The first thing I do is go upstairs to my mother’s room and retrieve the photo I dropped the other night; the picture of her precious Will, myself and my then best friend, Kim, who used to live next door. I force myself to stare at it for a few seconds, then rip it into tiny shreds. It was one of the last ever photos taken of him – I can tell, because the cuddly blue elephant he is clutching was only given to him by Babs the week before he died, which is why Amelia must’ve hidden it from sight. I don’t want reminders. Kim’s family whisked her away shortly after the Incident, leaving me behind with the rest of the local children at our small school, who either didn’t know what to say to me or simply treated me as though I was tainted.
I stand still.
Silence.
I close my eyes.
I can almost feel the sun on my skin, just like that day. There was barely any breeze. I rarely do this. I rarely go there, and there is no need to now, but an overwhelming desire to mentally self-mutilate dares me to push myself. Just one more time. My breathing quickens at the memory of feeling a resentful carelessness. And laziness. Until I had jolted and sat up. Feeling sick, I’d felt a barely perceptible dribble at the side of my mouth. I’d wiped it away as silence cut through the incessant noise of the bees.
Either it ended or began then; I’m never sure which.
I shiver now, open my eyes, then run downstairs and rummage around in the kitchen. I rip several bin bags off a roll and hand some to Babs.
‘Here. If you want anything, keep it. Otherwise it’ll go to charity or get binned.’
It takes two days. I end up having to stay at Barbara’s, but the job is done.
Before I leave Dorchester, I have some spare keys cut. I drop them off with several estate agents before catching a train back to the shoebox.
My life is slowly coming back together. Once the house sale goes through, I will have money. Things may have been more tortoise than hare lately, but everyone knows who wins in the end.
For the first time since I moved in, I sleep the entire night.
On my penultimate day off from work, I get up early and go over to Nate’s. He’s at home, unfortunately, but I need my fix. I walk past the theatre and a bank, then I cross the road. I stare at his building, which also houses five other flats. It is set back from the main area of the Green, down a small lane. Well-maintained communal gardens, both front and back, surround the property. I walk past several times, completing circuitous laps of the wide open space. I hang out until Nate goes for his usual jog around nine, before rewarding himself with a coffee from his favourite café. The weather is on my side again. Although the dark clouds look fit to burst, a drop has yet to fall, but it means I can justifiably keep my raincoat hood up.
From my viewpoint, near the café entrance, I can see through the glass that Nate has ordered a croissant. Unusual. A surge of hope; comfort eating can be a sign of loneliness. I take out my phone and stare at the screen. Nate takes his time over his coffee drinking and takes full advantage of the free papers. As I glance up from my phone, fear floods through me. Nate is walking straight towards the exit. Head lowered, I walk away, then step into the nearest shop doorway, holding my breath. He walks past. My heartbeat is violent. Deep breaths.
I walk in the opposite direction, towards the river, and call Amy. I need a distraction.
‘Do you fancy meeting up for some tapas in Richmond tonight?’ I say. ‘I know a good place that’s cheap and cheerful.’
There is no danger of bumping into Nate, as he is off to Boston.
Amy agrees. ‘Come to mine for a drink first,’ she says.
The tapas restaurant was a favourite of ours. Alejandro, the gossipy manager, will feed back to Nate how happy I appear if I mention – once or twice – how much more relaxed I am with some fabricated new boyfriend. Nate should feel some sliver of jealousy. It’s human nature to want what you can’t have, I know that only too well, and I bet Nate checks my Facebook page from time to time, through curiosity, despite the impression he likes to give that he no longer cares. It will do him good to see me out with a new friend. Even if he doesn’t, maybe someone will see something and mention me in a positive light. I’ve had to set up two Facebook accounts – Elizabeth and Juliette – and take great care which pictures I post on each page, as it would give the game away if I’m in Melbourne one day, Singapore the next.
I return to the train station, glancing up at its distinctive square clock – it’s not even midday yet – and go home for the afternoon. I may as well use my time productively before I head off to Amy’s, so I take out my laptop and get to work. After chasing some estate agents, I check on what Bella is up to. She is supporting yet another charity. An anti-bullying one this time. Anger sweeps through me. She has no right, none at all.
In-bloody-hale, ex-bloody-hale. In. Out. In. Out.
Patience is a virtue.
Stick to the plan.
I occupy my mind by searching for a driving instructor, and I finally book some lessons.
I catch the bus to Heathrow for a change of scene, then another one to Brentford, even though it makes my journey longer. It doesn’t matter, as I still have plenty of time, despite my busy day. Each trip we do generates between two and five rest days off, depending on the destination – ‘Time at Base’ days, generally known as TAB days. The bus stops and starts, snaking through Hounslow, then back on to the A4, passing rows of houses set back from the main road. Even above the noise of the bus engine, I am aware of the constant stream of whining aircraft on their final descent. Glancing up through the window, on each approaching plane I can see – despite the daylight – the flashing lights of the anti-collision beacons, and the landing gear; thick, black tyres poking beneath the metallic underbellies.
I alight at Brentford High Street, outside the County Court, and from there it is a forty-minute walk to Amy’s. I pass tall, shiny glass buildings and the depressing grey pillars supporting the bridges of the M4 above. The final leg of my journey takes me up a wide, residential road.
I am sweating by the time I press Amy’s buzzer.
She opens the door in a peach towelling robe. ‘Sorry! Running a bit late. Help yourself to a drink from the fridge,’ she calls over her shoulder as she disappears into her bedroom. ‘I won’t be long.’
I don’t bother. Instead, I wait on the sofa. She takes ages. Bored, I pull open a drawer in the coffee table. It’s mainly full of junk. I can’t help myself tidying it, grouping random pens and picking out a disintegrating packet of sticky cough sweets, which need to go in the bin. There is a Homer Simpson key ring, a burst of sky blue and yellow, holding two keys. Spare keys? I pick them up and slide them into my bag – you never know when things will come in useful.
‘You remember Jack from my party, don’t you?’ Amy says when we’re finally en route. She doesn’t wait for a reply before continuing. ‘I hope you don’t mind? He was at a loose end tonight, so I said he could join us.’
I smile. ‘How lovely. The more the merrier.’
Of course I fucking mind.
As soon as I enter the restaurant, my mood drops further. There is no sign of a welcoming Alejandro and I sense his absence, made more obvious by the lack of a decaying cactus on a high-up window sill and the missing paper tablecloths, decorated with badly illustrated sombreros. Instead, the place looks . . . sleek. I just know that he’s sold out, moved on. I feel a tiny stab of betrayal. I was a loyal customer.
A waitress shows us to a table set for four. I can see the back of a man’s head; he swings round and grins.
‘Hi, Jack,’ I say with a big smile. ‘Who’s the empty seat for?’ I casually slip in as I take a seat opposite Amy.
‘My pal, Chris,’ says Jack with a grin.
A tingle of unease seeps through my chest when things are out of kilter. I don’t want to double-date or hang out with other men – there’s no point. I have Nate. Clenching my fists beneath the table, I force myself to pick up the menu and study it.
> Just as I am about to suggest that we don’t bother eating and head for a bar instead, Chris arrives. He is larger than life in every way: tall, loud, with a beer belly. Although I grin and appear welcoming, the next few hours are an endurance. I feel trapped. I hate the fact that I am here, going through the motions in the wrong life, with the wrong people. I haven’t endured the nightmare roller-coaster ride of my early twenties to now experience such a brutal stab of hollowness. My beliefs entitle me to a cosmic reward like . . . contentment or stability. I belong at home, with Nate. Every moment that we are apart is a waste of time, because the outcome is obvious – we will be together. Being with Nate was as though I’d begun a homeward-bound train journey, only to be booted off halfway through, on a winter’s night, and instructed to reach my destination on a series of replacement buses.
I want it all: Nate, his family’s welcoming acceptance, the comfortable lifestyle and kids who grow up to be a footballer – Will loved kicking his football – and an actress. I’d look after my children myself; I wouldn’t trust anyone else to watch them properly. I want to be the sort of person who other people might glance at – in a restaurant, say, or even just taking the kids to the park – who people might aspire to be. I want them to imagine that I am the sort of person who is ‘together’ and to picture my orderly home, with children’s pictures stuck to the designer fridge with magnets, whilst my husband opens a bottle of chilled, expensive wine as I stir a risotto.
Approaching midnight, they are all pissed and laughing at things that aren’t funny. If Jack shows me one more YouTube clip of a man flying off a motorbike into a conveniently located haystack, I will scream. And I don’t think I will be able to stop.
We are now trapped in a long queue at the deserted taxi rank. The smell of kebabs from a nearby takeaway is overpowering. I can’t bear it a second longer. Childish defiance takes over.
‘I have an idea,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine lives nearby, he’s away, but he lets me use his place from time to time. He likes me to feed his fish and keep an eye on things. Let’s go there for a nightcap.’
‘Are you sure?’ says Amy. ‘What about—’
‘Come on! I can’t bear this queue a second longer. We can have a drink in the warm, and I’ll call a minicab.’
Amy still hesitates.
‘Follow me,’ I say and head off down the alley towards the Green. ‘You’ll need to be quiet as we walk upstairs, some of his neighbours work shifts. Once we’re in the flat, it’s fine.’
I feel smug as I let everyone in, like I’m taking even more control of the reins. My eyes dart around the living area. It is neat. No work manuals, no post, nothing too personal. Nate and I are both tidy. I don’t believe that opposites attract; I’m sure it’s a myth. I pull the blinds down and insist that everyone has a liqueur coffee. Nate won’t notice if the amount in the bottle goes down, he hates the stuff. Jack is sitting close to Amy on the sofa. There is a space next to Chris who is sitting on the other one, in Nate’s spot. It serves him right that another man – albeit an unsuitable one – is in his place.
The fish are doing laps. If fish could talk . . . For the first time ever, I feed them, sprinkling a layer of vile-smelling confetti shapes over the surface. Rainbow’s mouth opens and closes as he glares at me.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I say. ‘Just nipping to the bathroom, then I’ll call us a cab for later.’
They ignore me; roaring at yet another YouTube video on Jack’s phone.
In Nate’s spare room, I check his desk. Mostly bare, as usual, apart from a pot containing an assortment of hotel pens. He tends to take his admin away with him, but I can’t resist checking his drawers. With my phone clamped between my ear and shoulder I dial a taxi firm.
It rings.
A male voice answers. ‘Hello?’
My eyes fix on an expensive cream envelope. An invitation? To what? From whom? I carefully slide out a card, even though it’s already been slashed open with Nate’s paperknife.
‘Hello? Bob’s cars?’ I force myself to speak. ‘Oh, hello, yes . . . I’d like to book a taxi please . . .’
Hanging up, I sink down on to the bed, reading the words as they blur in front of me.
5
Whenever I choose to encounter Bella, whether online, from a distance or in photos, I always mentally prepare beforehand. I form an imaginary protective barrier around myself. To anyone else, what I’m looking at would seem like nothing – but to me, it is another setback. Another painful reminder of how she leads the type of life that I desire.
It’s an invitation to Bella’s home to celebrate a friend’s thirtieth birthday. And it’s not the fact that her friend is a fairly well-known celebrity – I couldn’t care less – it’s the brazen exclusivity that needles. I would love to be invited and to mix in the same social circles as Nate. I knew Bella too, once.
‘Juliette?’
Amy is standing at the door, frowning, clearly puzzled despite the glazed look in her eyes.
‘Sorry, I got distracted. I messaged my friend to tell him we were here and he asked me to check something for him.’
I put the card in the drawer, switch off the light and follow her back into the living room. ‘More liqueur coffees?’ I say with a hostess smile. ‘The minicab controller said it’s really busy. The taxi will be about an hour.’
It’s a struggle to remain present. I smile and nod and try to join in, as best I can. But I want to whoop out loud with relief when the cab calls after forty-five minutes to say it’s downstairs.
‘I’ve ordered two,’ I lie. ‘I’ll get the next one back to mine. I want to stay and tidy up a bit more, anyway,’ I add when Amy opens her mouth, as though to protest.
It’s true that I do need to check that I’ve replaced everything correctly. I can’t leave any signs; Nate is fastidious. I check that his Boston flight is well and truly en route before feeling secure enough about my decision to stay for the night. I don’t see why I shouldn’t. I return to the spare room and once again pull out the stiff invitation card.
I’d be delighted if you could join us in celebrating . . .
Amelia’s decision to apply for a boarding school scholarship, rather than letting me continue at the nearest secondary school, neatly coincided with my teenage hormones starting to kick in. She helped me prepare for it, even though I found it straightforward enough to discuss contrasting monologues and perform a series of improvisations. Student head of year, Bella, was assigned to look after me by the House Mother and show me the school ropes. Which, in fairness, she did. At first. Bella was elegant, intelligent, witty, slim and beautiful. Under Bella’s wing, I was protected from those who looked down at my too-tight, dull clothes, unable to conceal my puppy fat.
Most of the ‘inner circle’ were weekly boarders. Bella’s family lived in an exclusive area in Bournemouth. I was vague about how close my home was. ‘Out in the countryside,’ I used to reply, if asked, when in fact it was a thirty-two-minute drive away – I’d timed the taxi driver who’d driven me on my first day. The weekends dragged. I used to keep my head down in the library and escape by flicking through the permitted magazines – Vogue and Tatler – picturing my future invitations to parties where I too would be in the photos on the back pages.
In drama, Bella’s parts were always the equivalent of Mary in a primary school nativity play, and the roles of her closest friends – Stephanie and Lucy – were comparable in status to the wise men. Mine were the bit parts – like a shepherd or a donkey – despite my scholarship, even though I was allocated extra behind-the-scene roles such as script writing and directing. I tried not to mind, but it hurt because I wanted my rightful turn to shine, to have everyone applaud, and to elevate my popularity status.
‘It’s because her family are loaded. They donate generously to the school. No one else ever gets a turn,’ Claire, a quiet, fellow scholarship girl who excelled at most sports, whispered to me once when Bella got another coveted role.
I had quite liked Claire, but I couldn’t befriend her because I’d sensed that Bella – although she’d outwardly made an exception for me – generally didn’t approve of scholarship students getting a ‘free pass’ whilst most of the inner circle had parents who’d worked hard to achieve their wealth. The thought of Bella ever seeing where I came from filled me with shame. At night, I’d pour out my feelings of inadequacy, writing my diary by torchlight whilst remaining cautious with the precise details.
Things hurt more if they are properly acknowledged.
I yawn; it’s 3 a.m. Outside, a full moon hovers.
I go to the bathroom, remove my make-up with soap and tepid water and brush my teeth with Nate’s electric toothbrush (he has a battery-operated one he packs for work).
I climb in on his side of the bed and give in to sleep.
When I wake up, I experience precious fleeting seconds during which I believe that everything is as it was. I am in our bed, happy and content whilst Nate makes breakfast or is out for his jog. But, as always, crushing reality hits and the floating, intangible happiness bursts.
I look at my phone; it is midday. I make a coffee and check inside the freezer. The muffins remain untouched, so I pull them a little further forward.
My phone rings. An estate agent.
‘Fantastic news, Miss Price,’ says the young male voice. ‘We’ve already had an offer for almost the asking price. No chain, they’re in rented accommodation.’
This will shortly provide me with more cash than I have ever had access to in my life. Amelia’s guilt money. This means I can choose where I live; I no longer have to remain exiled in Reading. I look up properties in Richmond, but they are extortionate. All I can realistically afford is a small flat. I bookmark several potential ones.
I switch to Facebook. Amy is quiet. A half-Italian friend from my long-ago film extra days, Michele Bianchi, has landed a small role in a TV drama as a vet’s assistant. I type Congratulations! No one ever called him by his first name alone – he was always known as Michele Bianchi. We used to have lunch together, watching the proper actors at work. If I had put my mind to it, I’d have liked to train as an actress. I liked the thought of leading a dual life; one as myself, one as a fictional character. But, having left school at the earliest opportunity, I ended up drifting from one job to another: florist, silver service waitress, admin assistant, sales rep, to recall a few. Ditto with my living arrangements. I’d rented a series of rooms, but I always returned to Dorset after a few months because I hated living with strangers. Come to think of it, my life has followed a similar pattern with men and friendships too. Whenever I get to know people, they generally disappoint me. But I have faith in Nate. With him, it feels right. There’s no other way to describe it.
The Perfect Girlfriend Page 4
