4
“I don’t believe you.”
“Please try to.”
“Liwy, you are kidding?”
“I’m not bloody kidding. Would I kid about something like that? Molly, do me a favour, don’t quiz me on the phone. I’m really not up to it. Just get over here, OK?”
There was a stunned silence. “But I’m shocked. Honest to God, I am so unbelievably shocked! Johnny! Of all people!”
“Molly!”
“Yes! Right. Right, I’m coming. And Imogen?”
I swallowed. “Please. But, listen, could you tell her?”
She paused then: “Course I will, darling. I’ll see you soon.”
Half an hour later Molly was ringing my bell. I opened the door to find her clinging to the doorframe, hugely pregnant, panting hard, one arm holding her bump and the other, just about holding Henry, who at eleven months was puce in the face with fury, screaming and kicking to be set free. Molly’s dark curls were damp with sweat, her eyes wild.
“Jesus Christ,” she gasped, “don’t let anyone talk you into unprotected sex in October. I tell you, lugging three extra stone around in a heat wave as well as this little bugger is no joke.”
“I think sex, protected or otherwise, is rather off the agenda for me at the moment.”
“Oh, Liwy!” She dropped Henry, put her arm round my neck and hugged hard. “Liwy, my love!” I gulped gratefully into her damp curls, feeling her bump against me.
“Fine, I’m fine,” I muttered finally. “Come on in.”
She followed me into the chaos of my tiny kitchen, neatly sidestepping a clothes horse laden with wet washing, noting, I’m sure, the tottering pagodas of washing-up in the sink, the newspapers on the floor soaking up the rush matting which had got drenched when the washing machine overflowed, but happily releasing Henry into it all, like a ferret down a burrow.
“So when did he go?” she gasped, collapsing into an old Lloyd Loom chair and lighting a cigarette.
“About two weeks ago.”
“Two weeks ago!” She sat up. “My God, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Couldn’t.” I plucked a cigarette from her pack. “Couldn’t speak to anyone for about a week, Molly; couldn’t even get out of bed. I finally broke it to Claudia, who I’d been fobbing off with a Daddy’s-got-a-conference-in-New-York-again line, and then when she’d gone off to school, collapsed in a heap again.”
“How did she take it?”
“She said she knew. Suspected, anyway – had done for a while. She’s not stupid, Mol.” I bit the skin round my thumb.
“And is she OK?”
I sighed. “Seems to be, but you know how Claudes is. Never lets much show and takes everything in her stride, but you can never really tell with children, can you? All the books say the emotional scars and all that sort of scary baggage come later.” I gulped and dragged on my cigarette.
“Books?” scoffed Molly. “What do they know, a bunch of half-baked psychologists spouting out their university theses? Listen, she’ll be fine. God, it’s you I’m worried about. Has he spoken to you?”
“Oh yes. He rang last week to speak to Claudia, and when I picked up the phone he very sweetly gave me his telephone number in case I should care to call him. Or Her? I asked. Sorry? he said. Well, I explained, surely it was Her telephone too? Oh, he said hurriedly, he’d just meant in case of an emergency. I felt like saying the only bloody emergency would be getting the gore off my hands when I’d finished disembowelling the cow.”
“Ah. So there is a cow?”
“Oh yes, didn’t I mention that? Most definitely there is. That’s why he’s gone.”
“But you don’t know who she is?”
“No idea.” I gazed beyond Molly, out of the window. “No idea at all.”
She dragged hard on her cigarette. “Jesus,” she muttered, flicking ash on to the newspaper on the floor beside her and shaking her head in disbelief. “Jfesus. And you didn’t see any of this coming, Liv? I mean – is this a complete and utter bolt from the blue?”
“Total. Well, the girl and the moving out bit is. He certainly didn’t leave any clues – no lipstick on shirts, no condoms in pockets or anything – but…” I hesitated, “if I’m honest, Mol, I knew something was up. Have known something was up for ages really. I just stupidly never thought it would be this.” I gave a hollow laugh. “An affair! Never thought it would be an affair, for heaven’s sake, the most obvious thing in the world!” I reached up to a shelf for a wine glass, but as I tried to find a space amongst the debris to set it down and pour Molly a drink, I realised my hand was shaking violently.
She got up, took the glass and reached into the fridge for the bottle.
“He’ll be back,” she said firmly, pouring out a large one and handing it to me.
“Of course he will,” I said quickly, grateful for that, wanting her to say that, wanting more.
“After all, this is what men do, isn’t it?” she said warming to her theme, knowing she’d hit the right note. “I mean, this is the seven-year itch, isn’t it?”
“Twelve.”
“The flighty forties – ”
“Thirties.”
“The classic mid-life crisis, the ‘oh my God, where did my youth go, am I going bald and does my willy still work?’”
“Precisely.”
“And then before you know where you are, he’ll be crawling back here with his tail between his legs, and you’ll be force-feeding him humble pie for weeks! Actually, it’ll probably be the making of your marriage, especially if you sort of worry him for a bit.”
“What – you mean dither about having him back?”
“Exactly, do a bit of, ‘Ooh, Johnny, I’m not so sure. You see, I’m making my own way now. I don’t know whether you’ll fit into my amateur dramatics group, my gym classes, my – ’”
“‘Tennis lessons with the wolfish young pro’?”
“Much better! And then all of a sudden he’ll see his whole life slipping away into a grotty little flat with yet another Fray Bentos meal put in front of him by a floozie who can’t iron shirts, and in that split second – which is all it takes – he suddenly won’t be able to remember what on earth he saw in her, and he’ll be positively begging you to have him back!”
“Well, quite.” I took a huge gulp of wine. I’d been doing quite well there, but the mention of the floozie who might not wield an iron spectacularly but who might have other, more exotic talents, made me feel slightly less gung-ho. “Bastard,” I muttered.
“Oh yes, that goes without saying,” Molly agreed, “but – Henry, no!”
She lunged as Henry, left to his own devices, was quietly helping himself to the delights of a tool box left open by the builders and about to insert a six-inch nail down his oesophagus. Molly grabbed it, but then a frantic struggle ensued with Henry intent on keeping that nail, and prepared to sink his brand-new teeth into his mother’s hand to secure it.
“Ouch! You little – ” She bared her teeth viciously at him and snarled back. Miraculously, he dropped the nail.
“Well, that certainly worked.”
“Oh yes,” she panted, pinning him to the ground in a half-nelson. “He bit me the other day, you see, and I bit him back – in Tesco’s, actually. Caused quite a stir in the checkout queue. Someone even ventured to ask if I was fit to have another baby, to which I replied no, I’m not, so give me your address and I’ll let you have it. And there’ll be plenty more where that one came from, I assured the rest of the queue. At the rate I’m breeding, no one need go empty-handed.”
I smiled. Within weeks of giving birth, Molly had fallen for that fatal old wives’ tale which tells you you can’t get pregnant while you’re breast-feeding. Now, on the point of having two children under thirteen months, she was living proof that you can. Married to a lovely, penniless actor called Hugh, who was always just on the brink of making that big Hollywood break but meanwhile doing Bonio adverts to tide them over, she lived from
hand to mouth in a tiny rented cottage not far from here that was possibly even more squalid than mine. But Molly didn’t see the damp marching up the walls, or the confetti of final demands on the breakfast-room table; she had Hugh, she had Henry, she had her bump, and she was bright enough to know that was more than most. Molly had always been effortless, unashamedly herself. She wore anything that came to hand – jodhpurs, felt hats, crochet waistcoats – making fashion decisions faster than a speeding bullet, and I’d often felt that if I were more like Molly, it might give me more confidence, more vigour, make being myself less of a labour. She’d never felt she had a thing to prove, you see – which reminded me.
“Did you get hold of Imogen?”
“Yes. She said she was working late, just locking up the gallery, but she said she’d come straight down, be here about nine. Actually, the way she throws that Mercedes about I’m surprised she didn’t get here before me.”
“How did she sound?”
“About what?”
“Well – when you told her about me.”
“Oh. Oh well, to be honest, I could hardly hear her – her mobile was cracking up – but, well, shocked, I suppose.” She frowned, trying to remember.
I reached across and grabbed another one of her cigarettes, then paced the little room nervously. I gazed out of the window. The light from the caravan just across the stream at the bottom of the garden shone out like a beacon in the fading evening light. Mac and the boys, sick of trawling in from Billericay every day and getting stuck on the M25, had asked if they could stay during the week, and since it was in my interests to have them start at eight o’clock rather than ten, I’d said yes, fine, as long as you accommodate yourselves and don’t expect me to put you up. Bed and breakfast, I’d presumed, down the road somewhere, but the next thing I knew their truck had arrived dragging a socking great caravan. Later that afternoon, after they’d put in a hard day’s work, Claudia and I had stood and watched, fascinated, as they’d bustled around it like three little housewives; pulling down beds from the walls, making hospital corners with the sheets, getting crockery out of dinky little cupboards and even plumping up cushions on the banquette seating, before settling down in front of the telly, a six-pack between them, a vindaloo apiece, with no nagging wives, no bloomin’ kids – feet up and all ready to watch the footy. Magic.
Claudia was fascinated by this little menage, and one afternoon, when she’d been feeling rather brave, had knocked on their door. I’d found her there later watching the racing – Pils and vindaloo happily substituted by 7-Up and crisps – looking very important and clearly feeling very grown up. My mother had been horrified when I’d mentioned it, but frankly I could see nothing wrong with her watching the 5.40 from Kempton with my workforce before I called her back to do her homework. Right now, of course, she was tucked up in bed, and they were no doubt in there watching something far more risque.
I turned back to Molly. “I haven’t seen her for ages.”
Molly was on her knees, changing a nappy.
“Who?”
“Imogen.”
“Oh, right. No, neither have I, really. Not since she split up with Dominic anyway.”
I swung around. “She split up with Dominic?”
“Yes, didn’t you know?”
“No! When?”
“Oh God, I don’t know, four or five months ago?”
“Four or fi – but she didn’t tell me!”
“Oh, well, Heavens,” she looked up, awkward suddenly, privy to information I wasn’t, “you’ve been so busy with this house, Liwy, and she’s been frantic at the gallery – she’s had a rush of private views on recently – it’s hardly surprising. Anyway, she was never really serious about him.”
“She’s never been really serious about anyone except – ” I shook my head. “And I’ve spoken to her loads of times, Molly. She never even mentioned it!”
“Oh well,” she shrugged and snapped the new nappy on, “perhaps she wanted to see you to tell you. You know what Imo’s like. Listen, are you going to open those Pringles I’ve just spotted lurking in that cupboard down there, or are me and my appendage here going to have to starve to death?”
I ignored her, knowing full well she was changing the subject, and seized her hand as it went for the crisps.
“Four or five months, Molly. Don’t you see? That’s exactly when it started, four or five months ago!”
“Stop it!” Molly shook me off, horrified. “Liwy, how could you? Of course it’s not Imo!”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s your best friend!”
“Doesn’t count, Mol.” I shook my head violently. “Love cancels out everything like that. Friendship, loyalty – it all goes out of the window and, God, they were so in love all those years ago and – ”
“Liwy, you have got to stop being so insecure about that! Just because he went out with her, for God’s sake!”
“It was more than that and you know it. She broke his heart with Paolo, and then through her own stupid pride broke her own heart too. Imo’s never found anyone else, Mol, and look at her now, chucking in the towel with one guy after another!”
I was ranting now, pacing the floor, all the pent-up, horrid, suspicious thoughts I’d had over the last few weeks spilling out like serpents from my mouth.
“Don’t you see, Molly, it would have to be someone as serious as Imo! Johnny would never leave me just for a fling with a floozie. It’s not his style. He despises philanderers! He’d rather slit his wrists than join that sordid little band of – ”
I froze as I heard tyres on the gravel drive.
“Don’t you dare,” breathed Molly, staring at me.
I held her gaze for a moment, then went to the door. I stood for a moment, regarding the paintwork. The doorbell went, I waited a moment longer, then finally opened it.
She was standing on the doorstep, looking as beautiful as ever in a grey, sleeveless Ghost dress, her blonde hair slipping silkily over her shoulders, her pale blue eyes wide, like a baby’s. They filled up with tears when they saw me.
“Oh, Liwy! You poor darling!”
I was so glad she hugged me. So glad I could hide my shame in her hair. I was wrong. So wrong. I knew that instantly. But this was what he’d done to me, you see. This was what the love of my life, the ache in my gut, had done. Made me see treachery in childhood friends.
“How are you?” She held me at arm’s length and scanned my face anxiously.
“Terrible,” I grinned. “Despicable too, and nasty with it, but all the better for seeing you. Come on, come in before Molly and I finish all the wine.”
“Molly’s drinking?” she enquired doubtfully.
“Er, well, just a thimble or two.”
“And smoking!” she said, catching Molly hurriedly stubbing out a cigarette.
“My doctor says it’s fine,” she said defiantly. “He says the shock to my heavily addicted, twenty-a-day system would be far greater if I stopped and that one or two is not going to hurt, plus a little glass of wine and plus, Imo, if you were seven months pregnant, flatulent, exhausted, incontinent, and with a one-year-old with a charming habit of projectile vomiting, you’d have the odd ciggy too!” Molly got up to kiss her friend. “How are you anyway, you old bag?” She plonked Henry’s bottle in the microwave.
“Well, sorry I spoke, since you ask. But – blimey, it can’t be all that bad, surely? I mean, let’s face it, millions of women do it every day, don’t they? Have babies?” She gave a bright smile, perfectly designed to wind Molly up.
Molly ground her teeth. She and I longed for Imogen to get pregnant. We longed for that perfect size ten figure to swell up to monolithic proportions; for her to scratch and sweat, for her feet to swell, for her tummy button to pop out, and more importantly, for her to suffer the indignities of childbirth. Sadly though, we secretly knew that if Imogen were to get pregnant, she’d just look as though she’d swallowed a doughnut, and that when the time came for th
e doughnut⁄baby to be delivered, she’d effortlessly slip the perfect specimen into a gorgeous gynaey’s hands, who’d gaze at her with lust and admiration as, pausing only to deposit the babe into the arms of a waiting, uniformed nanny, she shimmied out of his private delivery suite in her size ten jeans, and headed back to the art gallery she ran in Walton Street for a refreshing spritzer with a client.
She sat down now on the only available seat – which, to her credit, was an upturned milk crate – and somehow managed to make it look like a Conran original. After crossing her elegant legs and flicking back her long, blonde hair, she cleared her throat.
“Liwy darling, I’m afraid I’ve got something to tell you.”
My heart stopped. I lunged for my glass; spun round to face her like a machine gun. Ah, so this was it, then; my hunch had been right. The serpents slithered back up my throat and I met her eyes challengingly. But Imo’s slid away. Imo’s eyes never slid like that.
“What?” I whispered.
“He’s seeing someone else.”
I nodded. “I know.”
“You know?” She glanced back at me.
“Yes, he told me.”
“Ah.” She paused for what felt like an eternity. “And did he tell you who?”
I shook my head. Couldn’t speak.
She gave a brief confirmatory nod. “Her name’s Nina Harrison.”
My jaw dropped. “Nina…what? Who? Who the hell’s Nina Harrison?”
She shrugged. “Search me, but I saw them in a restaurant about a month ago. It was round here actually. I came home for Mum’s birthday and we took her to that new Italian place on Hollywell Hill. They were in there having supper together.”
“No!” I gaped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Oh sure, come on, Liwy. What – tell your best friend that you’ve just seen her husband with another woman? And how was I to know it wasn’t a colleague from work or something, or even just a brief fling that would be much better you didn’t know about?”
“Better I didn’t…” I was speechless for a moment. “Well, God,” I blustered finally, “I think I might have told you!”
“Oh, me, maybe, but I’m single with no kids. But think about it, Liwy. Would you have told Molly? Pregnant? With a small baby?”
Olivia’s Luck (2000) Page 6
