Worst Idea Ever

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Oh God, it’s such a mess.’ I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and fill her in on my meeting with Bibi. ‘So they basically want Wilbur more than me, that’s the gist of it.’

  ‘And can you afford to just walk away?’

  I sigh. ‘Not really. I mean, yes, for a while, but what if no one ever picks up the Igor book?’ I tell her about Lydia. My fears about her outshining me. I feel stupid but I know Anne Marie won’t judge me. I can be honest with her – show the ugly sides of me – in a way I can’t be with anyone else. Not even Nick. Not about this.

  ‘What if Lydia’s books are a huge success?’ I say. ‘What if everyone says she’s brilliant and she wins awards and all I’ve ever done is draw a fucking wallaby? What if she has a bestseller and she goes on chat shows and … and don’t say it might not happen because I know that, but what if it does?’

  I’m full out crying again now. Big ugly tears. Anne Marie leans over and takes my hand and I grab on to her long fingers. ‘What happens to Lydia has no reflection on you. Her being a success wouldn’t mean you weren’t. Imagine the most extreme scenario. Lydia’s book is published and it’s a huge success. She sells a million copies and wins awards and … I don’t know … the Queen says they’re her favourite books …’

  I laugh despite everything. ‘Would that be cool?’

  ‘Beyoncé then. Does any of that happening take away from what you’ve achieved?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  She shakes her head vigorously. ‘Not at all. Nothing can take that away from you. Forget about Lydia. Think about what’s going to make you happy. What’s the best version of your future you can imagine, forgetting about anyone else?’

  ‘I love you,’ I say. I lean over and hug her. ‘I’m so happy you’re here. And about you and Harry.’ She hugs me back and we just sit there for a moment, arms round each other, listening to the thump of Igor’s tail on the floor.

  ‘I have a confession to make …’

  I lean back and look at her.

  ‘Nothing scary. I just … I’ve been sitting on that bench every day after school hoping to bump into you. It wasn’t a coincidence …’

  I’m almost rendered speechless. ‘Why didn’t you just come round?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t face the thought that you wouldn’t want to see me …’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘I would never … I didn’t know what to do without you.’ I squeeze her hand again. ‘Please say we’re OK. I can’t bear it …’

  ‘We are. Of course we are.’

  I smile at her through my tears. I’m overwhelmed with happiness. Relief.

  ‘Now,’ she says decisively. ‘What are you going to do about Wilbur?’

  We go back and forth, exploring all the options. It’s such a relief to talk it through with someone who genuinely wants what’s best for me with no agenda. Even Nick has a horse in the race and so can’t be completely impartial, however much he wants to be. Every now and then I get overwhelmed by how happy I am to have her back in my life and have to tell her. First Nick, now Anne Marie. Me two, Lydia nil.

  By the time she leaves I know what I have to do.

  CHAPTER 56

  ‘So, let me make sure I’ve got this right before I call her,’ Antoinette says. ‘You’ll sign up to do Wilbur eight and nine if they don’t mess with him—’

  ‘That doesn’t mean no notes,’ I interrupt. ‘But no changing his style, no trying to make him some kind of woke poster boy …’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘And the same with the latest one. I need to take it back to what it was before Bibi stamped herself all over it. Again, she can give me notes but I’m not going to bend it to her agenda … Don’t say it like that, obviously.’

  Antoinette laughs. ‘I’ll try not to.’

  ‘And we have to be allowed to try and place the other book somewhere else if they definitely don’t want it. What do you think?’

  ‘It sounds like a plan. It’s possible, obviously, that they’ll walk away. Are you prepared for that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘It’s non-negotiable.’

  While I wait to hear what Phoenix have to say I lose myself in drawing ideas for my Igor book, inspired like I haven’t been since, well … ever. I’m almost grateful to Lydia. I needed something to jolt me out of my comfort zone. Push me into scary territory where I might actually fail. Thankfully the real Igor is happy to pose, sleeping on a bed by my desk while I draw version after version of him, trying to get him exactly right.

  Anne Marie and Harry come over for the evening and, while they’re a little subdued, it’s enough like old times for us to believe those old times will come again eventually. I catch her looking at him sadly at one point, and he does too, and he squeezes her hand. She gives him a smile that’s full of love and gratitude. And I know they’ll be OK.

  Step by step life goes back to normal. Antoinette calls me and tells me that Phoenix love me and Wilbur, and I obviously misunderstood their intentions, which were never to change him. She tells me that Kate is being promoted to editor and will look after me from here on in. Bibi is going to concentrate on other projects (Lydia, my evil head voice says, but I channel Anne Marie and drive the thought away, concentrating instead on my own success). They’re not sure why I think they wouldn’t be interested in Mummy, Why Is That Dog So Big? because they only have one book in production with a dog hero and it’s nothing like what it sounds as though I’m proposing, so could they take a closer look?

  The relief is immense. A crashing flood that I didn’t realize was on the horizon. I call Nick, laughing and crying and shouting all at the same time.

  I don’t think about Lydia again. Not if I can avoid it. At least, not until I’m forced to.

  ‘Lyd’s birthday!!!’ The words scream out at me from the page. At the beginning of every year I always take a moment to go through and enter special dates I don’t want to miss on the paper calendar I keep in the kitchen – this year from the Mayhew in honour of Igor. Birthdays, anniversaries, school and now uni term times. For the first time ever I wish I hadn’t bothered. It’s inevitable that I start to wonder what she’s doing, who she’s celebrating with this year.

  I take myself out shopping as a distraction, down to Kensington High Street, where I can easily spend an hour pottering around Whole Foods, examining every product. So much more satisfying than browsing for clothes. I’m gazing in wonder at the loose nut selection when my phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize, a landline. I’m tempted not to answer, but I know if I don’t it’ll probably be someone saying: ‘You’ve won the lottery but because you weren’t in we’re giving it to somebody else.’ It would be just my luck. I rest my overstuffed basket on the corner of a counter and take the call.

  It’s a woman. But I can’t understand what she’s saying because she’s crying. My immediate thought is that something’s happened to one of the twins or Nick. Or my mum.

  ‘What?’ I say, panicky. ‘What’s happened? Who is this?’ A man holding a large loaf of fresh bread double takes and then hovers close by, unsure what to do. I hold a hand up to say I’m OK, although I don’t know if I am, and turn away slightly.

  The woman says whatever she’s saying again, and I catch a couple of words but not enough to make any sense out of it. ‘Slow down,’ I say. ‘Please.’

  ‘It’s me, George,’ she says and I realize it’s her. Lydia. I’m tempted to cut her off, but I know I can’t. Not until I know what’s up.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I just realized I’m older than they were,’ she says between sobs. She doesn’t have to say any more. I know exactly what she means. It’s Lydia’s forty-sixth birthday and her parents were both forty-five when the car crash cut short their lives.

  ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’ I’ve never really thought about how young they were, only ever seeing the tragedy from Lydia’s viewpoint. They were the age that parents were. Not people with ho
pes and dreams still to accomplish. Not people with everything to live for. ‘I hadn’t …’ I stop. I don’t know what to say.

  ‘There’s no one else who would understand,’ she says quietly.

  ‘I know.’ My arm is aching from supporting the basket, so I push it further on to the counter. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At work. I’m shut in my office; it’s fine. Sorry. I shouldn’t have called. I didn’t know who else …’ She starts crying again.

  ‘It’s OK.’ Would I have called her if I’d put two and two together myself? Realized how significant it was? Would I have put my anger aside for a moment and checked up on her? I don’t think I would. I’m not proud of that fact.

  I abandon my basket of goodies and head up to the street, phone pressed to my ear. I don’t say anything because there’s nothing I can really say that doesn’t sound like a platitude. I walk up and down Church Street, listening to her pour her heart out. Despite everything I feel broken-hearted for her.

  ‘I have nobody left who loves me unconditionally,’ she sobs at one point. Once I would have said ‘You have me’, but it had turned out that there were conditions after all. There was a limit. So, instead, I say nothing.

  ‘I’m sorry. For everything,’ she says, once she’s cried out.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s OK.’

  I don’t have it in me to hate her any more. I have my own life to live.

  CHAPTER 57

  Lydia dries her eyes. She hates crying at work, it’s so obvious even hours later, even after you’ve splashed cold water on your face and reapplied your make-up. Despite her new, thrilling book deal there’s no way she can give up her day job just yet. She’s an unknown. Phoenix offered her a tiny advance and Antoinette didn’t bat an eyelid. It was the norm, she said. The more books she sold the more money she would be offered next time. There was probably an algorithm somewhere. Lydia doesn’t care. She’s knows Georgia’s first big advance was for Wilbur four and five, once she’d proved her worth. And if Lydia is being honest she’d do it for nothing. Just for the honour of being able to call herself a published author.

  But God, she wishes she could hand in her notice.

  To be fair, when she told her co-workers about her book deal they’d brought out the champagne and toasted her good fortune. She’d showed them her illustrations and her boss said something like ‘How have you kept that talent hidden from us all these years?’ – which was sweet. But there was no one there who knew what it actually meant to her. Who really understood.

  She’d missed her parents more than ever that day.

  And then this morning it had hit her. She had often thought about what age they would be if they were still alive, what they might look like. But it was as if she had suppressed the idea that she might one day be older than they had ever got to be. It was unbearable. Gut-wrenching. She’d looked in the mirror in the office’s bland, white-tiled toilets, searching for her mother’s face. Everyone had always said how alike they looked, as if she’d given birth to a clone with no input from her husband. And Lydia saw her clearly, as she always did, only now she would become more unfamiliar with every passing day. Lydia would lose her all over again.

  Before she knew what was happening tears were running down her face. She locked herself in a cubicle but she couldn’t stop. Eventually she knew she had to make it back to her own office before anyone discovered her. Before anyone started being sympathetic and wanting to make her cups of tea and listen.

  She shut the door, put her head on her desk and wept.

  She needed Georgia. Georgia was the only one who could understand. Who knew what their deaths had done to her. Susan had loved her brother – Lydia’s dad – but she’d hardly known her mum. She’d hardly known them as a family. How happy they were in each other’s company. Lydia and Georgia might only have been friends for two and a bit years when the accident happened but she got it. And she had been the person Lydia had turned to ever since.

  Before she knew what she was doing she picked up the phone. Georgia’s was one of a handful of numbers she knew by heart. She had no idea what she was going to say, no desire to get into an argument or even a discussion of what had gone wrong with their friendship. She just needed to talk and for someone who understood to hear her out.

  Afterwards she felt drained. Raw. Empty.

  Georgia had let her get it out of her system. She still cared enough to indulge Lydia as she’d cried herself out. She had given her all the time she needed. But as they said goodbye Lydia knew with absolute certainty that that was it. There was no way back.

  She has a date with a man she met in the café at the National Portrait Gallery: Pavel. He’s a bit younger, a barista at a coffee shop off St Martin’s Lane. He spends every lunchtime wandering art exhibitions, he tells her. The location is the only benefit of his job. He has ambitions to paint himself, doing the occasional portrait on the side. He seems nice enough. Sweet. Harmless. She hasn’t told him it’s her birthday because what kind of a saddo would that make him think she is? Spending the evening with a virtual stranger instead of celebrating with friends or family. She buys herself a little cake and a half-bottle of champagne on her way home from work. She’ll celebrate on her own once the date is over.

  She showers and changes into a pair of skin-tight skinny jeans and her new Ted Baker top. High open-toed shoes. Spends an age doing her make-up and teasing her hair into waves. She takes a photo in the bedroom mirror. Then another. And another. She’s going to be late at this rate, but who cares? Pavel will either wait or he won’t. She picks the best photo, works her magic on it. Puts it up on Instagram (she hasn’t told Pavel her surname yet, let alone her Insta details, and if he sees this tomorrow she won’t care anyway. It’s not as if they’re going to be meeting up again. He’s not Nick. He can never be Nick. So what would be the point?). She tags Edie in, as she often does, hoping, but knowing there will be no response. Joe has already blocked her but Edie is still there. Silent, but there. The chink of light in the doorway. Birthday girl!!! she writes. #Blessed #LivingMyBestLife #DoYou #AuthorsOfInstagram. Then she changes her heels for her favourite clumpy boots and leaves for the tube.

  CHAPTER 58

  Eighteen months later

  I clutch a glass of warm champagne. Even with all the windows open the room is airless. Stifling. There’s a sheen of sweat on everyone’s face, turning them all to liquid. A woman I don’t know stands in front of one of the large fans, her arms lifted from her sides, laughing as she feels the breeze. There are about sixty people here in this beautiful panelled room overlooking the river near Tower Bridge, celebrating with me.

  This is the launch for my new book. Due out at the end of the month, published by Phoenix, edited by Kate. I’m so proud of it I could burst. I look round the room, packed with people who only want the best for me. I pick out Nick, his pale yellow shirt bright against his tan, chatting to Edie and Joe, Anne Marie and Harry with Nina and surprise baby Nat, chubby and smiley at seven months. Igor, the guest of honour, the muse for Mummy, Why Is That Dog So Big?, sits panting by my feet, his smart collar and tie wilting in the heat. I reach down and pat his head, check that his water bowl has been refilled.

  We’ve only been back from Spain a week, the four of us. A fortnight on the Costa del Crime. My mum was beside herself when I told her we all wanted to come. I’ve been three times on my own, and they came to us together for the first time a couple of months ago. Frank, it turns out, has a daughter, Joni, living in Farringdon. How did I not know this? Because I had never bothered to ask, that’s why. I mean, I knew he had a daughter but nothing else about her. It seems like beyond rudeness now. Anyway, she came over. She’s a couple of years older than me. Divorced. Riotously funny. Wary of Nick and me at first, I thought, because (I imagine) she knew we (I) hadn’t exactly welcomed her father into our family with open arms. But by the time she left in a cab at eleven o’clock that night (she had only been intending to come to lunch) we were promising to m
eet up for a drink in a few weeks. And we did. And we have several times since. We’re stepsisters. How weird is that?

  I hadn’t expected the twins to join us in Spain – Edie was working in a vintage shop in Bath for the holidays and Joe had been home in London doing shifts as a lifeguard at the lido on Parliament Hill – but the potential for comedy value made it an irresistible prospect. We opted to rent our own villa a few minutes away, rather than stay chez Irene and Frank, so that we could have our own space when we needed it, but Joe insisted we say yes to every one of Mum’s suggestions, so we spent half our nights at the club playing bingo or watching dodgy tribute acts (my favourite was Britney Houston who performed to songs of both Ms Spears and Whitney with an equal lack of authenticity). I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life. My mum was on form; Frank bent over backwards to makes us feel welcome, especially his stepgrandchildren. (‘They’re at university. Waste of bloody time if you ask me, but they’re smart as whips. They don’t take after you, do they, Reen?’) And then at the end of the night we would share a nightcap back on our terrace looking over the mountains and go over the highlights, Edie and Joe acting out the juiciest bits of Mum and Frank’s conversations:

  ‘Remember Nobby?’

  ‘Nobby?’

  ‘From the golf club.’

  ‘Oh, the fella with the bald head?’

  ‘No, that was Kojak. Nobby. Geezer with the head that looked like a knob. I mean, he was bald, but you were thinking of Kojak …’

  We had the best time.

  One day Mum and I went shopping and to lunch alone while the others – Frank included – amused themselves on the beach. (‘It was like looking at one of those peat-bog people they dig up from archaeological sites,’ Nick had said to me that evening, describing wiry Frank’s deeply tanned, sinewy torso in his red budgie smugglers. ‘Imagine if you put Santa’s head on Iggy Pop’s body. I’m scarred for life.’) Frank was, thankfully, over his prostate scare. (‘All back in working order, thank God,’ my mum said, and I’d asked her, laughing, to please never tell me anything like that again.) When we stopped for a coffee in a fragrant little square she asked me about Lydia as she always did: it was almost a reflex – mostly, I had realized, to ensure I wasn’t caving in and trying to rekindle our friendship. And I told her, truthfully, that there was no chance of that. I hadn’t spoken to Lydia since her tearful call over a year ago and I wasn’t about to.