by Jane Fallon
‘Is Michelle OK?’
‘God, yes. I didn’t mean to worry you …’
‘Julian and Miriam?’
‘Yes. They’re fine. Everyone’s fine. At least, I think so. That’s why … shit, Tamsin, I don’t really know where to start …’
‘Let’s sit down,’ I said, feeling suddenly as if I might keel over if I didn’t. Ron was still bounding about, doing his best comic turn for attention. No doubt he was remembering the time his favourite Uncle Patrick gave him a beef-flavoured rubber bone and hoping there might be another on the way. It seemed unlikely at this point.
‘Sit, Ron. Stay.’ I couldn’t bear to watch his unrequited efforts. His joy was too hopeful and pure for him to understand why it wasn’t being reciprocated. He did as he was asked. Of course he did. He’s a dog, he can’t help himself.
Was this it? Was this the point where Patrick told me he had other women on the side and that he needed my help to break it to Michelle? Not after what Bea had reported back surely? I couldn’t bear the suspense.
‘So …’
Patrick let out a long breath. I had to stop myself from going over and shaking him, demanding that he spit it out – whatever ‘it’ was – right now.
‘I think … I think Michelle … this is going to sound so ridiculous …’
‘Patrick, just say it, for God’s sake.’
‘I don’t think she trusts me.’
He sat back and looked at me as if to say, ‘There, now do you see?’ I didn’t.
‘What?’
‘I think she’s got it into her head that I’m a cheater or something.’
Ah …
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Something weird happened at the awards the other night.’
Oh God.
‘What do you mean weird? And what’s this got to do with Michelle?’
‘OK, so this woman came over to me, out of nowhere, and started chatting me up …’
‘Right.’
‘I didn’t think anything of it at first, I just tried to get rid of her.’
I sat there. Breath baited.
‘But she was really persistent. And then she said a couple of things that made me think she knew Michelle.’
For fuck’s sake, Bea. I should have known it all sounded too good to be true. I tried not to feel irritated with her. It had been unfair of me to put her in that position and expect she might be able to carry it off after all.
‘What kinds of things?’
‘I can’t remember the exact words, but she came over like she didn’t know who I was and then when I mentioned my wife – because she was really coming on strong – she said something like, “Oh, Michelle?” and I said, “Do you know her?” and she got all flustered.’
Oh God. Please. Do. Not. Let. Him. Be. Able. To. Trace. This. Back. To. Me.
‘So who was she?’
‘I have no idea. Her name was Cheryl. I didn’t get her surname. I don’t know any Cheryls and neither does Michelle, as far as I know.’
OK, so I could let out a small sigh of relief.
‘But was that all? I mean, there’s bound to be a rational explanation. She’d probably overheard you saying something … or something.’
I crossed my fingers that he would buy what I was saying, felt myself attempting to cross my toes.
‘No. I asked her that because it seemed so odd, and she just stood up and said, “Do you want to come to my room or not?”’
I tried to feign a laugh. Acting is not my strong point. ‘She sounds a bit crazy to me. Are you sure someone hadn’t put her up to it? For a joke or something?’
‘No, I think they had, that’s the point. But not for a joke.’
Shit. Fuck. Bollocks.
‘I think Michelle did. I think Michelle suspects I’m playing around and so she set this woman up to try and catch me out.’
Breathe.
‘That’s preposterous! As if—’
He interrupted me.
‘I thought she might have told you—’
‘What? No! Not that I believe it for a second by the way, but no.’
‘Has she said anything to you, though? About not trusting me?’
For once I could tell the truth. ‘Never.’
‘I couldn’t bear it if she didn’t. I’d never … I mean, you know, don’t you? That I’d never cheat on her.’
‘Of course.’
Oh shit. He was really taking this hard. I pushed all thoughts of the many ways I wanted to punish Bea for giving the game away out of my head and concentrated on Patrick. He looked close to tears. What the fuck had I started?
‘I refuse to believe Michelle would do something like this.’
‘Who else would, though? It can only be her.’
‘I’m not saying you were imagining it, but do you think you might have read something into it that wasn’t there? We all have cloudy judgement after a couple of drinks.’
‘I wasn’t drinking. It was a work function. And, no, I don’t think I was overreacting. Some woman comes up, out of the blue, basically asks if I want to sleep with her, accidentally drops Michelle’s name and then gets very flustered trying to cover it up. Come on, Tam. What other explanation could there be?’
I picked at a fingernail, avoiding his eye. Worried it into splitting. Tore the top part off. ‘Michelle’s just not the suspicious type.’
‘Because she’s never had anything to be suspicious about. Maybe now, for some reason, she thinks she does.’
‘I still can’t imagine her doing this though? It’s so … extreme. Apart from anything there’s all the organization. You know that’s not her strong point. And where would she find the woman?’
‘I don’t know. Aren’t there companies where you can go? You hire someone for the night to hit on your spouse?’
Are there? I wish I’d thought of that. ‘I have no idea.’
‘To be honest, that’s why I thought she must have got you involved. You’re so much better at practical stuff than her.’
‘Absolutely not.’
His face crumpled. He sat forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. ‘I don’t know what to do. I thought we were so happy.’
‘You were. You are. This is clearly all a big misunderstanding.’
‘Will you talk to her, though? Try to find out what’s going on? She’ll tell you, right?’
‘If there’s anything to tell then, yes, I’m sure she will. But there won’t be. You have to stop worrying.’
His eyes had teared up. I have never seen Patrick cry. Never. He’d come close at their wedding. He’d done that wobbly-lip thing that unreconstructed men do when they’re trying to hold it all in. But he’d caught himself just in time. Now I could see a watery would-be escapee at the corner of his eye. He tried to wipe it away and it plopped down onto his cheek. He swiped at it again. I looked away. It seemed like such an intimate gesture.
I can’t even begin to tell you how bad I felt. I had created this whole thing. Nothing had been wrong with their marriage. Nothing. And now – because of me, because of my stupid willingness to believe rumours that clearly had no basis – there actually might be.
Patrick sniffed. Got out a tissue and dabbed at his eyes clumsily. I felt sick with guilt.
‘It’ll all be something and nothing. All I know is that Michelle adores you. And she has never even hinted to me that she thinks anything is wrong.’
I tried to imagine how I would have reacted if I hadn’t in f
act known that Patrick was right about his suspicions. Would I have laughed? Got angry on Michelle’s behalf? I was finding it impossible to act naturally.
‘How can I ever feel the same about her knowing she would do something like that?’
‘You’re overreacting. You’re imagining things … she wouldn’t …’
I had no idea what else I could say to get him off this track.
‘I couldn’t deal with it if anything happened … I just couldn’t.’
A second plump tear landed on his cheek and negotiated its way through the stubble. This time he didn’t even try to mop it up. He looked such a mess. This was so unlike the cocky over-confident Patrick I knew. I couldn’t help myself. I stood up and walked over, plonking myself down on the sofa next to him. I put an arm round him and he leaned into my shoulder while I stroked his back, like I did to Ron whenever he was under the weather.
Can you see where this is leading yet?
10
It didn’t happen then.
We sat where we were for maybe five minutes. Him crying and holding on to me like his life depended on it. Me stroking his back. I looked over and saw that Ron was still sitting rooted to the spot, as I had told him he should who knew how long ago. He looked confused. Worried that he didn’t recognize this behaviour in two of his favourite people. I patted my knee – the universal sign for ‘come here’ to a dog – and he trotted over, laying his head on my leg in sympathy. It struck me briefly that we must look like some kind of alternative nativity scene, and I almost laughed. Out of nerves more than anything else.
Eventually Patrick sat up and we shuffled apart. I think we were both feeling slightly self-conscious, not sure how we should behave. I don’t think we’d ever been in such close physical proximity before.
‘Sorry,’ he said, a small embarrassed smile appearing on his face.
‘Don’t be. I completely understand. It will all be OK, though. I promise you.’
‘Will you try and talk to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks. And I’m sorry for getting you involved.’
‘Stop apologizing.’
‘Sorry.’
Thankfully, he laughed as he said this and that eased the atmosphere a bit. I stood up. I couldn’t wait to get him out of there, to be honest. Luckily he took the hint.
‘I should go. Mich thinks I’m only going to get a paper.’
‘I’m braving Budgens,’ I said, standing too.
He leaned over and hugged me, patted Ron on the head. ‘Will you call me if … you know, if she says anything …’
‘Of course. And stop worrying.’
‘I feel much better just for having said it out loud.’ He didn’t look it, to be fair. He looked awful.
‘Any time,’ I said, not meaning it in the slightest.
I showed him out. Went back to the living room and slumped on the sofa. I hadn’t got a clue what to do next.
That was last Saturday. Today is Tuesday.
Of course I called Bea straightaway and told her what had just happened and she was abject. I felt guilty for ruining her weekend, but I wanted to hear just how bad the damage really was, whether she had given away more than Patrick had let on. She eventually admitted to having accidentally mentioned Michelle by name, but she insisted that she had covered well and that Patrick couldn’t really have deduced anything concrete from her mistake. So I tried to cling to the hope that the whole thing might be a massive overreaction on his part. That somehow it might all blow over and go away of its own volition.
And, of course there was nothing for me to talk to Michelle about given I already knew all the answers. I did make a show of calling her on Saturday night, though, and asking her if she fancied meeting me for a potter round Spitalfields Market the next day. I was hoping Patrick would think this was a ruse so that I could quiz her about her suspicions, and would decline to come along. Then I could tell him that we’d had ‘the conversation’ and that everything was fine, Michelle had no worries, she thought their marriage was perfect, and ‘Cheryl’ was clearly some kind of psychic mad woman who he should just forget all about. Job done.
He clearly picked up the signals because it was only Michelle waiting for me by the stinky cheese shop, our agreed rendezvous.
‘You on your own?’ I said, trying to keep the hopeful note out of my voice. Maybe Patrick had just popped inside to try some Montgomery Cheddar.
Michelle rolled her eyes in a jokey way. ‘He said much as he loves you he didn’t want to spend his Sunday morning admiring vintage ladies’ clothes. He’s gone for a run.’
‘Good,’ I said, matching her tone. ‘His loss.’
We wandered amiably up and down the rows of stalls, tried on clothes in Collectif – or, at least, I did and Michelle watched – and flopped on sofas we would never be able to afford in One Deko. It didn’t feel like we were quite our usual selves, though – from my point of view at least. I couldn’t shake the picture of Patrick crying from my mind. Or the sense of guilt that I felt about the atmosphere I must have created between them. I struggled to find our usual effortless common ground.
‘Is something up?’ Michelle said eventually, once we had sat down inside Canteen for a sinful brunch. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘No. I’m fine. Just knackered.’ I hoped I sounded even halfway convincing. I was tired actually. I had hardly slept the night before. That’s how much Patrick’s state of mind had unsettled me.
‘You work too hard.’
‘We all do.’
‘Well, yes, there is that. You look a bit down, though, I don’t know.’
‘Honestly I’m fine. Now, my mum’s birthday. You have to help me …’
Michelle took the bait.
‘Oh God, yes. I should get her something, too.’
‘Let’s have another walk round once we’ve eaten, there’s bound to be something.’
Michelle picked out a 1950s tea set that I knew my mum would absolutely love. I kicked myself for not having thought of it first. Although my mum’s the sort of person who, if it came from me, would look it over carefully for about three painful minutes and then say something like, ‘What’s this?’ whereas if Michelle gave it to her she’d declare her love for retro chic in general and fifties china in particular.
At one point we stopped at a stall selling handmade baby outfits that would have reduced Cruella de Vil to a broody mess. Brightly coloured animal appliqués adorned tiny onesies in a variety of dazzling colours. I tried to edge on past them casually. Move along. Nothing to see here. Michelle, however, had other ideas.
‘Oh my God!’ she squealed. ‘Look at these.’
‘Cute,’ I said, and shuffled towards the next stall, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. It gets busy there on a Sunday.
‘Hold on,’ Michelle said and I turned to see she was holding a babygro in neutral orange with a – I have to admit – stupidly cute giraffe character on the front.
‘Do you think it’s a jinx if I buy it?’
I raised my eyebrow at her in what I hoped was a sceptical fashion. Michelle knows what I think about jinxes and fate and all that other nonsense.
‘OK, so then I’m buying it.’ She held it out to the woman running the stall. And then noticed a sign saying you could get two for ten pounds rather than pay seven pounds just for one.
‘Choose one,’ she said to me, her face lit up with happy anticipation. This was not a woman who would ever suspect her husband was playing around. Or whose husband should ever have worried that she did. I cursed mys
elf for my stupidity again. I poked around among the piles of tiny outfits, found one that was green with a darker green crocodile.
‘This one.’
‘Perfect. I’m dying to get pregnant,’ she said to the woman as she proffered her ten pound note. ‘I just have to convince my husband that it’s the right time.’
I grimaced. ‘Too much information.’
The woman smiled, ignoring my comment. I suppose her business thrives on hopeful parents-to-be. ‘How lovely. Good luck.’
By half past twelve we were both ready to call it a day.
‘I’m going to have to eat lunch now, too,’ Michelle groaned as we got into a taxi, her heading for Highgate, me for Belsize Park. ‘I think Pad’s hoping for a roast at The Angel. I don’t know how I’m going to fit it in.’
She hugged me as the cab pulled up to drop her off. If she thought her husband had been behaving oddly since Friday she certainly didn’t give anything away.
That afternoon I’d arranged to go to the cinema with Anne Marie. We do this about once a month, when there’s something on at The Everyman that we both want to see. We flop in our comfy seats, have a glass of wine, watch the film and then stuff in a pizza across the road at Pizza Express, while putting the world to rights.
I’ve already decided I would like to be Anne Marie when I grow up. She lives on her own – through choice, she has been proposed to many times – but she has a social life to rival Kim Kardashian’s. She’s always seen every film, play, art exhibition worth seeing. She was married once, years ago, but it was miserable and in the end she walked out one night with nothing but a tiny suitcase, and she vowed never again. Now she does exactly what she wants to do whenever she wants to do it. I doubt she’s ever lonely, she doesn’t have the time.
We sat through a slightly worthy new version of an old classic. It’s a book I love and know well, so it didn’t really matter that my mind wouldn’t stay focused.
‘Ashley seems to be settling in nicely,’ Anne Marie said afterwards, as we ordered an American Hot for me and a Fiorentina for her.
