Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  I laugh. I try to make it a tinkling laugh, but I’m not sure whether I succeed. ‘Since I’ve been on my own he has been a very good friend to me, Jane. I’m extremely fond of him. We seem to have a certain spiritual bond. I can’t make any predictions.’

  ‘But despite your high-profile romance, you say you remain good friends with Jack?’

  Last time I spoke to him, I want to say, we were awkward and embarrassed with each other and couldn’t think of much to say. And I’ve been getting these letters.

  I nod. ‘Oh yes, he really is a best friend to me. He’s away in Scotland at the moment, but we are very much in touch. There are no secrets.’ I almost guffaw as I say it. ‘Any romances, as you call them, that either of us has are not for the long term. It’s a shock when a marriage doesn’t work, and I’m interested, right now, in sorting my priorities out. I’ve moved into this flat, which as you can see is very homely, and it’s a great place for me to get my head together. I feel safe and secure here.’

  Do I hell. This is a message to my anonymous correspondent, so he thinks I’m not bothered. I hope it doesn’t inflame him. ‘My flatmate, Megan, is a lovely girl,’ I continue, safe in the knowledge that she and Guy have gone to the cinema at my insistence, and that Jane won’t be treated to the spectacle of the two of them falling through the door together and tumbling straight to the bedroom. I don’t think the sight of a young waif being felt up by a man who looks old enough to be her grandfather would be edifying to Jane. Actually, I think she would relish it, but I don’t intend to give her the chance. ‘We sit and chat, drink tea, go shopping, and it’s giving me time to get my life back on track. Although I know it’s going to be a long road, whichever way things go. I’m under no illusions about that.’

  Jane nods compassionately. ‘About your husband,’ she says, but stops as the phone rings. I am seized by indecision. If I let the machine pick it up, the message will be relayed to the Daily Mail. If I rush to answer it, I will look rude and flustered and like a girl with something to hide.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I say politely. ‘I wouldn’t normally, but I’m expecting a call about work.’

  ‘I was hoping to hear about your work,’ says Jane pleasantly. ‘By all means.’ She gestures to the phone. I snatch it up. Jane’s head is cocked to one side.

  ‘Hello?’ I ask, as serenely as I can.

  ‘Evie!’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me! Dominic. Hey, Evie, how’re you doing? Long time no speak!’

  ‘Hi, Dominic,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Look, can I call you back? I know you’re in town and I know we’ve got a lot of rehearsing to do for Paris, and I’d love to talk it all through with you, but this isn’t a good moment. I’ve got your numbers.’

  He sounds confused. ‘You sound really weird, sweetie. Are you OK? I was sorry to hear about your husband, but, you know, kind of glad. In a way. You’re not too hooked up with this little boy, are you? I want to take you out, get you drunk again.’

  I frown, hoping Jane can’t hear him. ‘Sure. Look, I’ll ring you. Bye!’

  ‘Are you—’ I cut him off, turn the volume right down on the answer machine, and switch it on.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say with a big smile. ‘An accompanist I work with in Paris. We’ve got a slot in a radio broadcast in July.’

  Jane raises an eyebrow. ‘Really? Tell me more. In a moment. First of all, I need to ask - a girl like you must receive a lot of attention and offers. Were there ever any moments during your marriage when you were tempted . . .?’

  When she leaves, I breathe out, kick my shoes off, and text Megan to tell her it’s OK to come home. Then I call Dominic back and explain. He laughs long and hard, and wishes he had been obscene. He sounds relieved that I wasn’t being standoffish with him. I object to his familiarity. We have worked together for a year or so, but we’ve never been on friendly terms before. I used to admire his body and his haphazard dress sense from afar. He wouldn’t be speaking to me like this were it not for the sex.

  We arrange to go out on Friday. I know I have to play this skilfully, to keep his friendship without becoming his girlfriend. I don’t particularly want to sleep with him, either.

  I call Dan and tell him that I don’t think anything I’ve said will get him into trouble.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says. ‘I’m in trouble anyway. I don’t even care. I’d like to be in your interview.’

  Then I call Jack. He answers his mobile on the first ring, sounding eager.

  ‘It’s me,’ I tell him.

  ‘Oh.’ He sounds disappointed. ‘How come your name didn’t come up on my phone?’

  ‘I went anonymous. Being a public figure and all that.’

  ‘You wish.’

  ‘Who were you hoping was ringing?’

  He sounds guarded. ‘What do you mean? I’m in a bloody monastery, Evie. It’s exciting when my phone rings.’

  ‘Cut the crap. You thought I was someone else and you were excited. Have you met a girl? Is that allowed, in a monastery?’ I keep my voice light and teasing.

  ‘Shut up,’ he says abruptly. ‘Why are you ringing me?’

  ‘To warn you about the Mail. There’ll be an interview in, probably next Thursday. I didn’t slag you off.’

  ‘Cheers. Look, I’ve got to go. Got some chanting to do.’

  He cuts me off, leaving me staring at the receiver. My husband has a girlfriend, or at least a potential date. He is supposed to be hanging on for me. This might call for a change of strategy.

  Dominic takes me to Soho House on Friday and gets me drunk. I lean on the table and stare into his eyes, as he tells me that I’m beautiful and sexy and that he wants to take me home and fuck me senseless. We are in a dark corner, and I gamble on the fact that no media people are sober enough, or observant enough, to spot me. To have two lovers and a husband could be regarded as immoral.

  While I am there, I enjoy the attention and forget everything else, and I am happy to comply with his suggestion. For a few moments I feel carefree and sexy.

  In the morning I look at him with horror. I feel nothing for him, and I can’t wait to get him out of my bed, out of my flat. After he leaves I cry, although I’m not sure exactly what I am crying about.

  chapter eight

  February

  The flight, or at least the business-class part of the plane, is almost empty. I study the menu with my legs stretched out, and smile to myself. I am getting good at this. Good at making sure things are the way I want them. Jack is putty in my hands, and it comforts me to fly to New York knowing that he would - he did - fly back from Scotland because I asked him to.

  I would love to have an indulgent meal, and get drunk, but I know I can’t. This is a working trip, and I’m only going to be working for the first three days, and I cannot possibly turn up the worse for wear and expect that no one will notice. I scrape by, professionally, as it is. Drinking at altitude will do nothing for my intonation and musicality when I get there. I have to be reliable or I won’t get the work. Above all, this time, I have to look good, or I will be fired. This is the biggest advert I have done. It is my chance to break America. It is tragic that a soft-drink advertisement could do more for my career than any live performance ever would, but that is the way my life works. I chose that path with my eyes open and I love all the trappings. I have to stick to my side of the bargain.

  I have slept with three men in the past three weeks. Although I don’t want to shout about it, this fact pleases me. I am desirable to eighteen-, thirty- and forty-year-olds alike. I am a desirable woman, and I can use that fact. I feel powerful. Part of me feels sorry for Jack, but not very.

  Books and magazines don’t hold my attention. I look around the plane. I can’t imagine travelling economy class any more. Even when we went on holiday I would always pay for Jack and me to fly in comfort. I am spoiled, but at least I am well aware that it won’t last for ever. The fear is always there, nagging at the back of my mind. I know that one
day, soon, someone is going to find me out, and I’m not going to get away with it any longer. I have to make the most of it while it lasts, and the moment I get complacent is the moment it stops. Everyone thinks I am grounded and happy. Nobody realises that I walk around with a constant expectation, at the back of my mind, of being unmasked.

  The stewardess appears at my side, with the trolley.

  ‘Something to drink, madam?’ she enquires, with a smile. I’m sure the smiles are warmer in business class.

  I sigh. ‘Mineral water, please.’

  ‘Sparkling or still?’

  ‘Still, thanks.’ How boring. How necessary. She hands me a snack to go with it. I look out of the window at the soft clouds, and straighten my legs. Even completely straight, they don’t reach the back of the seat in front. I recline my seat and sip my water. I love travelling on my own. I adore long flights. I am flying trans-Atlantic with no one sitting next to me, or behind me, or in front of me. This should be heaven. I study the movie list, desperate for something to make me forget the other night, and decide to watch a random romantic comedy.

  This jumbo is the best environment for me right now. I’m neither in one country nor another, and I’m completely alone, with, for these precious hours, no responsibilities to anyone.

  When Jack called me, on the day Jane’s reasonably friendly piece appeared in the Mail, I didn’t expect an announcement. I thought he was just ringing to complain that I’d talked about Dan in the interview. Even though I only said a couple of words about him, it was the peg on which the entire piece was hung.

  ‘I’ve met someone else too,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I may as well tell you. Since you’re seeing someone so publicly. She’s called Sophia.’

  I was taken aback. ‘Is she Scottish?’ I asked, for some reason.

  ‘No. She lives in London too. She’s been up here for the same reason as me, to get a bit of perspective on her life.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She’s an actress.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  I made a token effort to sound happy for him, but I was livid. Jack is supposed to be my reserve player. He said he loved me and he would always be there for me. And yet he has apparently managed to pull in a monastery.

  I wonder if I have now sabotaged their relationship. I can pretend to other people that I hope I haven’t, that I hope Sophia will never find out, but I can’t pretend to myself. Even if she doesn’t find out what happened, Jack is now lying to her. They are no longer the perfect couple, and I am glad.

  When the latest letter arrived, two days ago, I called Jack and cried down the phone. I started to tell him what was going on, then clammed up and sobbed and refused to say anything else. Much sooner than I had expected, he was telling me that he was on the way home. That afternoon, he rang the buzzer and took me out for some stiff drinks.

  He looked good, I thought as I opened the front door. Life as a Scottish Buddhist clearly suited him.

  ‘Evie,’ he said. ‘Come here.’ He took me in his arms. ‘You look gorgeous,’ he added.

  ‘You don’t have to say things like that,’ I told him with a smile. ‘You’re my husband.’

  When I saw the way he looked at me then, I knew I could have him back.

  Sometimes I wonder if I am a truly horrible person. I suppose I am, in many ways. I don’t feel bad about it: if I felt bad, I would change. This is how I have been since I was sixteen. It’s the way I have to be.

  It could be worse. I could be an alcoholic. I could have fallen apart completely, but I haven’t. I have a fabulous life. Everybody envies me. That is because hardly anybody actually knows me.

  It is all Louise’s fault. I told her my biggest secret. Mum said I should keep it from everyone at school, even from Louise, because my life would be hell if it was spread around. I told her that Louise was my best friend in the world and always would be, and so, before I left Bristol for America, I confided in her. I told her all about the thing that will consume me for the rest of my life, the thing that is beginning, once again, to keep me awake at night. For years I pushed it away and never articulated it in my thoughts, and now it is crowding back in.

  Louise was my best friend from the age of twelve. We were inseparable for four years. She had short black hair, and freckles, and big brown eyes. I was skinny and mousy: I wanted to be like her in every way. She was more confident than me, more popular than me, and, I thought, nicer and more dependable than I was.

  When I disappeared to America, only Louise knew the reason why. When I came back, she put her arm round me, comforted me, told me I’d get over it and that she would look after me. She said it would always be a secret and I could trust her for ever. I knew she was the best friend I would ever have, the only true friend I ever needed, and I told her every single detail of what had happened.

  Two weeks after I got back to school, she changed her mind and started spreading the news. I came into the classroom one morning, at a quarter to nine, and saw her leaning into a huddle with two other girls. They were popular, gossipy girls, who usually ignored nobodies like Louise and me. My stomach tightened in fear, but I told myself I was being stupid. Louise was my friend. I had been away. She was bound to have made some new alliances. She was probably talking about the tickets she’d got us for the Nelson Mandela concert. I instructed myself not to be paranoid, and I sat at my desk, and looked back over to them.

  Both girls were staring at me. When I caught their eyes they looked quickly back to Louise. She nodded, and their mouths gaped. I lip-read one saying, ‘No way!’ Louise nodded. ‘Way,’ said her mouth. She smiled, pleased with herself, and refused to look at me. She had decided to sacrifice my friendship on the altar of her own wider popularity.

  I was still feeling weak, and my stitches were sore. I was empty and miserable, and school was the last place I wanted to be. The whole class knew by the end of the morning, and the whole school by the end of the day. I denied it when I got the opportunity, but most people gave me a wide berth, and talked about me as I passed. I ignored them as best I could, and devoted myself to my GCSEs. I ended up with As in all of them, because I had nothing to do but study.

  I hate Louise. I hope she has died horribly from cancer or AIDS. If not, I hope she has noticed my career and been jealous of me, and regretted the fact that, if she’d stayed my friend, she could have enjoyed the reflected glory. It’s exactly the kind of thing she would have loved. I hope she has a dead-end job cold-calling on behalf of an insurance company and that annoyed householders swear at her on the phone every day. I hope she earns a pittance and hasn’t had sex for five years.

  I went to sixth-form college and never spoke to anyone from our old school again. I knew that the only way I could have a future was by reinventing myself. It seemed to work. Before, I would never have had the courage to introduce myself to someone as pretty as Kate, but now I had nothing to lose, so while we were waiting for our music teacher for the first class of the A-level syllabus, I turned to her and made myself smile.

  ‘Are you a musician, then?’ I asked her, trying to talk like a happy, unconcerned person.

  She turned back to me and grinned. ‘I play the flute. I’m not brilliant, though. I think I’m going to find A level really tricky, but I want to have a bash at it. How about you?’

  Kate and I were friends from the start. She’ll never know how much her friendship did for me, in those early days. I never told her my secret. I never told anyone, after Louise. To this day, however, I sometimes pass women on the street in Bristol, and from the way they look at me, I know where they went to school, and when.

  The repercussions of Louise’s betrayal have been almost as bad as the legacy of the incident itself. I never confide in people any more. I only tell people things I would be happy to see passed on. I’m sure I could trust Kate, but I’m never going to test her. I have to get through this on my own. I’ve always got through things on my own before, and I will do it again now.

  The stew
ardess reappears at my side, and I shake away the unwelcome introspection and ask for a vegetarian meal, in a half-hearted attempt to choose the healthy option. I would have been more virtuous ordering the fish, but the veggie option is linguine with creamy mushroom sauce, and that’s what I fancy. It doesn’t sound particularly slimming. I add that I’ll have a white wine with it. I’m sure no one really expects me to cross the Atlantic without a drop of alcohol, and besides, now that Louise has re-entered my head, I need some support, and it’s only going to come from the inside of a bottle.

  She brings two bottles and I am grateful.

  ‘It’s a long flight,’ she says, ‘and I’m sure you need it. I would, if I was allowed. Can I just say, Miss Silverman, I read an article about you in the Mail a while ago and I was full of admiration. My husband and I are great fans of yours.’

  I switch on the professional charm and hope she hasn’t been watching me brooding. ‘It’s so kind of you to say so!’ I gush. ‘Really, I appreciate it so much. Please pass on my best wishes to your husband as well.’ I attempt to give her a dazzling smile.

  She reciprocates. I wonder who has the best professional faux-charm: an air hostess, or a minor celeb. ‘Thank you. He’s going to be so jealous that I met you. He’ll kill me. I don’t suppose I could ask you to sign something for him?’

  It is becoming harder and harder to reconcile my public face with what’s really going on. Several magazines followed up the Mail’s piece and I have been brave and self-deprecating, remorseful yet confident and positive on news stands everywhere for the past couple of months. The urge to be honest with them is almost overwhelming. As far as they are concerned, the most interesting facet of my life is the fact that I am sleeping with an eighteen-year-old who, three months ago, was completely unknown. Dan’s charms are already wearing off. I need to get rid of him. We have nothing to talk about except the media.

  Dominic is amused by my new persona, and threatens to sell his story and tell the world that I’m ‘a great shag’, and even though he’s joking it terrifies me, because I don’t know him particularly well, and he might do it. If I piss him off, he could do it.