The Strangers We Know

by Pip Drysdale

  Brooke arrived just as I was done and I buzzed her in and opened the door.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, apology in her voice and her eyes wide as she strode purposefully towards me. ‘Having a fucking nightmare situation as you can see.’ She was pointing at her white t-shirt: a big brown coffee stain covered the front and had the fabric sticking to her black bra.

  She came inside and I closed the door after her.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ she asked, looking around. I didn’t want to tell her about Oliver and the app, not now, so I fibbed. ‘We’re moving.’ And as I said it my throat grew tight because even though I meant it as a lie, I realised it would soon be the truth. One of us would be moving. ‘There’s this great place nearby and it looks like we’re going to get it, it’s so exciting really. Such a great entertaining space.’ Shut up, Charlie. I always do that: babble when I’m anxious.

  ‘Oh, cool. Sorry, where’s the loo?’

  I pointed towards the bathroom.

  ‘Thanks so much,’ she said as she rushed towards it and inside. The door was left ajar and I could hear the basin taps going wild. I imagined her in there, rinsing and wringing and cursing black coffee.

  ‘Do you want to borrow something?’ I stared down at my phone: 8.02 am. I still had a couple of hours before the shop opened, but I just wanted to get out of that flat. Away from memories of ‘us’.

  ‘No, I’m a Londoner now, I always carry a spare,’ she said, popping her head around to look at me as she pulled a plain black t-shirt over her head. ‘I have a client meeting in half an hour if you can believe my luck.’

  A moment later she emerged, stain-free.

  ‘You’re a lifesaver,’ she said, smiling as she looked around the room again, her eyes lingering on the gin bottle sitting on the countertop. ‘I owe you one.’

  And I’d soon be collecting on that ‘I owe you’.

  ‘Where’s your hubby? Why isn’t he helping with all this?’

  I swallowed hard. ‘He’s away on business, he’s back tomorrow.’ Do not cry, do not cry, do not cry. I forced a smile but my lower lip wobbled.

  ‘Oh hon, are you okay?’ she asked, moving towards me, hands reaching out to take mine. And I shook my head.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I said, searching for a reason I might be crying that didn’t involve the horrible truth. And, other than boys, there was only one other reason I used to cry. ‘I just found out I didn’t get a part. It’s silly.’

  ‘Argh. Life in the Arts, right?’ And then her eyes moved to the mannequin in the corner.

  ‘Oh wow, I love this,’ she said, moving over to it and pulling out her phone to take a picture.

  Snap. Snap. Snap.

  ‘Ooooohhhhh,’ she said, turning to our near-empty mantlepiece. ‘And this. Where did you get it?’

  She was talking about Oliver’s bronze statue. I watched as she moved over to it, leaning in to inspect the detailing.

  And all I was thinking was: Please fucking leave so I can get these bags out of the house and start rebuilding my life. But you can’t say things like that in real life, you have to say things like ‘I’m not sure. It’s Oliver’s.’

  She pulled out her phone and took a photograph while I tried to make small talk so she wouldn’t realise my whole life was falling apart.

  ‘Stroking its trunk is supposed to be good luck,’ I said. But it was Oliver who told me that and so as I heard my voice mimic his words something twisted inside me.

  ‘Wow. I have the best idea.’ She grinned. Brown eyes wide. ‘Can I get a pic of it with you? For my Instagram?’

  The last thing I wanted was to touch it – to be reminded of him. And then I thought of Oliver and how careful I was supposed to be with posting things on social media. But seriously, why was I still trying to please him? Brooke was looking at me now, waiting for an answer. But I just wanted her to leave. And so I said, ‘Ummm, not sure, I’m a bit of a mess. Can we do it on a day I’m not crying?’

  ‘What about if you hold the statue over your face, kind of like Bookface? It’ll look cool. Pleeeaaaase,’ she said. ‘I need shit for my profile and I know exactly how I want it to look. I won’t even tag you.’

  How the hell could I say ‘no’ without explaining my crap mood? And so I picked it up and held it in front of my face and she took the picture. Anything to get her to leave.

  ‘Hon, I’m so sorry I can’t offer you a cup of tea or something,’ I said. ‘But I’m going to be so late.’ Lies, lies, lies.

  ‘Totally cool,’ Brooke replied as we headed towards the door. ‘I’m going to be late too. But Pilates on Wednesday?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Text me if you change your mind. It’s such a trek for me and I hate it when I’m there alone. Amy gangs up on me.’

  I smiled. Amy was one of the instructors and she was all about arm work.

  ‘I promise,’ I said, ‘I’ll put a reminder in my phone right now.’ And so I did, for two days prior. I was going to need my friends now, more than ever. I couldn’t keep letting them down.

  A few minutes later Brooke was gone and it was just me – me and those black bags and the wreckage of my life. But there was only one way to do it, and that was to do it, and so I grabbed my keys, Oliver’s spare car keys, and my bag, opened the front door, pushed the bags outside and then let it bang shut behind me. I was halfway down the hall, pulling two of them and kicking the third when I realised I wasn’t alone.

  ‘What on earth have you got there?’ came an uppity voice from the stairs. Oh good – Natasha. All five foot ten of her. She had long dark hair and was wearing aubergine and white Lululemon and trainers. But even so, even on her way to brunch or gym or wherever she was going, she looked better groomed than me with my dry-shampooed hair, cheeks pink from gin, ballet flats, blue jeans, thin olive green metallic top and the black leather jacket I was struggling to balance over my arm.

  ‘Hey. Just have some things I’m … taking into the shop later. Need to put them in Oliver’s car.’ Good thinking.

  ‘Do you want some help getting them there?’ she asked. Natasha didn’t like me very much but she was as fantastic at faking ‘nice’ as I was at faking ‘fine’. She leaned in close to pick one up. ‘Big night?’ she asked. Great, I still smelled like booze. Even through the toothpaste.

  I could see her biceps clenching beneath her perfectly white, paper thin top as she picked up one of the bags then dropped it again. ‘Wow, this is heavy,’ she said. So we both awkwardly pushed our respective bags – her one, my two – down the hallway, past the letterboxes and towards the front door.

  ‘Where’s Oliver?’ she asked, looking back at me when we got there, then glancing beyond my shoulder. ‘Why isn’t he helping?’

  You see, that’s why Natasha was always so sweet to me: I was pretty sure she fancied Oliver and making friends with me was a good way to get close to him. She went all pouty-pouty and baby-talky when he was around, tossed her hair a bit too much for comfort and laughed a couple of decibels louder than was strictly necessary.

  ‘He’s away,’ I said, my voice flat.

  A thin film of sweat was forming in my hairline – the bags were heavy – and I was out of breath. She pushed open the front door and kicked her bag outside then held it for me.

  ‘It’s over there,’ I said, pointing to Oliver’s dark green Range Rover and clicking the button on his keys so it beeped and unlocked. I opened the back door and Natasha stood there behind me. ‘That was a workout.’ She laughed. ‘Don’t need the gym now. So, when’s lovely Oliver back?’

  And I’m not sure whether it was just all the pent-up frustration, the gin, the fact that I’d had to put on such a good act with Brooke or the fact that I just didn’t like Natasha (so how dare she ask me that?) but I didn’t even think; the words just spewed out of me.

  ‘He’ll be back when he’s finished fucking whoever he’s fucking,’ I said. And then I flashed her a fake smile.

  One, two, three seconds pas
sed before she spoke again. I could see her swallow. ‘What?’ she asked. Her neck was red but her face – covered in foundation – stayed a nice tanned colour.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, my own face flushing hot. I hate losing control. ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, her voice coming out strained. She seemed as shocked as I was. But a moment later she walked away, I lifted the bags onto the back seat. Slammed the doors shut. Took a photograph. And sent it to Oliver with the following message:

  I know all of it. Don’t come home. All your stuff is in your car. Charlie.

  10.07 am

  ‘Morning,’ Grace said as she came inside. Bzzzz. She was wearing a pair of white trousers, a silk shirt and a pair of golden sandals.

  I was hunched over my desk sipping a cup of coffee I’d bought on my way in, nibbling on its white plastic lid. But it was cold by then. I’d been there for an hour – busying myself with staring at the coloured lines moving on my screensaver and thinking about the black bags that had been shoved into Oliver’s car and the fact that soon he was going to get that message telling him not to bother coming home, if he hadn’t already.

  ‘Are you okay? You don’t look well at all.’ Grace was looking at me. Frowning. She wasn’t being mean – she was genuinely concerned. She had that same look Mum used to give me when she was about to take my temperature.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said, still staring at my screen. Remembering Natasha – Big night? – and that my breath probably still smelled of booze so it was best I didn’t do anything silly like cry; that might make her come closer. Last thing I needed was to find myself unemployed. Especially now that I was going to be paying all the rent. I winced at the thought. And as if by telepathy, my phone beeped. I stared at it. Reached for it.

  Oliver: What the hell are you talking about?????

  My eyes burned with tears and I clenched them shut. All I could see on my inner lids were those messages in his Facebook account and that attachment Justin had sent through to his email. I don’t know whether I was angrier with Oliver for lying to me or myself for trusting him.

  Because now it seemed so obvious. How had I been stupid enough to believe he’d cheat on Alyssa and not on me? What else was he hiding?

  ‘Charlie, you really need to put that away and focus,’ Grace said, nodding at my phone. ‘It’s work time.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Grace,’ I said, looking up at her and then back at my phone, ‘it’s just something’s happened.’ I was still staring at the screen, my voice wobbly. It was happening. It was all ending. I bit my lip. Do not cry. Do not cry. Do not cry.

  ‘Oh?’ she said, a wariness in her voice now. ‘What?’

  My throat tightened. ‘Oliver’s cheating on me,’ I blurted.

  Beat.

  Silence

  ‘What? Charlie, that’s terrible,’ she said, her voice gentle. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The room rang with silence. I could hear her swallow. The sounds of traffic floated in from the little street outside. My face grew hot.

  ‘Can I make you some tea?’ she asked, puncturing the silence.

  The British bandaid for everything: tea.

  I shook my head, ‘No, I’m okay, thanks.’

  More silence. Thick silence. Loud silence. People walked past on the street and I willed them not to come into the shop. Not now. Please not now.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ she asked, her voice a little higher.

  I shook my head. ‘I’ll either be sad there or sad here. I might as well be sad here,’ I said. And I didn’t want to have to deal with all the memories.

  She nodded and I listened as her computer fired up. I could hear myself swallow. Everything was awkward now. Grace and I didn’t have that kind of relationship. I’d known her for a long time but we didn’t really talk about feelings.

  ‘But if he calls here can you just say I’m out?’ I said, forcing a smile.

  ‘Of course.’

  Tap-tap-tap of the keyboard.

  Silence.

  I swallowed loudly.

  ‘My husband cheated on me too,’ she said out of nowhere. Tap-tap-tap. That was the most personal information I’d learned about Grace in the five years I’d worked there.

  ‘Do you mind me asking how you found out?’ she asked. ‘It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘I found him on an app.’

  ‘One of those dating apps?’

  ‘Yep.’ I nodded.

  More silence.

  ‘I found letters,’ Grace confided. She let out a sigh. ‘I’m sorry about Oliver. I really didn’t think he was the type.’ Grace knew about our wedding before I did. She was the one who gave him the dress. She knew my taste, my size. And she kept the secret well – I didn’t get a congratulations text until we were already in Vegas.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, staring back at my emails, ‘neither did I.’

  And then we both sat tapping on our keyboards. I went to some recent images of pieces we’d acquired and then found them on the racks to compare the colour balances. Then I sat down, adjusting them, uploading them to Instagram, just like I had a few days before when none of this was on my radar.

  And all I kept thinking of was that night in the cab. How I’d thought we were going to see Justin and we were really heading to the airport. Of the quiver in his voice as he said ‘We can still make the last flight to Vegas.’

  And the warmth of his breath after I’d said yes when he hugged me so tight and said into my hair ‘Thank fucking god’.

  Then my phone buzzed again and we both stared at it. I could see the message on the screen: Charlie?????????

  But then the door buzzed and a woman walked in. She was short, with a blunt, dark bob to her shoulders and she was wearing a pair of jeans with a black chiffon shirt. I could see her bra through it. The door banged behind her and I put on a smile.

  ‘Hi,’ she oozed as she came over to me. ‘Charlie, is it?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I’m so sorry about yesterday. It all got too frantic, but here I am. What have you got for me?’

  It took a moment for me to twig.

  ‘I’m Mimi, from Oliver Goldsmith,’ she said.

  ‘Oh hi, right. Just a sec.’ I left my phone on the desk and got up, rushing through to the back room. I returned with the two dresses I’d picked out, draped over my forearm.

  ‘These are the two I think you’ll love,’ I said, reaching for the Biba black lace overlay dress first. It swept the floor and had a beige satin slip beneath it. ‘It almost forms a full circle when you twirl so it’ll look fab in photographs.’

  She inspected the square cut neckline. ‘Great,’ she replied, glancing at the other one as I put dress one down over the back of my chair.

  ‘And then there was this one,’ I said, showing her the blue and white checked Givenchy dress I’d finally found the day before.

  ‘Oh yes, I love this.’ I could hear my phone ringing from my desk. I assumed it would be Oliver so I let it ring out, cursing the fact that I hadn’t put it on silent.

  But ten minutes later when I got back to my phone I realised it wasn’t Oliver calling at all. It was Clarence. He’d left a voicemail. My heart was pounding as I dialled. I needed some good news.

  The automated voice started: ‘You have one new message. First message received on Saturday, June ninth at 10.21 am.’

  Then came Clarence’s voice: ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, you didn’t get a callback.’

  And that should have been it: rock bottom. A cheating husband and broken dreams. Fair is fair. But no. Life was just getting warmed up.

  9.47 pm

  Bubbles fizzed on the tip of my tongue and the back edges recoiled. The champagne was dry, almost too dry, but it was also free. I was almost finished my fourth glass and the world had only just shifted into soft focus so I was looking around the room for a fifth. One of the girls in white shirts carrying silver trays was over by the far wall and I stared at her, trying to catch her eye.
But fuck, no, she was heading in the other direction now. I turned back to the wall, back to the painting Tess and I were looking at: a black canvas full of texture.

  We were at an art gallery in Shoreditch. It had been Tess’s idea – she was on an app that matched people based on crossed paths and she wanted to cast her dating net a bit wider. So my choices were: an art gallery for intellectuals or a hospital for doctors. A hospital made me think of my ex, Josh, and the happy holiday snaps he’d been taking with someone else, so I chose the gallery. Besides, it was good to get out of my own head. Good to not have to go home. What with finding Oliver on that app, realising why he was there, breaking into his computer and kicking him out of the house, it had been a big week for me. The last thing I wanted was to sit between those four walls, staring at our empty bookcase and his fucking Ganesha, thinking of how it hadn’t protected us at all. Nothing was as it was supposed to be. In that moment I never wanted to go back to that flat again.

  No, I just wanted it all over.

  And even more than that, I wanted to stop feeling like I was lapsing into paranoia. To stop feeling like I was being watched. I kept self-soothing, telling myself that it was my imagination. I was just anxious because of everything that was going on.

  But our instincts are there for a reason. They are there to help us survive.

  And so when mine told me I was still being watched, I really should have listened.

  There was a guy standing near a set of black canvases – hand-stitched grey suit, salt and pepper hair, tall. Tess had noticed him when we first walked in and nudged me to take a better look. She was wearing a short faux leather skirt and a sheer pirate frill shirt, and right now she was toying with the neck of it, glancing over in his direction then quickly looking away. Flirting 101. I was still wearing the same olive green, metallic thread top and jeans I had on when I left the house that morning.

  ‘In his car?’ Tess was laughing a little too loud, slight arch of the back, head tilted. She was doing it for attention. But it was nice to feel hilarious even if what I’d really said wasn’t that funny: I’d just told her where I’d left all Oliver’s things.