by Paula Byrne
The thing I really can’t stand about those literary types is their obsession with style. Who cares whether a book is well written or badly written? What matters is the passion of the author. That’s why I only read the good reviews of my book about fashion, the ones that said I really got why some clothes are especially sexy (especially when worn by me, I said to myself when I read that!). I just ignored the bad ones which said that it was badly written and had too much cultural studies jargon (the thing is, I just had to put in that stuff for the stuffy academic critics – good thing Manchester taught me a few of the key phrases, male gaze, inscription of power, and all that).
Anyway, they were wrong, because Edward said that he thought it was very well written, and he should know, I mean he used to be a history teacher before he became a very glam and charismatic headmaster in both the public and the private sector, knighted for his work in turning round a sink school. O yes, Edward really appreciates my literary talent, but I guess that is mainly because he fancies me so much, LOL! He’ll never dump me like he did Moira. TY, Edward. He finds me irresistible, maybe because I just am! As he observed in Jakarta, even the sandflies couldn’t resist me. They were all over me as if I was a piece of shit, LOL! I know that Edward will never get bored of me, because I have ‘infinite variety’ like Cleopatra, and I make him hungry where I most satisfy! That’s another thing I love: quoting things that remind me of me.
But hang on, what if Edward does dump me? Will I still be Lady C? What if he goes back to Moira? But I doubt he will. I mean, she’s hardly a success. She’s only a senior commissioning editor at Random Penguin, something that I could do in my sleep! In fact, I would get really bored in a job like that within two years because I’m too clever for it, just as I get bored of men within two years unless they happen to be a passport to a glam life, which luckily my darling Edward is, now that he’s escaped from that shithole in Liverpool and picked up a knighthood. But I still worry sometimes (when I’ve had too many margaritas) that you will want to go back to Moira, EC. I fear you will do it out of low self-esteem and not being able to accept that I am ultimately much smarter and more attractive than you. Will Moira then become Lady C? And if I then marry Darren from Champneys, who did give me a lot of very special attention on my pampering weekend, will he become Lord D? I’m getting very confused. But I don’t think I could bear it if one day my Ocado delivery man came and no one addressed me as your ladyship. I’d have to make myself some yummy pink Nigella Lawson ice cream (so love pink, hence my shiny pink Loubs for the Investiture). In fact, I think I’ll go and make some now.
*
She turned to Misty for advice.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I saw the blogs.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: So crazy. Is it some old Blagger who’s got a grudge against you? Quite funny, though. Gets your tone spot on. You are vain, Blaize.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I know, it’s quite clever in its own way. But, once again, like the letters, it’s all based on stuff about me that’s out on the Internet.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: So stop tweeting. Quit it. Just DM if you need to. Besides, it’s all over with the Dr isn’t it?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Of course it is. But I suppose I just want him to know that I’m OK.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Well you don’t know that he’s looking at your tweets. Is he still following you?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Yes. And he favourites the odd tweet. But we’re not in contact. I’m disciplining myself not to look at his tweets. I am not a cyberstalker.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: I suppose it could be that lezzy mother. Do you remember that girl who had a crush on you at college? Started wearing the same clothes and dyed her hair like yours. You do seem to have this effect on people, Blaize. Sometimes you’re too friendly. You need to protect yourself. Not let people in. Except me, of course.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I know. I make this mistake time and time again.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Are you and Edward OK? He’s always been insecure about you, for the obvious reason.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: Yes, I think we’re OK. He’s been totally chilled about it. But I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me. You know what they call him in the staffroom?
DM from @FrJohnMisty: No drama Obama?
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: You got it. You always get it.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: How about you? It’s got to be affecting you.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: I must admit I’ve got a few more wrinkles than I had before. Unlike Edward, with that fabulous skin of his. He snipes at me every now and then, but I’m OK with that, I deserve it. In a funny way, it’s brought us closer together. What’s even funnier, is he’s become obsessed by Twitter. It’s very addictive. You’re right to say I should quit Twitter, but it’s useful publicity.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Don’t lie to me. I know you too well. You’re trying to keep some kind of contact with Dr Who. It’s a slippery slope, Blaize. I bet he’s still all over your Twitter. You are funny on Twitter, Blaize. That’s been the problem with your stalker, they just don’t get your sense of humour.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: That’s living in the south for you. No one in Blagsford gets my humour. They don’t seem to understand irony. Twitter asks ‘what’s happening?’ I tweet ‘lost my glasses,’ and then I get accused of being a narcissist.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: Well you are. We all know that. I love people with big egos. They usually have a big ego because they’re interesting. Shy people bore me.
DM from @Lisa_Blaize: BTW you must follow Henry VIII, and Kermit. So hilarious. Miss you Misty.
DM from @FrJohnMisty: I love you.
CHAPTER 27
Hacked Off
Lisa needed a second opinion, so she asked Bee to meet at the Albion.
‘Oh, you just missed Onions, again. He’s dying to meet you. You’d get on really well.’
‘Really, Bee, I’m beginning to think that Peter Onions is a figment of Blagsford’s overactive imagination. I hear so much about him; he’s a genius, he’s a legend, he’s the heart of this old town. He’s the most inspirational teacher at Blagsford Grammar. Maybe Edward should try to hire him.’
‘What’s wrong, lovey? Sit down and tell me.’
‘It’s Edward. Do you think there’s any possibility that Edward wrote the letters – and now these fake blogs?’
Bee stopped typing on her laptop and looked up.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that Edward is your troll? OK, I’m going to say something very important. You must not go mad, Lisa. The idea that your distinguished husband is writing a fake fashion blog in your name is simply insane. This town has a way of turning even the most stable people into paranoid lunatics.’
‘I’m not being paranoid; I just hacked into his email.’
Bee burst out laughing.
‘Listen to yourself: you hacked into his email. Why?’
‘I don’t know. I just had the thought that maybe it was Edward all along. It was something that Sean said to me. Not directly, of course, but he hinted that perhaps I don’t know my husband as well as I think I do.’
‘He’s probably right. Who really knows who the other is, and what they’re capable of? But, in this case, I think you’re wrong. Have you considered Sean’s agenda, here? That he might have a reason to sow a seed of doubt in you? You might as well say that Sean is your troll.’
‘But the emails. They were to his best friend, Nick, and it suggests that my husband’s far more jealous than he’s ever let on.’
‘I’m not interested in hearing about this; they were confidential, and you hacked into them.’
‘Well, it wasn’t really hacking. I just happened to glance at the screen of his laptop and saw my name. Maybe he left his computer open deliberately, wanting me to see them, so that I could feel his anguish. That’s it, Belinda, he wanted me to see them.’
‘Far too Freudian – you’re just making excuses. Lisa, listen to yourself. You’re really losing it. You mar
ched in saying that Edward might be the troll, and now you’re saying he’s wanting to share his pain with you.’
Lisa knew better than to continue this argument with Bee. She also felt deeply ashamed that she had looked at Edward’s email. It was something that Sean had said to her, long ago, about how she was just a trophy for Edward, and that he didn’t truly love her, or why else would he ‘lock her away in a tower’? Sean would never do that. He would be her lover, her soulmate, her cook, her jester, but he would never lock her away. So, she had done the one thing she vowed never to do (like reading someone’s diary): she had read personal, private emails that were not meant for her eyes.
*
The emails revealed that after he had found out about the affair, Edward, who always took pride in his self-control, had contained his emotions for a week. Then he had broken. He had been compelled to unburden himself to someone. But he hadn’t wanted anyone in Blagsford to know that his marriage was in trouble. It would not have looked good. He had had his fill of salacious gossip in the staffroom when he had married Lisa at SJA. So he had turned to Nick, using his private email account, not the headmaster’s, which his PA was all over.
One day, when he had been rushing off to a meeting, he had left his Gmail open on his laptop on the kitchen table. Lisa had come in, and before she knew what she was doing, she found herself working through a string of messages between Blagsford and Indonesia.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Bloody hell, Nick, you were right. About Lisa having a faraway look and being glued to her phone when we were staying with you. She’s been having an affair. With the bloody heart surgeon who saved Emma’s life. How’s that for medical ethics? I think she’s completely in love with him. But I don’t know how far they went – she swears they didn’t fuck. But they were going to: he invited her to Amsterdam “for a conference”. You know what it means to go to a foreign city with a woman – you’ve been doing it all your life. Just joking. But seriously, Nick, I’m totally devastated. I’m as much in love with my woman as I was the day when it began. And the thought of us breaking up – I can’t bear it. Especially for the kids. I just don’t know how it’s happened. I try to give her everything. I thought she was so happy to get away from Liverpool. And that she’d never do anything to hurt the children. What have I done wrong? OK, it’s been tough settling into the new school, and maybe I’ve neglected her a bit. But why didn’t she tell me she was unhappy? I’m perplexed in the extreme – but not jealous. What the hell am I going to do?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
What you’re going to do, mate, is stay calm. Stay dignified like you always do. Let her feel the chill wind, but never, never, never shout at her. That’ll just throw her into his arms. Tell me more about this heart guy. I bet he’s married. If he is, you’re going to be just fine. He’ll be a serial philanderer (most surgeons are) and he’ll run a mile now that you’ve found out. If he’s not, you’ll be fine as well – cos that would make him like me, not wanting to be tied down. You’ve always been a jammy sod, Ed – you caught her just in time. Would have been much more serious if she’d gone to Amsterdam. If that had happened, she’d be setting herself up in a fuck flat before you knew it. Keep me posted.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Cold comfort, Nick.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Here’s comfort: Lisa has the strongest sense of family I’ve ever seen in a woman. Give her time. She’s that much younger than you. Early onset mid-life crisis? She’s always been precocious, your Lisa. Is she suddenly thinking that one day you’ll be an old man and she’ll have to change your colostomy bag and this is her last chance to trade you in for a younger, fitter model?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
This is not the time for banter. You’ve always been the one to keep my feet on the ground, stop me being pompous. But this is no time for joking. Maybe she does think I’m declining into the vale of years. I don’t know.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Are you talking? That’s the most important thing.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Oh yes, we never stop talking. The weird thing is that I know how she feels, and I don’t feel angry. I feel sad for her. Her heart is broken. She looks so sad. She’s cried in my arms over Sean. She told me that she hasn’t crossed the line. But, come on. Does she expect me to believe that?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Then again, you could have a revenge affair. There must be a whole queue of bluestocking headmistresses out there at those conferences, just waiting to be livened up by a man of your stature.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I don’t want a revenge affair. I want her to love me again.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Then just make sure she respects you. Love her wisely, not too well.
*
There had been another exchange a couple of weeks later:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
How’s it going, bro?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I’m trying not to let her see it, but it’s really getting to me. She’s being evasive about how far they went. Swears blind they didn’t do it, but won’t look me in the eye and deny that they lay together. Says they were careful not to harm their marriages, their children. Naked in bed and not mean harm? I don’t think so. I’ve just got this image in my head. Of him lying with her. On her.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Ask yourself this, Edward: do you want to be divorced?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
No.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Then do nothing for two years. I’ll tell you where I got that tip. Do you remember that skinny girl Donatella at college? Her husband shagged around and she spent thousands on therapy before getting her answer with that simple question: do you want to be divorced? The answer was no, and now her marriage is back on track. So I’m your therapist and now you owe me a shedload of money! Or at least a few beers.
*
A few days later, Lisa was still ruminating on Belinda’s ticking off. She felt terrible about her behaviour. Who was she becoming? Reading messages on the computer of the man she loved: that wasn’t her. Belinda was right. Blagsford was tipping her over the edge.
Then a text pinged in from Freddie, asking if they could meet in the Blagsford wine bar. They had progressed from The Coffee Bean, and it was much more fun to chat over a glass of fizz. Lisa didn’t mention the emails, but she told Freddie about the blogs. Freddie hooted when she heard about ‘lovely me’.
‘Freddie I promise you. I simply wrote #lovelyme. I didn’t even twig that it spelt “lovely me”.’
‘Well, you are lovely, Lisa. Embrace it. You’re very unself-conscious about your beauty. It’s very … enticing.’
‘Are you lezzing on me? You know I’m not one bit bi-curious.’
‘Oh, I think you are. You’re just afraid.’ Freddie was wearing a micro-skirt, more of a belt than a skirt, and as she crossed her legs, she revealed a flash of silky underwear.
‘Honestly, I have enough trouble with men. I don’t need to complicate matters. I just can’t see myself sucking on oysters.�
�
Freddie howled again. Lisa was so naughty, and yet somehow so innocent. She longed to corrupt her.
‘Were you always glamorous, Fred? You always look so groomed, so perfect. So Audrey Hepburn. You seem to me be the kind of girl who grew up in a home with nail clippers and Sellotape on a holder. I always longed for that kind of home organization.’
‘No, far from it. I was the dumpy girl who dressed like a student. Then I got a grip; lost weight, cut my hair short and got expensive highlights, went online and bagged a nice rich man. Simps.’
Lisa chuckled. She loved Freddie’s candour. It was very un-Blagsford.
‘Anyway, I’m feeling a bit jealous of this Belinda girl. Is she supplanting me in your affection?’
‘Don’t be silly. You should meet her. I think you’d get one another, but I’m not sure. She may be too clever for you.’
‘Well thanks a bunch. I ought to feel insulted.’
‘And she’s quite proper and dignified, but not prim. She hates prim. She’s very noble.’
Freddie filled Lisa’s glass.
‘I know I’ve slept with many, many men before my late flowering, but it was always on my own terms. I had my own rules, no married men, threesomes as long as everyone was happy, particularly the girl. That sort of thing.’
‘Gosh, I’m such a prude. I’ve only ever slept with men I’m in love with, and I can count my lovers on one hand.’
