by Lucy Diamond
Oh my God. Wait, though. Harriet froze, mouth dry, as she saw Simon lift his hand to the woman’s face and cup it tenderly before leaning in to kiss her for several long seconds. Not a random pregnant woman, after all, she realized, but some bit on the side; a fertile, fecund mistress. He couldn’t have hurt her more if he’d slapped her about the head with an actual Atlantic puffin.
Memories of that painful day seared through Harriet’s head as she stood outside the very much closed Marylebone Tavern for a full two minutes, paralysed with shock. So her second husband had clearly lied about his whereabouts, just like her first had before him.
Oh no, she thought, her stomach lurching. Not you as well, Robert. Not you!
She tortured herself imagining him cosied up to some thin, beautiful mistress in a strange bedroom that very moment, while she stood there, pit-pony legs and all, the sting of betrayal like mocking laughter in her ears. Then she pictured Robert checking his phone when she texted earlier – Shit, it’s the wife. Give me a moment and I’ll just fob her off …
The thought was unbearable. Life-shattering. And yet in hindsight he had been kind of secretive recently. Jumpy, you could say. He’d spin round whenever she came into the room, and often close down the browser of his laptop before she could see what he was up to. But surely he wouldn’t go behind her back like that with another woman? After all the shit she’d gone through with Evil Simon, too. Robert was different. Wasn’t he?
He couldn’t have lied, she decided in the next minute. No way. Robert just wasn’t like that. He brought her a cup of tea most mornings! He emptied the dishwasher and hung out the laundry! He noticed when she was grumpy and tired, and gave her a back rub! Surely men with such an unusual and winning combination of talents couldn’t then turn out to be snakes in the grass, could they? Was that even allowed?
They did say that fame and glory went to a person’s head, though, she remembered glumly. Alongside all the dazzling pre-publication success he’d enjoyed, who knew what temptations had been wafting themselves under his nose lately?
With Simon, Harriet had buried her head in the sand for weeks after she knew the truth, kidding herself with a foolish, naive optimism that she could win him back, that it didn’t matter. There would be no such cowardice with Robert, though, she vowed. The brave and battle-scarred version of Harriet would confront him the first chance she got.
As it turned out, that evening was the Year 10 end-of-term disco, to which Molly departed in a miasma of hairspray and cheap perfume, and Harriet and Robert were left sitting outside on their small patio which passed as a garden in this part of Finchley. The night-scented stocks were just starting to release their sweet perfume, Robert was in his running gear, waiting for his dinner to go down before he took off for a brisk five-miler around the streets, whereas she had a hot date lined up with the secret carton of Ben & Jerry’s Cookie Dough ice cream hidden under the bag of peas in the freezer: the reward she had promised herself for being brave.
She cleared her throat. ‘I need to ask you something.’ The words sounded dramatic, as if she was a character in a soap opera. ‘Were you with another woman today? A lover?’
His face elongated in a gape. ‘What? Where’s this come from?’
‘Tell me, Robert. Just tell me. Is that where you went at lunchtime, to meet a woman?’ Christ, she was gripping the edge of the wrought-iron table so tightly, it was a wonder it didn’t buckle and bend with the pressure.
‘No! Of course not!’ His eyes pleaded shock and innocence, but Simon’s had too. Stay strong, Harriet. Do not be fooled by the eyes. ‘I told you,’ he went on, but there was a definite shake to his voice now. ‘I went to meet my American editor. Who is in his fifties, decidedly male, with a comb-over. What is this?’
She played her trump card. ‘Well, that’s strange.’ The tension in her jaw was making her teeth ache. ‘Because the Marylebone Tavern was shut when I walked by.’ She noted the flicker of panic that crossed his face, before adding, ‘Closed for building work, apparently for two weeks.’
A single beat of time elapsed, then he recovered himself with impressive composure. ‘Wait – did I say the Marylebone Tavern?’
‘Yes, Robert. You did say the Marylebone Tavern.’ She leaned back against the uncomfortable metal patio chair, barely noticing how cold and unforgiving it was against her shoulder blades. So. What did he have to say for himself now?
He put a hand to his forehead. ‘I’ve got a mental block about that place,’ he said after a moment. ‘It was the Marlborough Tavern. You know, in Covent Garden?’
She pursed her lips. ‘Right.’
‘You do know, it’s down that side street, not far from the Royal Opera House …’
No. She didn’t know. She tended to have weekday lunches in the school canteen or staff room, not fancy places in the West End. But he proceeded to bang on convincingly about what he’d eaten, and the interior decor, and the meeting itself, until she put her hands up to stop him.
‘Harriet,’ he said earnestly. ‘Look at me. I adore you. There is no other woman. I’m not Simon, okay?’
His voice rang with sincerity and she believed him. Just about. ‘Okay. Good,’ she said.
All the same, as soon as he set off on his run, she went straight online to see if what he’d told her checked out. Once bitten, twice shy and all that.
Right – here it was, the Marlborough Tavern, just as he’d described, with the steak au poivre he claimed to have eaten on the online menu, along with the crab starter. Despite her doubts, it did all stack up. It must have been a genuine misunderstanding all along, then. Oh thank goodness. Thank goodness!
She dug into the ice cream with vigour moments later, relief making her ravenous. And there she had been, tarring Robert with the same cheating brush as her ex, she thought guiltily. Next time she’d know better. Because Robert was better, simple as that.
Two days later, this fact was proved conclusively true yet again when Simon achieved a new low in the Worst Ever Father and All-Round Human Being stakes. Contact with her ex-husband had been sporadic, verging on non-existent, for the last ten months, mainly consisting of the occasional apologetic text when he was bailing out of picking up Molly or, worse, forgot to meet her. He had missed her school parents’ evenings for three years on the trot, too busy dallying with Maya and Mia and Michelle, Sophie and Suze, Vicky and Nicki … Harriet had given up trying to keep track. As far as she knew, he had lost contact with Jasmine – the pregnant woman glimpsed from the bus window – as well as his now eight-year-old son, Gabriel. Molly had never even met her half-brother.
These days there was Anne-Marie: young, beautiful and – yes – pregnant. (Ironically Simon was nothing if not fertile. He was a veritable baby machine.) And, according to the latest text, they were soon to be on the move. Just like that.
Hi all, apols for group text. Just to say, new address is below. Moving on Monday! Check Facebook page for leaving bash! Si x
There followed an address which ended, shockingly, with the word ‘France’ and Harriet almost dropped the phone on seeing it. France? FRANCE?! The wave of fury and hurt prompted by this new rustic address, coming straight out of the blue, left her reeling. ‘What the hell?’ she cried, reading the message all over again to check she hadn’t just gone mad. The absolute tosser. How could he?
‘What’s up?’ Molly asked from the end of the sofa, without taking her eyes off her laptop.
‘Everything all right?’ Robert asked breathlessly. He was midway through a set of sit-ups on the living room floor but paused mid-crunch to glance over.
Harriet was just about to launch into a furious rant about how absolutely awful Simon was, and why was he going off to bloody France when he was already so damn slapdash with his existing children, and she supposed this meant even less time spent with Molly and even fewer child maintenance payments to her … but she checked herself just in time. She couldn’t break the news to Molly that her father was leaving the country in a s
hrill-voiced tirade of fury. This was a task to be tackled sensitively, sitting on the end of Molly’s bed, ready to throw her arms around her in comfort. Bloody Simon. Bloody Simon!
‘Harriet?’ Robert prompted when she didn’t immediately reply.
‘Nothing,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘It’s fine.’
Lying in bed that night, she was still very far away from feeling that Simon springing this news on her in such a casual, cavalier way could remotely be considered ‘fine’. It was not fine at all. It was unforgivable. Not for her sake, of course – she couldn’t have cared less if she never saw his smirking face again. But Molly would be heartbroken, however hard she tried to pretend it was cool, however much she shrugged and said, ‘Whatever’.
Of course, Harriet had sneaked a look at Simon’s Facebook page and gawped with increasing crossness at all the photos of him and beautiful Anne-Marie, arms entwined around each other. She had also seen the photos of their prospective new home: a charming brick farmhouse in the Dordogne with its own vineyard – ‘Chateau Reynolds!’ as all his mates were teasing in the comments. There were green fields and a stream and proud golden sunflowers, way taller than Harriet had ever managed to grow in their tiny east-facing garden.
However idyllic it looked, though, Simon seemed to have neglected one crucial factor in all of this: he would be living in a different country from his fantastic fifteen-year-old daughter, not to mention his criminally ignored young son. Did that not bother him? Did he not feel a wrench at the thought of such distance between them? How could it be that he didn’t feel the pull of his own flesh and blood, anchoring him right here in London? There was no way Harriet would ever uproot and move somewhere miles from her daughter. It would not even occur to her!
Harriet had done her best to be civil about Simon at all times in front of Molly. In fact, so desperate was she not to fall into the trap of slagging him off and making him the scapegoat for their marriage break-up (even though he was totally to blame), she overcompensated, and was often ridiculously generous about him rather than expressing her true feelings. But there were times – like now – when it was very hard to think of a single kind thing to say about him. There were times, in fact – also now – when she just wanted to smash his face in for being such a self-obsessed, daughter-neglecting twat.
Of course, he hadn’t thought to contact Molly and let her know the news himself. He had that little respect or consideration for her feelings, it was a surprise he still remembered she even existed.
Going to be a daddy! was one of the captions on his Facebook page, written underneath a photo of him with his hand proudly on Anne-Marie’s swelling belly. It had taken every bit of self-control for Harriet not to leave a waspish comment underneath.
Going to be? You already are, Si. Or do your other children not count any more?
She turned off the computer instead before she could start typing. It would only make things worse for Molly she reminded herself. With a father like Simon, and all the many disappointments and let-downs this meant, her daughter already had enough problems, without Harriet adding to the burden.
Chapter Twelve
Over in Oakthorne, Freya had undergone one of the less pleasant afternoons of her career. Melanie Taylor had arrived for their meeting, as arranged by Elizabeth, but was not in any mood to sit calmly and listen to Freya’s polite lines of self-defence. She was out for a scalp, shrilly listing all the reasons why Freya should be sacked for incompetence, starting with the big one: that Ava was still poorly in hospital.
‘Perhaps if we all calm down a minute—’ Elizabeth interrupted soothingly.
Melanie didn’t want to be soothed. ‘I’m not the one with a bottle of gin in my handbag!’ she shrieked. Her eyes glittered with venom, the veins in her neck stood out like cords; she was a lioness prepared to go for the jugular on behalf of her injured cub.
Freya flinched in her chair. Oh Christ. She’d forgotten all about the incriminating Hendrick’s bottle. The unopened, undrunk Hendrick’s bottle, she wanted to protest, but she didn’t dare. Not when Elizabeth had turned to look at her, a small frown rucking that pale forehead. It took every shred of composure Freya possessed to hold her head up high. ‘I am a professional,’ she said, even though this didn’t feel strictly true any more either. ‘I wouldn’t dream of drinking alcohol while at work. I certainly don’t have an alcohol problem.’
‘We both know there was a bottle of something stashed in your bag,’ Melanie retorted, so loud Freya was sure that Sanjay, the nurse next door, would be able to hear. Melanie scented blood and was not about to let this one go. ‘Don’t you dare insult me by lying about it. Pissed, were you? Is that why you barely looked at Ava? Too drunk to know what you were doing?’
‘No!’ Freya cried hotly, not daring to look at her manager’s face. Please believe me, Elizabeth, she prayed, sweat pooling in her cleavage. It was another stifling day and she’d made the mistake of wearing a long-sleeved rose-coloured silk blouse and black skirt, somehow forgetting that the surgery was like an oven in hot weather. She could almost feel her make-up sliding down her face. ‘No,’ she said again, trying to sound crisp and in control. ‘I was absolutely not drunk. And I did check over Ava. I listened to her chest, I took her temperature and looked in her ears …’
‘So why didn’t you tell me she was critically ill?’ Melanie’s voice was at shrieking pitch again. ‘Why did you let her nearly die?’
‘Let’s calm down a little,’ Elizabeth interjected, making downward motions with her hands.
‘I didn’t nearly let her die,’ Freya said to Melanie. ‘I wouldn’t. I’m a mother myself, I’ve—’
‘I don’t care,’ Melanie spat. She looked as if she wanted to fly across the desk that separated them and sink talons into Freya’s eyeballs. ‘I couldn’t give a shit if you have children. I hope they get ill like Ava, and then you’ll know how I feel.’ She burst into a torrent of sobs, and Freya gasped, winded by Melanie’s terrible words. How dare she?
Elizabeth put a firm hand on Freya’s arm – the subtext: Do not rise to this – and said, ‘Perhaps we should try this meeting again when Ava’s better.’
Elizabeth guided Melanie out of the room while her bitter words thumped through Freya’s head like a bad fairy’s curse – I hope your children get ill like Ava! What sort of a mother said something like that about somebody else’s child? What planet was this woman on?
She leaned back in her chair, all the fight knocked out of her, wishing desperately for one of her dad’s bear hugs by way of comfort. If only. Would her father have been terribly ashamed if he could see the mess she was in right now? She could hardly bear to think about it. He had always been so proud of her.
‘Are you all right?’ Elizabeth asked when she returned a few minutes later. ‘Don’t take any notice of what she said, she’s just upset. I’m sorry you had to sit through that, though, very unpleasant.’
Freya nodded, not trusting herself to speak all of a sudden.
Elizabeth gathered her papers together. ‘Listen, I’m satisfied you carried out the right checks on Ava but … well, Mrs Taylor is clearly something of a loose cannon right now. She may want to take this further, in which case …’ She spread her hands wide, an apologetic look on her face.
‘In which case, we’re in for round two,’ Freya said, feeling resigned to her fate.
‘Exactly. But put it behind you now if you can. You’re off on holiday soon, aren’t you? Well, leave all this with me and we can pick things up when you’re back.’
The matter seemed to be over and Freya was about to stand up when she had a sudden flashback to being in the critical care unit with baby Dexter. Despite everything, she did understand Melanie’s helpless, desperate rage. ‘Maybe I should just say sorry,’ she blurted out, feeling bad for the woman. Wasn’t that the human thing to do here?
The words came out in a mumble but Elizabeth’s eyebrows shot up as if Freya had shouted them. ‘Sorry? For what?’
‘Well, for …’ Freya ground to a halt. ‘I did examine Ava properly that day, Elizabeth. I definitely did. But I know I’ve been a bit distracted recently. I probably wasn’t firing on all cylinders. So maybe I should just—’
Elizabeth was shaking her head. Very, very firmly. ‘No. I don’t think that would be wise. Saying sorry is tantamount to accepting culpability It’s a tacit acknowledgement that you have something to be sorry for, ergo admitting you’re in the wrong. Mrs Taylor could use it against you – she could sue you, twist your words …’ Again came that shake of the head. ‘I strongly advise you not to do that.’
‘Right,’ Freya said, feeling chastised.
‘I mean, you could be putting your job in jeopardy. You saw what she was like today flinging accusations around. And if the baby deteriorates …’
Bile rushed into Freya’s mouth and she felt nauseous. She didn’t want to think of baby Ava deteriorating. Bronchial pneumonia was bad enough for adults to fight off, but for infants there was a very real chance of death. How would she be able to live with herself if the worst happened? She suppressed a shudder. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I get the picture. I’ll keep quiet.’
Elizabeth nodded. ‘Hopefully this will all have blown over by the time you’re back from your holiday,’ she said. ‘And your husband’s home tonight, isn’t he? So put it out of your mind for now.’
Freya and Victor had met on holiday in the south of France sixteen years ago this summer. Until then, she’d only ever dated fellow med school students, all of whom had strutted round the university campus like cockerels puffed up with self-importance, God’s gift to women, the sort of men who made you feel they were doing you a favour even speaking to you. That summer, Freya had just split up with a particularly arrogant specimen, Matt, and had jumped at the chance of a girls’ holiday to take her mind off her feelings of rejection.
