by Donna Alam
Bloody Nat. ‘I’m not that bad,’ I grumble. ‘She caught me swearing once.’ Or maybe twice, but Fin doesn’t answer as the door to the living area swings open.
‘Ladies,’ announces the dramatic, willowy blonde I assume is Bea. ‘I’ve just been dumped!’
We were supposed to go out for dinner, but after a week working and the train journey down, I’m more than happy to stay in and veg out. Bea has something bluesy playing quietly on a Bose stereo in the corner, and little boxes of Tanzanian food stand half empty on the low table in the middle of the room. I’m nursing a coffee with a slug of amaretto, trying hard to stay awake, while Fin and Bea are halfway through their second bottle of Pinot noir.
‘Oh, he’ll be back,’ says the leggy blonde in response to Fin. ‘This is how we are, yar ?’ As the evening has progressed, Bea’s South African accent has deepened.
‘You sure fight plenty.’ Fin smiles as she brings the glass to her mouth. ‘What’s the deal with that?’
‘The story, it’s old,’ Bea responds enigmatically.
‘Yeah, but the night is young. Okay, maybe not too young.’ She squints at the watch on her wrist. ‘Lord, am I getting old? Ten o’clock used to be the beginning of a good night, not the end,’ she groans.
‘We’re all getting older. Believe me; it’s better than the alternative.’ Bea pauses a moment before stretching like the cat that’s snagged the cream. ‘And you’re never too old to make up. And we make up a lot, he and I. Long distance does have its perks.’ It takes me a moment to decipher her statement, her accent rendering perk some other word. ‘The sex is explosive, and we make time to meet in places we might not ever visit otherwise.’
‘Yeah, like an airport bathroom,’ Fin says, sniggering.
‘One time!’ Bea says though a ferocious blush. ‘And for your information, we’re meeting in Barcelona next week.’
‘I like your positivity.’
‘He’ll be there because I, my friends, am playing the long game.’
‘While he’s playing your fuck boy?’
‘Only in the bedroom,’ she responds, lightning quick.
‘Is he a doctor as well?’ I pipe up, keen to move on from sex talk before it descends into something more . . . communal; not that Fin and I currently have anything to share. At least, I know I don’t.
‘Pilot,’ Bea responds, gaze flicking to her wristwatch. ‘Anyone mind if I catch the evening news.’
From her position on the floor, Fin tilts her head in my direction. ‘She breaks out in hives if she doesn’t get to see any sort of news or current affairs programme before bed.’
Chuckling good-naturedly, Bea protests. ‘You try spending as many hours as I do at work—essentially a large concrete box filled with artificial lighting—and not need some connection to the greater world.’
She points the remote at the TV set into a recess on the wall, and the TV springs to life, the background music dimming now.
So we watch the news; the good and the bad going on in the world, though mainly the bad, and I suddenly feel sad. So, so sad. Story after story of murder, theft, and hate. A refugee crisis. A child’s unnecessary death. The murder of a policeman.
‘God, the human race is so shitty.’ I don’t realise I’ve spoken until both women turn their heads. It’s about then that I also realise my cheeks are wet. I’m crying . . . at the plight of someone I don’t know in a place I’ve never been.
‘You okay?’ Fin asks. She knows tears are a rare outbreak for me.
‘I think I must be hormonal or something.’ Tears continue to course down my face, faster than I can wipe them with the back of my hand.
Fin hands me a box of man-sized tissues, and I immediately bury my face in a handful.
‘Oh—happier news! My new favourite actor, don’t you know. Last weekend, I insisted Fin and I Flixnet and chilled.’
‘There was no chilling in this connotation,’ returns a laughing Fin. From her position on the floor, she reaches up to pat my knee. ‘If I were that way inclined, I’d be batting for my girl here’s team.’
‘Thanks, I think.’ My words come out weak and watery. ‘Actually, no, not thanks. You’ve had your hands down my brother’s pants, and I’m sure that makes it incest or something.’
‘Ew!’
‘Now, that is someone whose Carlos I’d like to get my hands on,’ says an awestruck Bea.
Fin begins to explain. ‘Bea has a kind of strange habit of, er, identifying certain parts of the male anatomy with different names. For a brainiac,’ she says, pointing at her roomie, ‘you’re pretty stinkin’ cute. I really hope I’m behind you the day you accidentally request a scan or catheter for a patient’s Carlos Wang. ’ Fin barely gets the final words out before dissolving into a fit of giggles. Not that I’m not paying attention because as I emerge from the almost pillowcase sized tissues, the TV and the entertainment news takes my whole focus.
My God. Dylan.
I still find it surreal to see him on any sort of media, partly because I make a point to avoid anything that might have even the barest whiff of him. But God, he was made for the screen. And as he stands there on the red carpet, waving at fans and posing for the paparazzi, I can’t help but stare at him in all his perfection. His flawless smile, his dark, shining hair. The way he wears his tuxedo like it’s something sexual. Only, he isn’t perfect. Not even aesthetically. Though not that anyone from this perspective could tell. From his slightly sharp bicuspid on his left side to the tiny scar adorning his strong jawline, he’s not perfect. Yet he absolutely is.
The newscaster mentions the name of the movie—it’s not one he’s starred in, but the woman on his arm? That’s a different story. Georgia Reynould . We’ve met. All one-hundred pounds of her. And most of those pounds are attributed to her blonde hair. It’s a good job she’s light on personality. A little mean, certainly, or maybe she was just asserting her star status when we met. She was his co-star—love interests, in fact—in Trauma , the movie he’d just finished filming before we broke up. The wrap party I left early, drunk and crying and with another man. The same woman who’d made the belittling just a hairdresser comment. She of the condescending manner and superior attitude. A superior attitude that no one out of the business gets to see. Because that’s not going to sell her vegan recipe book or her line in yoga wear. And there she is, the fake snake, with her hand on the arm of my man.
He’s mine on a technicality; at least, until our divorce comes through.
‘She looks like a coat hanger wearing a dress and a wig.’ Bea’s words bring me from my bitter recollections. While Hollywood thin, she’s actually quite beautiful. Outside, at least.
‘They’re hair extensions,’ I say quietly. ‘Not that you can tell.’
‘Ivy used to work in Hollywood. Sometimes on movies,’ Fin offers in explanation.
‘I remember you telling me. This Georgia, is she as horrid as I’d like her to be?’
I shrug noncommittally. ‘There are plenty worse.’
‘True. The world is full of horrible, horrible assholes.’
‘And he’s fucked a lot of them, apparently.’ Dylan’s words fall from my mouth, pulling tears from my lids.
‘He does have a colourful love life,’ agrees Fin. She’s not looking at me, so she doesn’t realise I’m currently balanced on a sharp emotional edge.
‘My God—did you guys see his sex tape?’ Bea interjects. ‘It’s not surprising he gets so much action. The man is hung like an elephant!’
In an explosion of tears and motion, I jump from the sofa and dash into the bathroom.
Chapter 20
Ivy
‘Are you feeling any better this morning?’ In the kitchen, Bea turns from the double espresso boiler, looking fresh from the shower, tangles of wet hair making the back of her t-shirt damp.
‘Yeah, sorry. I’m not usually so weepy. I don’t know what’s come over me these last few weeks.’ Though, I know fine well what came over me last ni
ght; an extra-large helping of remorse, faced with the sight of my happy husband. Happy without me.
‘Fin tells me you’ve just started a new business after moving back to Scotland.’ The words sound like a question, but not one that requires an answer of any sort. ‘Those are big changes for anyone. I’d know, about moving internationally, especially. Coffee?’
‘Please.’ I add my thanks as she pours me a cup from the boiler, setting it down. I’ve made peace with the fact I’ve fallen off the coffee wagon. There are worse things I suppose. ‘Did Fin go out?’
She nodded. ‘For her run. She said she wanted to get a head start on her calorie intake. You’re heading to Camden later, she said.’
‘The markets,’ I affirm. ‘More specifically, the food stalls.’ Street food, she’d said. ‘Then onto somewhere for an afternoon of gin-fuelled cocktails.’ I can hear how forced my bright tone sounds as I lay it on especially thick. What must this poor woman think of me? Will I be forever referred to as that friend you have—you know—the crying one? ‘I’m sorry about last night.’
Bea laughs. Probably for politeness’ sake. ‘Don’t worry about it. How about some breakfast,’ she says in a swift change of topic I’m glad for. ‘I’m making eggs?’ She brandishes an egg slice and a carton of mushrooms as a shiver of revulsion slides down my throat. ‘But you barely touched the food last night,’ she says, noticing my shudder.
‘I wasn’t really hungry. Plus, I had a dodgy cheese sandwich on the train. It left me with an awful metallic taste in my mouth.’
‘A metallic taste,’ she muses, turning back to the stove.
‘Aye—I mean, yeah. Nasty, it was.’
‘And an overly emotional state.’
She turns her head over her shoulder, half a smile evident. ‘You sure you’re not pregnant?’
‘Ah-ha. Ha. Ha.’
Erm, no.
No fucking way.
When did I have my last period again?
‘What’s up with you today? You look like someone who lost a fiver and found a pound.’
‘Nothing. I’m perfectly fine.’ I inhale a deep breath, pleased we’re out of sniffing distance of food now that we’re walking along the banks of the canal. The weather’s warmer today; a quintessential spring day, and the canal side is busy with families enjoying the sunshine. Meaning lots of avoiding strollers and dogs, which hurts my heart. Not the kids, strangely enough. I miss my Nigel.
‘You looked like you were about to barf when I suggested Mexican.’
I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. That’s all there is to it. Besides, I’m sure my last period was just after I got back from LA.
As in, eight weeks ago.
No. Noooo. I’m imagining things. This is all because of a cheese fucking sandwich.
‘Are you listening.’
‘Abso. Ears switched on.’ I make this weird motion with my hands, as though I’m actually switching my ears on. Why, I’ve no idea.
‘You’re really weird this weekend.’
‘I am. You’re right. Just . . . just got lots on my mind. And I’m a crap friend. Sorry.’ I squeeze her arm, dropping my hands just as quick. ‘How’s the new job?’
Fin shrugs. ‘It’s okay, I suppose.’
‘And this mess with Marcus?’ Just his name makes me rage. ‘Is it over? Can I hang out the celebratory bunting yet?’
‘Sadly, no. But you can maybe buy it in preparation? Soraya’s on the case. Well, her legal team is. She seems to think she has the upper hand somehow.’
If anyone can fix this, Soraya can. Her family has more money than God, and their arms are just as far reaching. ‘Good. Excellent. I hope her upper hand bitch slaps this good and fucking proper.’ I clap my hands together. Hard. ‘Ka-pow!’
‘I need to buy that swear jar,’ she replies . . . in a subtle change of topic.
‘And the other stuff . . . nothing from him?’ Rory. I already know the answer to this, seeing as I’m one of the people—friends—who are deceiving Fin. Hiding his visits and his demands to speak with her. Refusing to pass on his pleas that she got it all wrong.
‘Nothing, unsurprisingly.’ She looks up from straightening the hem of her scarf. ‘You haven’t—you haven’t seen him in the village?’
I almost respond. Almost. But decide to shake my head minutely instead. Does a small shake equal less guilt or more?
‘I expect it’s for the best. My will is so weak around him, nothing good could come of it.’
‘You’d see him again?’
‘Does that shock you?’ Fin stops walking, turning to face me, eyes resolute. ‘When some other woman’s expecting his child?’
‘No. Not at all. You’re human, and you love the prick.’
‘I do,’ she answers sadly. ‘Even when I’m trying not to.’
‘Love’s a donkey kont .’ Eyes now on the walkway beneath our feet, she nods. ‘Do you hear that,’ I say louder now. ‘Love’s a donkey kont! ’ I don’t realise I’m actually shouting until a man nearby covers his child’s ears. I pull a face and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ as Fin’s shoulders begin to heave.
‘Come on,’ I say, sighing. ‘Let’s go find that gin joint.’
‘You wanna get shit-faced drunk?’ She eyes me sceptically—first, swearing and now inebriated—and I’m not surprised.
‘How about comfortably numb?’
I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not. I’d know if I was, wouldn’t I?
Fin isn’t running the following morning. Seven cocktails and little to eat means she and Sunday morning aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Which gives me the opportunity to duck out to the pharmacy on the corner. Thank God for Sunday opening hours.
I buy one of everything, just in case. And two of the thing I actually came in for—a sort of belt and braces effect. Another just in case .
I’m not pregnant. I can’t be. For starters, he hates me.
Pregnancy tests—two.
A jumbo box of tampons. Is that practical or wishful thinking?
Condoms—a pack of twelve. Laughable, almost.
A packet of travel tissues.
Mint flavoured chewing gum. Because this awful taste makes me want to detach my tongue.
I stare at the basket—talk about mixed signals—and stick the cost of the whole thing on my credit card.
‘Where’ve you been?’ Fin’s curled up on the sofa still in her flannel pyjamas and fluffy socks. Pretty sure she hasn’t realised I’ve been out this morning. I must give her hair a trim before I head back to Scotland tonight. The cut is beginning to grow out.
‘The loo,’ I answer, sliding into the armchair opposite, clasping the white plastic bag to my lap.
‘I meant earlier. You were out when I woke up.’
‘How’s your head?’
‘Tender. Yours?’
Considering I didn’t drink—not because I thought I might be pregnant because I didn’t—don’t; can’t be—my head isn’t all that great. I’m just under the weather, that’s all. A particular kind of under the weather. One where a person can’t stand the whiff of gin, apparently.
‘Well,’ she questions again, ‘how’s your head?’
‘Well and truly fucked.’
Pulling open the bag, I begin fishing things out, ignoring her gobsmacked expression.
‘You can have these.’ I throw the maxi box of tampons on the low table between us. ‘And you can give these to Bea for her dirty Spanish weekend.’ Thump goes the box as it hits the glass. ‘These I’ll be needing for my mouth.’ I pull out the chewing gum then the tissues. ‘And the other I expect I’ll be needing a steady supply of for the next seven months or so.’
‘Are you having some kind of mental breakdown?’
‘Might’ve been easier. Might’ve been preferable.’ I throw the bag in her direction, not wanting to touch what’s inside; figuratively or literally.
Opening it, Fin pulls out one box then two, staring at them as though the branded packaging is written in Chinese.
‘Have you—’
‘Yeah, you might not want to open those. I peed on them, so they’re definitely mine. That’s how it goes, isn’t it?’ I scrunch my nose, not quite able to comprehend what the hell I’m saying, never mind what I’m going to do. ‘I’m right royally pissed. I’m up the pisser without a paddle? Just . . . you know what?’ I say, throwing up my hands. ‘I’m fucking fucked!’
Chapter 21
Ivy
‘Fucked, are you? I think you mean you have been.’
‘She called you.’ It’s a statement—and not a particularly cheery one—as I drop my weekend bag at the bottom of the set of stairs leading up to my flat.
‘What did you expect?’ Nat replies from her position at the top. She begins to descend.
‘I expected her to keep a confidence until I get my head around it myself.’
I’m not pregnant and I can’t be . . . turns out I can be and am.
‘Din’nae fash,’ Nat chides. But how can I not worry? I’ve done little else on the train these past few hours. ‘I’ve been sworn to secrecy. I haven’t even told June yet.’
I turn from locking the front door and shoot her a glare. ‘You’d better bloody not.’
‘Come on.’ She rolls her eyes theatrically. ‘June’s like a white witch or something. She always knows when stuff is up.’
‘No, she always seems to know when something’s been up you,’ I return, regretting the nastiness in my tone immediately. ‘So I’ll thank you to keep your trap shut.’
‘And it’ll be thanks I’ll be getting. I won’t need to tell her ‘cause it won’t be long before she guesses herself. You know, Fin only rang ahead because she’s worried about you. She doesn’t want you feeling as though you’re alone. Given what she’s just gone through herself, you know she’s right. Whatever you decide, we—your friends— are here for you in whatever shape or form you need. Even if y’don’t think y’need us at all.’
This is a variation of exactly what Fin had said right after I’d told her this . . . situation I’m in was the result of a one-night stand while in LA. I’d felt wretched as she’d said that nothing good could come from trying to deal with this alone; that secrets weren’t healthy. That they damage.
