My Sweet Revenge

by Jane Fallon

‘I could live around here.’

  ‘Me too!’ Her overly smooth face lights up (although she’s never admitted as much, it’s obvious that forehead is full of Botox). No doubt she’s laughing on the inside about the fact that she thinks she’s got one over on me. ‘There’s so much life but it still feels like a community!’

  I sometimes think that, if there were a limited supply of exclamation marks in the world, Saskia would have used them all up by now. I’m getting a bit bored. I’m not learning anything new about her and Robert, and I’m finding her company really tiresome. It’s hard not to tell her what I know, just to see her smug façade crumble. I can’t wait for all this to be over.

  36

  ‘I’ve had a great idea.’

  Josh is in my kitchen. That’s not a sentence I thought I would ever say. Robert left a couple of hours ago, kissing me on the cheek and telling me he’ll miss me, as he always does. It stopped having any meaning years ago. Georgia, having secured a place at a local sixth-form college for retakes (school was considered too humiliating, and who can blame her?), travelled down to Wiltshire to the festival yesterday in the end. I didn’t tell her she shouldn’t. She’s an adult and, besides, there was nothing else for her to do here. Once the new term starts I’m pretty confident she’ll knuckle down. So it made sense for Josh to meet me at the flat, but it still feels weird. As if we’re doing something illicit. Which we are. But not like that.

  I hand him a glass of wine, sit down opposite at the kitchen table.

  ‘Go on.’

  He’s looking good. Happier. Healthier. More relaxed. He’s in a T-shirt and jeans. Tanned. He arrived with a soft, dark grey hoody over the top because the temperature has suddenly dropped. I have to admit I find it hard to resist a man in a hoody. Not a chav, sitting in a park with it pulled up over his head and a can of beer in his hand, obviously. But a soft hooded top (I would guess Josh’s is cashmere) on a fit-looking man – especially one with a bit of a tan – does something unmentionable to me. It’s a thing, OK?

  But then, I’m looking good too. I’m in my retro gingham summer dress. Bare legs. Bare, toned legs, I should point out. Bare, toned, tanned legs. No shoes and cute teal polish on my nails. Hair piled up on top of my head and held with a big clip. Not that it matters how I look. That is not what this is about.

  ‘The plan to make him fall back in love with you obviously isn’t working.’

  I laugh. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That came out wrong. But you know what I mean.’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t. We are getting on better than we have in years, though.’

  ‘So we haven’t got time for that to play itself out.’

  I nod. ‘A couple of weeks at the most, I reckon. If that.’

  ‘We have two choices. We either just let it play its course, let them dictate when it happens and go off to their happily ever after …’

  ‘… thinking they’ve got one over on us …’ This is the one thing that sticks in my head every time I think I should just stand back and let it happen. The idea that they’ll think they played us. That they’ll feel sorry for us. And, no doubt, laugh about how clueless we are at the same time. I can’t stand being laughed at.

  ‘Exactly. Or we have to force the issue now. Do something that blows the whole thing up and then see what the fallout is.’

  ‘Like …?’

  He sits back, smiles at me, runs his hand back across his head.

  ‘We tell them we’re having an affair.’

  It takes a moment for what he’s saying to sink in, it’s so left field. I can’t think what to say, so I say nothing, wait for him to explain.

  ‘We play it totally straight. Sit them down and confess, as if we feel terrible but we’re powerless to ignore our love, or some shit like that. We make it sound like it’s been going on for ages.’

  I’m confused. ‘Won’t they just say, “Great, that leaves us free to do what we want”?’

  ‘Maybe. But it’ll take the wind out of their sails. It’ll stop them feeling like they got one over on us. And, you never know, sometimes people start to want something they thought they had no interest in just because someone else wants it …’

  I mull it over for a second. ‘But won’t it look as if we’re the bad guys? To other people, I mean. Robert and Saskia could claim they only got together because they found out about us.’

  Josh scratches his chin. Thinks. ‘No, because we’ll come clean as soon as we’ve told them. Either they’ll pretend to be devastated – how could we do that to them when they love us so much? And then we tell them we know and they look like a pair of massive hypocrites – or they admit to what they’ve been doing and expect us not to care because we’re doing the same and we say, “Actually, we’re lying. We just wanted to force you to tell us the truth.” It’s win-win. For us, anyway. We get what we want and they no longer feel like they played us and won.’

  I pick up my glass. Clink his. ‘It might be genius.’

  ‘It’s all we’ve got at this point anyway.’

  We talk it over some more and decide that sitting them down and ‘confessing’ is the best way forward. If we arrange for them to catch us out there’s too much potential for everything to go wrong. I see a whole Ray Cooney farce play out in my mind. Me and Josh running around in our underwear while Robert and Saskia chase us.

  After a second glass of wine Josh raises an eyebrow at me. ‘Of course, we might have to practise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I know what he means. At least I think I do. Hope I do.

  ‘We need them to believe us, so we need to be really convincing. Like we can’t keep our hands off each other.’

  OK, I think. I almost say it.

  Josh laughs. ‘I’m joking. Your face!’

  Of course he is! Of course he’s joking. I channel Saskia. ‘Haha!’

  ‘Although, you know …’

  ‘Shut up, Josh.’

  To be fair, that clears the air between us a bit. As if we were both wondering whether something might happen and that was stopping us from relaxing in each other’s company. I feel the atmosphere shift.

  ‘When did we get together?’ I ask. We need to get our facts straight if we’re going to pull this off.

  ‘After you came to our party? Or is that too recent?’

  ‘I quite like the idea of them thinking we were already an item then, because that’s the only time they’ve seen us in the same place. It’ll make them relive that whole evening to see if there were any clues.’

  He leans over and picks a dead leaf off one of my geraniums. ‘Nice.’

  ‘That’s the night I threw a drink at her.’

  ‘Ha! Yes. Is it plausible we could have hooked up before that, do you think?’

  ‘It’s a bit of a stretch, given that, as far as they know, we’d never even met. So long as we don’t make it sound like a coincidence, though, we should be OK.’

  ‘So I’ll say I approached you somewhere – Selfridges Food Hall – and said, “Aren’t you Robert Westmore’s wife?” because I recognized you from paparazzi photos with Robert or something?’

  ‘We could probably get away with that. The whole thing’s going to be so shocking for them anyway I don’t think they’ll be analysing the details.’

  ‘And we got talking, and then the next thing you know … how long ago do you think?’

  ‘Six months? No, that’s too neat. Seven months. So January – I love that it’ll be when I was at my biggest. Nothing will confuse Saskia more than thinking you made a play for big old me when you had her at home. Or Robert, for that matter.’

  ‘Oh, please. You were still as hot as anything. I remember thinking that at the party.’

  I blush from my scalp to my heels.

  ‘And anyway,’ he continues quickly. ‘Who says I made a play for you? Maybe you threw yourself at me and I was powerless to resist?’

  ‘Because I was so big. I had you in an arm lock.’

  ‘OK, you ha
ve to stop with the fat comments,’ Josh says, leaning forward and filling our glasses again. I like that he’s so at home in my kitchen. I suddenly remember I haven’t eaten anything and wonder if he has. I get up and open the doors to the balcony. I need some air.

  ‘So, that’s how we met,’ I say, to get us back on track. ‘And the reason we didn’t tell them we met is because we started our affair straight away. One minute you’re saying “Are you Robert Westmore’s wife?”, next we’re … where? In a hotel? I think they’d remember if we both didn’t come home one night.’

  He thinks for a moment. ‘We didn’t just jump right into bed but there was an obvious attraction. Overwhelming. So we arranged to meet up again one afternoon.’

  ‘OK, good. Are we intending to leave Saskia and Robert for each other?’

  ‘Definitely. That’s why we’re breaking the news.’

  ‘I don’t want to tell him he can keep the flat. It might put ideas into his head. Not that he’d want it.’

  ‘I love this place,’ Josh says, looking around. ‘So much character.’

  ‘Not flash enough,’ I say, and he rolls his eyes. ‘He’s been trying to persuade me to sell up and buy something more impressive for years.’

  ‘We can say we haven’t worked out the details.’

  ‘Do I call you Joshie?’

  He narrows his eyes at me. ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Joshykins? Squidgy? Fluffums?’

  He picks up a handy takeaway menu and throws it at me. ‘Are those the kinds of things you call Robert?’

  ‘I call Robert Robert. It suits him. By the way,’ I say, picking the menu up from the floor. ‘I should eat something. Not this shit, though.’

  ‘Let’s go out,’ he says, standing up.

  ‘What if someone I know sees us?’

  ‘Even better. We’re having an affair, remember.’

  We wander down the hill and over the railway bridge on to Regent’s Park Road. Luckily, there’s a rare free table in Lemonia so we don’t have to do that embarrassing thing of wandering around getting turned away from everywhere. I order a big bottle of water before I do anything else because I’m feeling lightheaded from the wine and the big plan. Before the waiter has even put down the plate of olives I’ve grabbed three and stuffed them in.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, smiling at him. ‘Starving.’

  By the way Josh attacks the plate of tiny radishes and carrot sticks that arrives next I assume he’s feeling the effects too. That calms me down. We’re both a bit worse for wear. I’m not the only one in danger of making a fool of myself. I browse the menu, trying to make a healthy choice. Plump for swordfish kebabs with a side of spinach. Josh orders the mixed fish special with a portion of fries.

  ‘Wine?’

  Say no. Stick to water. ‘Go on then.’

  Josh, like me, prefers red, even though we’re going to be eating fish, and that, according to Robert, is a cardinal sin. We order a bottle of Merlot. (‘That’s only two big glasses each, we might as well.’) Sod it.

  An hour later, we’re staggering back up Chalk Farm Road because Josh is insisting on walking me home. We’ve barely stopped chatting since we sat down – partly the fault of the wine, obviously, but also because he’s just so easy to talk to. He’s so non-judgemental, so enthusiastic about things. Robert’s default setting is cynical disdain, which can be amusing but eventually becomes wearing. You end up too scared to express an opinion about anything. Sometimes I just want to talk about how much I like something without worrying about whether or not it’s the right thing to like.

  Josh, I now know, grew up in Brighton with his mum and dad and two older sisters. He moved up to London at eighteen to study English at uni (he’s very sympathetic about Georgia. Totally thinks she’s doing the right thing, holding out for better results and trying to follow her passion) and ended up getting a job as a runner in the offices of a TV production company, a very lowly, underpaid but privileged foot on a much sought-after ladder.

  It was easy to tell him all about my frustrated plans to act, how I watched the train leave without me while I stayed at home being a mum and making sure Robert felt supported enough to go off and build his own career. He laughs when I tell him about Robert’s ‘we’ll work on my career first and then, once I’m established enough to take a bit of time out, we’ll work on yours’ promise.

  ‘When did that ever work?’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  ‘Still, you probably ended up saner than you would have. Not having to compete for every little job you get. Not constantly worrying about whether you’re too old or whether you’re pretty enough. Actresses have it really hard. It’s still all about what they look like, whatever anybody says. No wonder Sas is so obsessed with being skinny and not getting wrinkles, because everyone else is.’

  ‘Hence Sadskia.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have done that. However badly she’s behaved, that was below the belt.’

  ‘It was a direct reaction to a shocking piece of news. Don’t beat yourself up.’

  ‘I know. Nothing I can do about it now, anyway. But still,’ he said, swirling a chip around his plate.

  ‘I wish I could have tried it once, the acting thing,’ I found myself saying, something I haven’t even admitted to myself for years. I don’t know where that came from. ‘I don’t think I would have wanted it to be my whole life, but just so I could say I gave it a go. Anyway …’

  I told him all about Alice. Made him laugh with stories about her pitiful attempts to have us all believe she had a glittering career.

  By the time there was a pause in the conversation the wine had run out and we – very sensibly, for which I am so, so grateful – decided against ordering another bottle.

  Back home, he follows me up the stairs to the fifth floor. I’m equal parts hoping and dreading that something’s going to happen. I know we shouldn’t. I know we especially shouldn’t in my flat while my still-husband and daughter are away. But I want to so much it’s all I can do to stop myself from shoving him into the flat and locking the door behind him.

  I let myself in, wait for him to follow me.

  ‘Do you want a coffee or anything?’

  He hangs back on the doorstep. ‘Better not.’

  My bubble bursts. He’s not interested. Of course he’s not, why would he be? So, we kissed a couple of times before, but he didn’t really know what he was doing then, he was so cut up about Saskia. So we get on, but that doesn’t mean he thinks of me as anything other than a friend.

  ‘No. Well, thanks for coming over and walking me home …’

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow when neither of them is around …’ Josh is heading off to Oxford first thing.

  ‘… just to check we still think this is a good idea when we’re sober. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thanks. It was fun.’

  I wait for him to turn away before I shut the door, just to be polite. He hovers for a second.

  ‘I have a request,’ he says, still standing there. He’s doing the slightly sheepish smile thing he does where only one corner of his mouth turns up. It makes me feel a bit weak at the knees.

  ‘Right …’

  He exhales noisily. I wonder what’s coming next.

  ‘Can I kiss you goodnight? I know we both think it’s important to keep the moral high ground but I figure we’ve done it before and, if we don’t do it again, I’m actually going to go crazy …’

  I experience relief, then joy, then lust, all in a millisecond. A huge grin breaks out on my face and there’s nothing I can do about it. No playing it cool for me, fabulous actress that I am.

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Just a quick kiss, here on the doorstep, and then you have to kick me out. Even if I beg. Which, I’m telling you now, I probably will.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  He leans forward, and his lips touch mine. Bits of me light up like a pinball machine. It’s all I can do not to pull him inside and shut th
e door.

  After a few ecstatic seconds I pull away.

  ‘OK. We have to stop now.’

  He smiles his crooked smile. The one that makes me feel funny. ‘Already?’

  ‘Already.’

  ‘Spoilsport. I’ll talk to you tomorrow’.

  I watch as he heads down the stairs, slightly wobbly on his feet, one hand raised in a goodbye gesture.

  ‘I had a lovely evening,’ he calls up from at least two floors below.

  I laugh. ‘Me too.’

  I wait to hear the click of the street door and then I go inside to my lonely bed, wondering why I have to be so fucking principled.

  37

  ‘I’d take any old course just to get to uni. Why wait another year before you start having fun? And you might still be able to go to Bristol. They have a great drama course. Although that would probably be hard to get on to this late in the day. You could go and do English or something and transfer …’

  Guess who’s round?

  I forgot that, in my effort to be wife of the year, I had told Alice to make sure she set aside a weekend night to come and have a farewell dinner with Georgia. I didn’t want to make it the last weekend George would be home because I wanted her all to myself then, and Georgia had plans for the two before, so we settled on this one. And then, when it turned out Georgia wasn’t leaving home after all, I forgot to cancel.

  Robert is, of course, delighted. Listening indulgently to his sister’s bullshit with a smile on his face. I wait for him to step in and defend George’s choices but he just sits there, nodding.

  ‘It’s fine, Auntie Alice,’ Georgia says, just as I’m about to steam in. ‘It’s worth waiting another year to do what I really want to do.’

  We’re sitting at the kitchen table. Alice in her faded ripped jeans, ballet flats and a flowy peasant blouse, with tousled hair and smudged mascara, is vaping away like a good ’un. Two bottles are open on the table – red for me and Robert, white for Alice and Georgia. Tesco’s finest.

  We’ve already lived through Alice’s thoughts on my weight loss. Her: ‘You look amazing! If you keep going like this you’ll be thin in no time’. Me: ‘Actually, I’m feeling happy as I am. I don’t really want to lose much more. Just tone up.’ Her (giving me the kind of pitying look you give the malnourished, runty schoolboy who tells you he wants to be a rugby quarterback): ‘Of course. Good for you.’