Me and Mr Jones

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Happy birthday, love,’ said Hugh, bringing it over to the bed. He looked tired, she noticed. Guilty conscience?

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied, becoming quite excited as she felt how heavy it was. ‘Goodness, whatever is it? It’s huge!’

  ‘It’s a—’ Matilda started, but her brothers leapt on her at once.

  ‘Shut up, idiot!’

  ‘Don’t tell her!’

  ‘You’ll just have to open it,’ Hugh said. He was smiling, but it was stretched thin, as if he couldn’t keep it on his face for much longer.

  Alicia looked away. Stop it, she told herself. Stop doubting him. Her suspicions were polluting her birthday mood, tainting the happy feelings. But she was convinced he must have lied the night before. Why? What was going on?

  She ripped off the wrapping paper … to see a large boxed KitchenAid mixer. ‘Oh …’ she said, lost for words. ‘How lovely.’

  ‘It’s just like Nigella’s,’ Hugh said encouragingly. ‘I remember you admiring it on one of her shows.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed, although she could remember no such thing. She couldn’t help it – she was disappointed. Was this the big surprise? A bloody food mixer? So that she could spend even more time in the kitchen preparing meals for the ravenous hordes? Wow, Hugh. You shouldn’t have. Seriously – you shouldn’t have, mate.

  She tried not to think what Sandra would say to such a present and found herself wishing, disloyally, that Hugh had tried a bit harder, that he’d actually chosen something that wasn’t useful and practical, that didn’t make her feel like a middle-aged housewife. ‘Thank you,’ she said again, trying not to think about glossy handbags or sparkling jewellery. ‘Aren’t I lucky?’

  She was lucky, she told herself, as she went to run a scented bath. Remember Sandra, remember how upset she’d been, think about her turbulent life and remember that you’re the lucky one who’s got everything she could possibly want.

  Other women would have been pleased with their KitchenAid. She was pleased with it. But she couldn’t prevent a sinking feeling of dismay that that was all she was to Hugh these days: the little woman in the kitchen, who could be fobbed off with a shiny new contraption. It didn’t seem enough any more.

  She found herself thinking about Christine, as she always did on her birthday. Happy birthday, Chris. Wish you were here. Would you have wanted a KitchenAid?

  Later that day the sun obliged by venturing out from behind the clouds, and they had a lovely walk around a nearby National Trust property with a picnic and the football. When they came home they found that Charlie had delivered Izzy’s birthday cake – a fluffy Victoria sponge with edible silver glitter all over the top – and the second rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ probably broke speed records as everyone was so desperate to tuck into a slice.

  That evening, Hugh had – shock! – actually arranged a babysitter off his own bat, and – gasp! – booked a restaurant for dinner, and – no way! – ordered a cab to whisk them away at eight o’clock. This was more like it, Alicia thought approvingly as she clip-clopped out to the car in her nicest going-out dress (the scarlet one Sandra had all but forced her to buy from Gloucester Quays during a rare ‘girls’ day out’; the one she should have worn in Paris). Turning forty was all about being more sod-it, she decided, adding more make-up than she usually wore, then slipping on her one and only pair of high heels (terrifying). Yes, sod it, she’d wear scarlet; so what if it drew attention to her belly and bum. Yes, sod it, she’d splash on her new perfume, even though normally she’d eke it out over a whole year, one careful squirt at a time. She’d wear her heels too, even though she was likely to break her ankle or skin her knees, stumbling over in them. And yes, sod it, she’d damn well confront Hugh about what the hell was happening – birthday or no birthday, restaurant or no restaurant. Forty-year-old Alicia Jones wasn’t about to take this lying down any more.

  The restaurant Hugh had picked was a good choice, if entirely predictable. She’d celebrated so many birthdays and anniversaries in Axminster’s Grove Bistro that she could reel off the menu in her sleep. It was a small family-run place, with dusty candles rammed into Mateus rosé bottles on the tabletops, a laminated menu littered with spelling mistakes (the ‘samlon fishcakes with tarter sauce’ being Alicia’s particular favourite) and the kind of yellow-varnished wood-panelled bar that wouldn’t have been out of place in a skiing lodge. They were also playing Norah Jones. They always played Norah Jones.

  Still. Who was she to turn her nose up? The food was perfectly decent, and the staff were friendly. And yes, all right, so perhaps steak-and-kidney pudding wasn’t everyone’s idea of a romantic dinner – Hugh could never resist the slightest hint of suet on a menu – but it could have been worse; she might have had to make dinner herself (with the wretched KitchenAid!). At least Hugh had made an effort, getting them there at all, even if, for his fortieth, she’d pushed the boat out and taken them to a new French restaurant on the seafront in Lyme. (Okay, so it had given him food poisoning and he’d puked his guts up all night, but it had been memorable.)

  The waiter handed them menus, but she didn’t even bother reading hers. She knew already she’d have the ‘smocked mackerrel’ for starters and the ‘chicken beast with white wine sauce’.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Hugh asked, leaning in towards her. They were sitting at ‘their’ table in the window, the one he always requested. She’d never bothered saying that actually she’d prefer to sit further into the restaurant, especially as she always seemed to end up nearest the front door and suffer its constant draught. She opened her mouth to say as much, then decided to choose her battles. Tonight was all about uncovering the secrets she knew he was keeping from her. Next time they came here – if there was a next time, she thought queasily – that would be the occasion to state her seating preferences.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, trying to get comfortable on the chair. She was sure they were the same chairs that had been here ever since they’d first come to this restaurant, twenty or so years ago. The velvet had inevitably faded and the padding wasn’t what it was, after the imprint of so many thousands of bottoms. She sighed. ‘Actually, Hugh—’

  ‘Would you like to order something to drink?’ The waiter was back in a cloud of Lynx and frying onions, pen and notepad at the ready.

  ‘Ah yes, I think we’ll have—’ Hugh began.

  Alicia couldn’t help interrupting. It was her birthday, after all, and she’d just realized how much it irritated her, Hugh always taking control of the ordering. ‘I’d like some fizz, I think,’ she said, smiling at the waiter and then at Hugh. ‘Not every day you turn forty after all, is it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Hugh said. ‘I was just about to suggest—’

  ‘Let’s see … the Prosecco, please,’ she said before he could suggest a single damn thing, almost breathless at her own daring. She never usually spoke over him like that. For all the years that she’d been his girlfriend and then wife, she’d been deferential when it came to matters like choosing wine or deciding where to sit in restaurants. Tonight she felt as fizzy as the Prosecco, no longer so acquiescent. You go, girl, she heard Sandra call in her head and imagined her shaking cheerleader pom-poms at her big sister’s sudden spunkiness.

  ‘Perfect,’ Hugh agreed. ‘Yes, we’ll have the Prosecco, and a jug of tap water too, please. Thank you.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ the waiter said, jotting it down. It was as if Alicia hadn’t spoken.

  ‘Thank you,’ she made a point of saying. Hugh was looking at her oddly, as if he didn’t recognize her. Fair enough. She wasn’t sure if she recognized herself, sitting here in her flamboyant dress, taking the lead and talking over him, plumping for bubbly as if she was used to the high life. It was fun, though, being this confident new Alicia. Exciting.

  The Prosecco arrived and the waiter poured them each a glass, then hovered expectantly. Usually Alicia waited for Hugh to taste the wine and pronounce on it, but tonight she put hers to her li
ps and took a mouthful first. It was creamy and fizzing, sweet and celebratory. ‘Delicious,’ she told the waiter. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘So here’s to you,’ Hugh said, raising his glass, once they’d ordered their food and the waiter had left again. ‘Forty years old. Happy birthday, darling.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, hoping he wasn’t trying to put her back in her box with a reminder of her age. ‘Forty years young, you mean,’ she added with a laugh.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ she went on with another large mouthful of her drink. (God, it was lovely. Worth breaking into a brand-new decade for the bubbly alone, in fact.) ‘I do feel different – but in a good way.’

  ‘I can tell,’ he said.

  ‘I feel … more assertive. More ballsy.’

  He paled. She never usually said things like ‘ballsy’. In fact, she never made any references, even oblique ones, to male genitalia, unless she was teaching an anatomy module in class. ‘That’s good,’ he said, not sounding wholly convinced.

  ‘It is,’ she agreed. The alcohol buzzed through her, lending her courage. ‘For instance, I’m just going to come out and ask you straight, because I deserve to know the truth. Are you cheating on me, Hugh?’

  He choked on his wine and his eyes bulged. ‘Alicia!’ he cried, then lowered his voice to an agitated hiss. ‘What sort of question is that? In public?’

  Oh, help. This wasn’t looking good. This wasn’t the instant denial she’d been hoping for. ‘It’s a simple question,’ she said, drumming her fingers on the table. ‘Yes or no. Have you been seeing another woman?’

  His mouth fell open as if he wanted to speak, but then it snapped shut, seconds later. ‘I … I …’ he stammered.

  ‘Tell me,’ she ordered. ‘Or, I swear to God, I will make a scene in here.’

  ‘I … It’s not what you think,’ he said, stricken. His face had turned an interesting mix of blotchy red and white, whereas his eyes were large and frightened.

  She leaned forward, tension crackling between them. ‘Yes or no, Hugh. Yes or bloody no?’

  ‘So, that’s one smoked mackerel and one crispy duck salad,’ the waiter said just then, having appeared unnoticed at the table. He set the plates down with a flourish. ‘Enjoy!’

  They ignored both him and the food. ‘Well?’ Alicia prompted icily. ‘You were saying?’

  Hugh’s face had crumpled. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him look so unhappy, not even when Badger, their Labrador, had been fatally hit by a short-sighted pensioner in a Fiat Panda back in January. ‘I don’t know if this is the best place to talk about it,’ he said so quietly she had to lean forward to hear.

  ‘Oh, I think it is,’ Alicia said. She picked up her fork and stabbed the smoked mackerel, suddenly tired of the whole day. ‘Just tell me. Spit it out. I’m all ears, Hugh.’

  ‘I’m not having an affair,’ he said in a small voice. ‘And I’m not cheating on you.’

  Good. Well, that cleared that up at least. Phew, she thought, with a dizzying wave of relief. I should have known. I should have trusted him.

  Wait, though. He hadn’t finished yet.

  ‘But … I … I have been keeping something from you,’ he said, his voice cracking.

  She said nothing, merely posted a forkful of mackerel and granary toast into her mouth and chewed without tasting a thing. Her head swam with possible revelations, none of which she wanted to hear. He’s dying. He’s lost his job. He’s gay.

  He took a deep breath. His hands shook on his cutlery. ‘I have another daughter,’ he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  On Monday morning Emma entered the office warily, dreading having to meet Greg’s eye after Friday night and his subsequent text. She still had only the haziest memories of what had happened and none of them were good. Never had a week-long sicky in the comfort of her own duvet been so damn tempting.

  Greg was already at his desk, messing about on Facebook, by the look of things. ‘Ah,’ he said as she walked past. ‘The woman herself.’

  Oh God. She could hardly bear that teasing glint in his eye, the way his lips were already puckering with a smirk.

  ‘Morning,’ she said. Most of their colleagues hadn’t yet arrived, she noticed. It was probably best to get this conversation over with as soon as possible. ‘Can we have a word, please? In private.’

  ‘I knew it,’ he said, getting to his feet with a slow, almost unbearable insouciance. ‘Jones wants my body and she wants it now. In the stationery cupboard then?’

  She tried to smile and not appear too humourless or frigid. It wasn’t easy. ‘How about Tracey’s office,’ she countered, knowing that their boss wasn’t due in for another half-hour.

  ‘I’m all yours,’ he replied, flashing her a grin as he held the door open for her. His teeth were white and sharp; she felt as if she was going for dinner with the Big Bad Wolf.

  Once the door was closed, a strained silence descended.

  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘about Friday night.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said with what might actually be sincerity. His laddishness had vanished, like a mask being removed. ‘I was bang out of order.’

  She hesitated. ‘I think I was too,’ she replied, ‘but the problem is …’ Oh hell – out with it. ‘The problem is … I can’t remember much of what happened. The last thing I remember is mucking about on the dance floor with you, getting into a bit of a … clinch … and then, being back home.’ She swallowed. ‘Nothing in between.’

  He perched on Tracey’s chair and swivelled to and fro. ‘Was I really that bad that you’ve completely wiped me from your memory?’

  A shudder went through her, and the egg she’d had for breakfast seemed to curdle in her stomach with bile. Shit. This sounded worse than she’d feared. A lot worse. What had she actually done with him?

  He leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry, I did wear a condom,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I’m not that much of a prat. And if you’re worried about STDs, then …’

  She made a choking sound and shut her eyes, the words hitting her like fists. So she’d actually shagged him. She’d shagged Greg and she couldn’t even remember!

  ‘Then don’t. I’m quite clean. Apart from the crabs, which are bloody persistent …’ he went on. Then he laughed. ‘For Christ’s sake, I’m joking, Jones. I know it’s Monday morning, but you look catatonic. Liven up!’

  She opened her eyes again. ‘You’re joking?’ she repeated cautiously.

  ‘Of course I am. I got rid of the crabs ages ago,’ he said.

  ‘Greg …’

  ‘Sorry. Couldn’t resist. No – we didn’t have sex. Okay? Feel better, now that you know you are unsullied by the Gregster?’

  She bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she replied, hanging her head. ‘Better’ was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. She hesitated. ‘Sorry. I feel a complete fool for even asking this – and if it goes any further I swear on my life I will actually kill you – but Greg … what did happen? It’s a total blank.’ He paused for a split-second and she knew he was on the verge of inventing something absolutely heinous. ‘Truthfully,’ she put in.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Truthfully? I was pissed and got a bit lairy, that’s all. I tried it on, okay? And I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’

  She waited for the punchline, or the laugh as he added, Not really – you were gagging for it. Neither came.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, still not completely sure if she was off the hook.

  ‘I mean, I know I’m God’s gift to all things female – well, the human race, let’s face it – but yeah, okay, I shouldn’t have flirted. Damn that tequila!’

  She smiled, relief sloshing through her. ‘So … what: I just peeled off your clammy, molesting hands and sent you packing?’

  ‘Well, you did punch me quite hard on the jaw … Joking. Nah, you said something like No way, you were married; and what about Hester? That sort of thing.’ He pulled a face. ‘Ma
ke me feel a total wanker, why don’t you? Majorly guilt-trip a dude when he’s trolleyed … ouch.’

  Her heart felt light with happiness. ‘Sorry for making you feel a wanker,’ she said. ‘Although, you know, the truth hurts …’

  ‘I think you even wagged a finger at me,’ he said, demonstrating. ‘ “I’m married, you know,” ’ he added in a prim voice, obviously meant to be her. ‘“Even though my husband is being a total twat right now, I’m still married.” ’

  A laugh spilled out of her. ‘That’s what I said?’

  ‘That’s what you said. Married bliss, eh? The pisshead and the twat.’

  She laughed again. ‘I should get that printed up as one of those strips to go across our car windscreen,’ she said.

  ‘I was thinking his and hers T-shirts,’ he said. ‘The perfect anniversary gift.’ He got up and stuck out his hand. ‘So are we cool, then? We’re mates?’

  ‘We’re mates,’ she said, stepping towards the door. ‘Thanks for’ – she was about to say ‘filling me in’, but it seemed inappropriate given the circumstances – ‘enlightening me. All’s well that ends well, yeah?’ And let’s never get into this situation again, she added in her head. Ever.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, sheepish now. ‘Um … I’d appreciate it if you could not mention this to Hester, by the way. Not that I ever thought you would, but … you know. She’d turn my ball-bag into a purse, if she ever found out I’d been unfaithful.’

  Emma mimed zipping her lips. ‘It’s forgotten,’ she said.

  ‘Cheers,’ Greg said, and loped out of the office.

  She followed him thoughtfully. Part of her wanted to tell him off on behalf of Hester, make him feel bad for messing about behind his girlfriend’s back. But in truth she was so overwhelmed by relief that she didn’t have it in her. Even when pissed and offered temptation, she had said no to Greg. And she knew damn well that at the back of her drunken mind a klaxon would have sounded at the time, heralding a potential sperm donor in the vicinity. (She wasn’t proud of this, not at all.) But even then she’d said no. ‘No way, I’m married.’ Thank goodness.