by Adele Geras
‘Well, yes, but this clearly made an impression on her. She said you were kissing Mickey sloppily.’
Okay, time to start diversionary tactics, Nessa thought, and smiled at her soon-to-be-ex-husband. ‘I was hugging the woman, for God’s sake. She’s my partner. My best friend. Don’t you believe me? I’m sorry if you don’t, because if anyone ought to know what I like in bed, it’s you, right?’
Gareth blushed and moved to put his hand on Nessa’s knee. She wanted to flinch but steeled herself and grinned inanely. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘We did have some good times, didn’t we?’
‘You’re getting sentimental, darling. This isn’t the sort of thing you ought to be discussing with your ex-wife.’
‘You’re not my ex-wife. Not quite yet.’
He sounded sad. For two pins, Nessa knew, he’d be back at her side and grovelling over the Melanie mistake. Well, too bad, chum, she thought. ‘Now, now, you’re expecting a new baby. I don’t think Melanie would be too pleased to hear you talking like this.’
Gareth looked shamefaced and Nessa felt quite sorry for him. Still, he had stopped going on and on about her kissing Mickey ‘sloppily’. She felt like laughing. Sloppily didn’t begin to describe it, but she made a mental note to be more careful when Mickey and Tamsin were around together. For the moment, anyway. It wouldn’t be for long. If her plan came off, if Mickey agreed to marry her, then of course Tamsin would have to know. She’d probably enjoy being a bridesmaid. God, Nessa thought, I’ve lost it altogether – what’s the matter with me? Daydreams of weddings kept popping into her head at the most inconvenient moments, together with visions of herself and Mickey, stretched out on a Caribbean beach … that was where they’d go for their honeymoon. St. Lucia. ‘I’m sorry, what were you saying? I was miles away.’
‘I noticed,’ Gareth said. ‘It wasn’t important. I was just saying: the lawyers reckon the divorce will come through in the next month or so.’
‘As soon as that?’ She tried not to sound too delighted, but she felt like punching the air. ‘They’ve been very quick, haven’t they?’
‘Because we’ve agreed about everything, I suppose. I didn’t fight you in any way, did I? I’d better go. Melanie’s expecting me.’
Gareth, it was true, had been good as gold since that night when she’d chucked him out of the bedroom, being cooperative and lavish with the child maintenance and not even putting up a fight about the house. This, it turned out, was because Melanie thought it was ‘old-fashioned’ . More fool her. They’d bought a property where the paint had only just dried on the walls and they were welcome to it. Nessa’s happiness made her feel generous. She stood up to accompany Gareth to the door and kissed him before he left. ‘Do give Melanie my best,’ she said, and waved as he got into his car and reversed into the road. She waited till she was sure he’d gone and then flew to the phone in the hall. She dialled Mickey’s number.
‘Darling?’ she said. ‘He’s gone. A bit of a narrow shave. Tamsin told him we were kissing sloppily.’
‘That sounds good. Sloppily. We should do that again.’
‘Stop, Mickey … too much to do. I can’t start feeling randy now.’
‘Later then, okay?’
‘Yes … I’ll be there at six. But listen, Gareth said the divorce would probably be through next month. I want to take you out. Let’s go up to London. Let’s do lunch. Some French bistro in Soho or something, and then go to a ridiculously posh hotel for the whole afternoon and overnight. How about it? A celebration. My treat.’
‘We could have lunch here and go to bed for the rest of the day.’
‘God, woman, have you got no sense of occasion? I want to have a party. I want luxury. A hotel with a spa. I love you, Mickey. Do you realize that?’
‘And I love you.’
Nessa heard her voice tremble a little as she said, ‘Then I’m going to book it. Week after next, okay? Thursday.’
‘Okay. Gotta go, Nessa. One of us has got to keep the firm going here.’
‘I’ll see you later. I’m going online to find us a blissful hotel … Bye.’
She put the phone back on its cradle and went to the computer. She typed luxury spa hotels + London into Google and peered at the screen, considering the results. This was going to be huge fun.
*
A bolthole, Lou thought. That’s what this flat is. Grotty, small, not very conveniently situated and undesirable in almost every possible way but still, somewhere to run to when you were feeling wounded. She’d managed to endure a post mortem that her mother felt would make her feel better and which had actually made her feel worse. She was now in her bedroom, considering the wreckage that passed for her life.
She hadn’t even bothered to unpack her case properly, just thrown it into the tiny cupboard to attend to later. She emptied the contents of her good leather handbag on to the bed and then hung it up on the back of the bedroom door in a drawstring cotton bag that reminded her of school. She transferred everything into the rather shabby sack that was her everyday handbag and came across a white envelope with her name on it.
‘Oh, God …’ she whispered. It was Mme Franchard’s letter. She’d forgotten completely about it. That shows, she thought, what a state I’m in. Mme Franchard and the time she’d spent with her had been pushed to the back of her mind since she’d got home. Poor Mme Franchard. Tears came to her eyes at the thought that she didn’t know whether she’d ever see the old lady again. But I’m not going to cry, she told herself, and went to put the envelope away in a safe place. For a moment, she couldn’t think of one, but in the end she placed the letter or whatever it was between the pages of Blind Moon. The book lay always on her bedside table. She didn’t need to hide it, just keep it in a safe place that she’d remember. No one else was after it.
But what, she wondered, could be in the letter? She lay on the bed, fully dressed. I could have a look. Why don’t I? Had she actually promised not to open it till the old lady was dead? Lou could no longer remember. But she wouldn’t open it. She mustn’t. It was as though there were something magical sealed in with the letter which would evaporate if she disobeyed her instructions. Also – and this was completely ridiculous – she had the creepy feeling that if she tore into the paper, that might cause Mme Franchard’s death. Nonsense, of course, but she wasn’t willing to take any risks. I’m going to forget all about it, she told herself. But I’ll have to ring Dad and tell him what she said.
Tomorrow, Mum would be going home. She looked dreadful and it occurred to Lou that perhaps looking after Poppy was getting to be too much for her. When asked, she’d said it was just being a little tired but it seemed worse than that to Lou. Mum actually looked unhappy, and what’s more she obviously didn’t want to talk about it.
I can’t worry about her, Lou thought. I’ve got Poppy back tomorrow and I want to just lie here and close my eyes and stay here till I feel better, maybe for a month or two. And I can’t. I have to shop and chat and work and smile and do all the things that people do when they’re alive.
She turned on to her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. Scenes from the disastrous evening in Paris came into her mind and she tried to banish them, with little success. She’d been snubbed. She’d been willing – longing – to break what seemed like years of celibacy and she’d been rejected. But you’re not in love with Harry, a tiny voice in her mind said. That was true but it didn’t matter. She still felt shitty. Let down. Disappointed. Sad. Who were her friends? How many did she have? Who could she ring up and moan at? There was Margie, but she was more of a babysitter. There was Cath from college, but she was in Scotland now. There were Dotty and Coral from school days but they weren’t much good to her as they lived in Haywards Heath. Jeanette from Cinnamon Hill was okay but lived miles away south of the river and anyway, she wasn’t a friend so much as a work acquaintance. What was the matter with her? It was unnatural for a woman of her age not to be surrounded by good pals. Even Bridget Jones in the book
and the movie had a gang of sorts. Thinking about how lonely she was made Lou feel even more miserable. She totted up all the things she didn’t have: a husband, a boyfriend, an income that meant something, friends, a decent flat – even her family wasn’t up to much. A useless sister and brother who weren’t even proper blood relatives. No grandparents. No aunts and uncles. No cousins.
In the end, the list of woes was so relentless that it made her laugh. It was just completely ridiculous. What happened to counting your blessings, eh? A beautiful daughter, parents who loved her to bits, a job she enjoyed, even though she made no money at it, and above all, herself. I’m young, she told herself. I’m healthy. I’ve just written a screenplay. I’m okay. I haven’t got Harry. That’s it. That’s the only thing about today’s situation that’s different from what was happening a couple of days ago. And perhaps having a step-great-grandmother who was a murderer. Oh, how fabulous! She smiled. Grow up, woman, Lou said to herself. Go and wash your face and make the best of a bad job.
She toughed it out all the way to the bathroom, but then seeing herself so blotchy and red-eyed from crying depressed her all over again. Fuck it! she thought. It’s no good. I am sad about Harry and there’s nothing I can do. I’ll just have to get used to the fact that he likes me but isn’t interested in me romantically. That’s it. And while I do, I have to face the fact that I’m going to be miserable at least some of the time. Bloody Harry!
9
‘Darling, how lovely to see you! I was beginning to think you were never coming home.’ Matt took Phyl’s suitcase from her and carried it into the house. Once they were inside, he turned and took her in his arms and kissed her. ‘I’ve been missing you so much.’
‘Really?’ Phyl was allowing herself to be kissed and for a moment Matt wondered whether she knew. No, that wasn’t possible. His night with Ellie, which he’d regretted almost as soon as he’d managed to escape from the flat in Portland Place, was beginning to acquire in his mind the status of something between a fantasy and a nightmare, and because there had been no immediate repercussions, he’d assumed that Phyl had swallowed his bridge story whole. He’d been quite good, he reckoned, at the follow-up, ringing her the next day with anecdotes from the evening, messages of good wishes from everyone round the card table and so forth. There had been something in her voice on the phone that slightly put the wind up him, till he realized that it was Lou’s situation that was getting to her. It was also on account of poor Lou that she’d decided to stay on for a few extra days in London.
For once, he hadn’t minded. It had given him time to regroup. Gather his strength. Ellie had been a ghastly mistake. She always was a mistake. In the old days, it was one that had taken him a couple of years to shake off, but the thing last week … well, that was never going to happen again and he’d told Ellie so in no uncertain terms. Typically, she’d pooh-poohed the idea of him showing restraint, but he’d been strict with himself and hadn’t rung her and certainly hadn’t visited her and had managed to be ‘out of the office’ when she called him there. Not that he’d confided in his secretary, or only partly. He’d made out that Ellie was a nuisance, no more, and after him for business reasons and he’d left instructions that no calls from her were to be put through to him. He regarded Ellie as a kind of virus that had infected his bloodstream. Did viruses infect your bloodstream? Or was that bacteria? Whatever, he was over the fever now, and seeing Phyl again had made him more determined than ever to put his night with Ellie firmly out of his mind.
‘Come into the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
‘I could do with one.’
She followed him and sat down at the kitchen table. Without needing to think, he reached for the decaffeinated Earl Grey, the cups Phyl liked best, and the tin of shortbread that was precisely where he knew it would be. This, he reflected as he wondered what to say next, was what it was about, a life together. A great many years shared. Knowing the person, having the kind of life where things existed in their proper order: the shortbread tin to the left of the top shelf in the second cupboard and always, always there and not anywhere else and filled with the same kind of biscuits. This was marriage. Or was he mad? Driven mad by retrospective guilt? Nonsense! He was only being mildly silly and that was on account of the huge relief he was feeling. There was Phyl, same as ever, sitting in her usual chair and looking …
‘You’re looking very tired, darling. Is anything the matter?’ Matt didn’t have to feign concern. His wife looked ghastly. Her skin was greyish, the shadows under her eyes so purple and huge that they gave her the appearance of a panda.
‘I am tired,’ she answered. She took a sip of tea and sighed and leaned back in the chair. ‘Not had too much sleep recently. Poppy’s going through a bit of a wakeful period. Teeth, I suppose. Or just being unsettled in general because of Lou. Kids are like animals in that way, they pick up vibes from their parents.’
‘How’s Lou feeling now?’
‘How did you think she was on the phone?’
‘Well, she sounded – I suppose trying to be brave just about describes it.’
‘She’s depressed. She’s another reason why I’ve not been sleeping well. After Ray, she was so low that she could scarcely move, but now she’s perfectly okay on the surface and doesn’t let on that she really, really cared about this Harry person, but it’s clear she did. I saw tears in her eyes every so often, in a quiet moment.’ Phyl laughed. ‘That’s one good thing about little children: they don’t leave you many quiet moments to get gloomy in. But she’s very hurt, there’s no doubt about it. She was going to Cinnamon Hill today for the first time. I must remember to phone and ask her how it went.’
‘I don’t think it’s very sensible of her to work in the very place where she’s going to run into him all the time. She could find something else, surely?’
‘I know. I asked her about it but she was adamant. It made me wonder why she was so keen to stay on and I reckon she’s still hoping. She yelled at me when I suggested that was why she didn’t want to leave, really let me have it. You know: why d’you want to define me through Harry? Why can’t I be wanting to stay on because I like the work? That kind of thing.’
‘Poor you. Never mind, she’ll work it out. Here, have a piece of shortbread.’ Phyl shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Matt, can you sit down a minute? I want to ask you something.’
‘Of course. I’m in no rush to get back to the office.’ He sat opposite Phyl and patted her hand. She pulled it away, and he was mystified. Something was going on here. She was about to say something grim. Terrible. Please, God, he said to himself, in a formula he hadn’t used since the night that Poppy was born when he found he could hardly bear the idea of Lou in pain, let it not be cancer. Not illness. Please, God, let it be anything but that.
‘What is it, darling?’ he whispered. ‘Are you ill?’
‘Oh, God, no, Matt, for heaven’s sake! Stop looking as though I was about to be marched off to a hospital. No, I’m absolutely fine. Unhappy but fine. Torn apart but nothing wrong with my health, I promise.’
‘I can’t bear to hear you talk like that, Phyl. It makes me … I don’t know what to do when you say such things. I need you.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, it is right. I couldn’t survive without you.’
‘Rubbish. Of course you could. Everyone can survive.’
‘You know what I mean. I … I love you, Phyl.’
She stood up, abruptly, moving from the table to the kitchen sink, staring fixedly out of the window at the garden. She had her back to him so that he couldn’t see the expression on her face, but he could tell there was a lump in her throat when she spoke. What the hell …
‘Do you?’ she said. ‘You have a funny way of showing it.’
He stood up. ‘What are you talking about? Have you taken leave of your senses?’ He was standing beside her and turned her round to face him. She dropped her head and he put his hand under her chin and lifted
it up. ‘You’re crying, Phyl. What’s the matter? Oh, darling, tell me why you’re crying.’
‘You bastard! You dishonest bastard! You KNOW why I’m crying! You’ve been seeing Ellie. Don’t deny it. I know. That night – the night you said you were at bridge – you weren’t. I know you weren’t.’
‘How do you know?’ As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew what he’d done. How could four tiny little words so immediately wreck completely the elaborate lie he’d constructed and which he thought was standing up so well? A mistake. A dreadful mistake to say that. He knew what he ought to have said, what might have allowed him to carry on lying. Something like of course I was. How dare you suggest I’m not telling the truth? That would have been the way to go: white-hot indignation would have been a far better option. Terrified abject guilt, that was what his words meant. He couldn’t go on lying now. Part of him wanted to run: just turn and run out of the room and not come back. He was back to being a child. Constance had often made him feel like this. Phyl said, ‘I’m right. I knew I was. Okay.’
‘Where are you going? Come back, Phyl. I want to talk to you.’
From the door, she said, over her shoulder, ‘I don’t want to talk to you, though. I’m going upstairs to pack.’
‘To unpack, you mean. I’ll carry up your suitcase.’
She went on walking, not looking back. Matt didn’t know what to do, what to say next. Phyl was on the landing. He called out to her: ‘Wait! Don’t go! Please come back down …’
No answer. Should he follow her? Would she be angrier if he followed her and talked the matter out, found out what she knew and what she intended to do about it, or should he stay out of the way? In the end, he opted for direct action.
‘Here you go. Here’s your case …’ he said, standing in the doorway of their bedroom. Phyl had started to tip the contents of her drawers on to the double bed. She’d already done one and was starting on the second. ‘Phyl? What on earth are you doing? Stop it. Please, darling, don’t do that.’
