let’s talk about this, don’t cut me off and You have to believe me. I would never make a play for Nick, never!! You’re my best friend! It’s taken everything I’ve got to ignore them. A couple of days ago I was coming back from a late-afternoon walk with Igor and I saw her standing on my doorstep, bundled up in her big grey coat. Of course the dog saw her at the same time and started straining on the lead, anxious to go and greet his friend. I had to drag him with both hands to pull him the other way before she spotted us. When I realized she wasn’t going anywhere soon I took myself round to Anne Marie and Harry’s and texted Nick to meet us there after work. She’d looked gaunt even from a distance – even more so than ever. Huddled in on herself. We ended up staying out all evening just in case she was still there. Later I looked at her Instagram page and there she was, pouting at the camera. Date night! Theatre and champagne!! It reeked of desperation. I deleted the app. I couldn’t allow myself to feel sorry for her.
She texted Nick too. Why would you tell Georgia that? Why would you ever think I was making a pass at you? I was trying to be a good friend. How fucking arrogant must you be to think I fancied you! All I was ever doing was trying to help you and Georgia!!
He ignored it.
I decide I have to give Bibi something so I work on some more sophisticated words and actually spend an enjoyable afternoon drawing a tall pangolin playing a small mandolin and a fat r
accoon with a towel for his guest bathroom. Eminem I am not, but at least the pictures are cute. I email them to her as a peace offering. How about something more along these lines? She emails straight back. These are better. Just that. No elaboration. Not even an exclamation mark to emphasize the point. But it’s something.
Life – if I don’t examine the edges too much – is good.
There’s just one more thing I have to do.
CHAPTER 41
I’m back at the Lighterman. This time I’ve warned Nick I’m coming. I think he’s terrified I’m going to embarrass him again, but, if he is, he’s too nice to say so. He thinks it’s a bad idea, that much he does say, because he worries it’ll bring back all my feelings of shame and embarrassment. And, to be fair, he’s probably right. I have to do it though. I have to at least try to replace a terrible memory with a – hopefully – slightly less terrible one.
I text him when I get out of the taxi as agreed and he meets me at the front door. ‘OK?’ he says, hugging me.
‘Yep,’ I say, which is code for not really but I’m trying.
He squeezes my hand. ‘They’re all here.’
I follow him in, smoothing down my hair. My stomach leaps into my mouth as I spot them. Lou, Siobhan, Jasmine, Sue and the rest. There’s a woman I don’t recognize who I assume is Camilla. She’s probably the only one who doesn’t hate me. Or maybe she does just by reputation.
Once again all eyes turn on me. Nick clears his throat. ‘You remember Georgia?’ The only ones who even attempt a smile are Elaine and Anil. Camilla just looks confused. ‘She wanted to … um …’
I put him out of his misery. ‘I wanted to say something to you all. To apologize for the other week …’ I spot Jess raise an amused eyebrow at Si. I’m probably never going to like her, let’s face it. It’s OK, though. It doesn’t matter. We don’t all have to be friends. I’m not expecting to go on holiday with them; I just want to explain myself. Maybe make things a bit less uncomfortable for Nick at work.
