‘Course not.’
Anna leans forward, picks up a glass and hands it to me. ‘Cheers,’ she says and we clink the glasses together. I raise mine to my lips and let the cold liquid seep onto my tongue. It may not be prosecco, but it’s good.
‘Thank you. Absolutely wonderful day.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Anna smiles.
‘No, I mean for everything. For being my friend. For letting me into your life.’
‘It works both ways,’ says Anna. ‘Don’t forget I was new here too. I didn’t have many friends either. So I should be thanking you.’
‘You had work, at least.’
Anna sighs. ‘Remotely. It’s not as if I have colleagues to chat to every day.’
‘I used to go to the deli just to talk to the lady behind the counter,’ I say, and Anna laughs as if I’m joking. ‘No, really. Ridiculous, isn’t it? The longest conversation I’d have all day when Jake was away would be about olives or the amount of hummus I wanted. I hate frickin’ olives.’
‘No!’
‘And you know what I said about joining the walking group to meet people? I can’t tell you how happy I was to spot you there. I was so jealous when you went to talk to that other woman – Polly? – and left me with Simon!’
‘Oh, so you’re blaming Simon on me now, are you?’ Anna says. ‘Charming.’
We sit in silence for a moment, both thinking, I imagine, about the walking club and the days before we met.
‘So,’ says Anna. ‘Tell me again about Simon. How come you went out for dinner with him?’
I lick my finger and slide it around the rim of the glass to make it sing as I try to work out for myself why exactly I went out with Simon.
‘Did you tell Jake?’ Anna says. ‘You didn’t, did you?’
‘No, but…’
‘Oh, for god’s sake, Taylor. You’ve got to wise up. You barely know the guy and you go out alone at night with him, in London, without telling anyone. Anything could have happened. Anything!’ Her voice rises and I realize she’s actually angry with me.
I sigh. ‘I’m sorry. I…’
‘Didn’t think. You didn’t think, did you? But – oh god – after what happened to Lou, I just can’t even begin to…’ She buries her head in her hands then looks up at me. ‘I don’t want to lose another friend. That’s all. Please be careful.’
‘Thank you. I will.’
Anna’s quiet for a moment. ‘So he behaved himself, then?’
‘Of course. I mean, look at me!’ I sweep my hand over my belly. ‘I’m a baby elephant.’
‘I’m not even going to try and guess what goes on in his mind,’ Anna says. ‘But let’s look at the facts: meets you, fancies you, sees you’re pregnant, still fancies you, asks you out, takes you out… hmm… He’s after something. Trust me.’
I’m focusing on the glass. ‘You’re overthinking this. Understandably – I get that now. But I think he’s just a bit lonely. Can you believe he’d never had Mexican food before?’
‘Or that’s what he told you.’ Anna whacks her forehead. ‘God, there’s one born every day. Go on, tell me: you ordered for him. He thought you were amazing for introducing him to it? This is so predictable.’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘Okay, how was it then?’
I shake my head. ‘It was fine. Nothing more, nothing less.’
‘If you’re sure,’ Anna says doubtfully, giving me a long, hard look.
‘Yep, all’s good.’ I take a deep breath and pick up my glass. ‘So, as I was saying: cheers. To us. To friends. And thank you for looking out for me.’
‘Yes, to friends,’ says Anna. ‘Cheers.’
I know how you paid for college
Oh yes, you’d like everyone to believe you came from a good family; that money was never an issue, but that’d be a lie, wouldn’t it? And you know how I hate lies. You know they make my blood boil; how they make anger swirl inside me like hurricane fucking Katrina. Lies make me want to hurt you, slowly and carefully. I want to watch your face as you register the pain, watch as the agony increases, watch as you realize I’ve completely and utterly destroyed your perfect little life.
But look, you’re distracting me.
Let’s talk about what really happened when you finished school. About how your parents could barely scrape together enough money for you to go to college in the first place. How your mum wrung her hands, and your dad worked nights trying to make enough to keep his princess happy. How you begged and pleaded and said you’d get a job.
Oh, how fucking noble you were. As if you’re the first kid to pay her way through college. But for once you were as good as your word, weren’t you? You got a job. And what was it? What did you tell everyone?
‘I’m a dancer.’
Oh fucking la-di-dah. But shall we elaborate here, sweetie-pie? What was it? Ballet? Contemporary? Or maybe you taught line-dancing at old peoples’ homes? Aww, wouldn’t that be sweet.
Dance, my arse. You were a stripper. A common-or-garden stripper.
And how dare you shake your head like that: I could have said hooker, couldn’t I? Because we both know what went on in that lap-dance club, don’t we? We both know that the skimpy underwear with the nipple holes was the most clothing you wore all night. We both know that for thirty bucks you peeled off that excuse for a bra and pants and gyrated naked in the laps of strangers, sliding your pussy against their hard-ons, shoving your tits in their faces.
Thirty bucks a time, princess. Are you proud?
But that’s not where it ended, is it? You forget I know about the back room. The room with the red velvet loungers and the one-way windows… the room where you made a hundred bucks a trick, two hundred or more… the room where men slipped you their cards and offered you four hundred for a home visit; a grand to meet them on their yachts.
Dirty little bitch, aren’t you? And now you’re going to be a mother. Oh, hear me laugh.
If I were you, sweetie-pie, I’d start paying me a bit more attention. Not that it’ll change anything, but… I’d like to feel you’d made at least a bit of an effort.
Twenty-two
Lying in bed on Saturday morning, with my eyes still shut, I can hear Jake pottering about downstairs. Long gone are the days when he’d reach for me first thing on waking. Now he tiptoes out of bed as quietly as he can, trying not to wake me. Is he being considerate – or avoiding me?
I squirm in the bed as if changing physical position can make my thoughts more comfortable, but the truth is I feel I don’t know Jake any more. I said I’d forgiven him, and I believed I had, but the scars of infidelity can’t be erased just like that. The mind may want to forget, but the soul cannot. And now Jake’s distant again and my warning bells are ringing. This is what happened last time, this is how the affair started, so who is it this time? Sarah? Or someone else? I’m thinking all this, when the bedroom door swings open.
‘Your breakfast, madam.’
Jake’s standing at the door in his boxers and a t-shirt, with a tray in his hands. It’s a week or so into January and the days have that flat, post-Christmas, post-New Year feel to them, and I can’t believe how grey everything is, both figuratively and literally. It’s going to be a long haul till spring.
I push my hair out of my eyes and wriggle into a sitting position, surprised. The baby shifts, too, causing me to adjust myself again.
‘What’s going on? It’s not my birthday, is it?’
‘I just wanted to make a fuss of you,’ says Jake, and it’s so out of character these days that fear twists in my stomach. A red neon sign flashes in my head: G U I L T Y. ‘We’ll soon be too busy with the baby,’ Jake says. ‘Here.’
I smooth the duvet over my lap and he places the tray carefully on it.
‘Wow,’ I say, looking at it. There’s fresh orange juice, coffee, a croissant and marmalade, even scrambled eggs and smoked salmon on a bagel. Propped between the dishes there’s a folded piece of paper. I pick it up.
&
nbsp; ‘What’s this?’
‘Have a look.’ Jake looks excited, so I open the paper and read: it’s a hotel booking confirmation.
‘Brighton?’
Jake nods. ‘What do you think?’
‘I… wonderful! But why?’
‘I thought we could have a mini-break. A last fling before the baby comes and we’re up to our eyes in nappies and night feeds. It’s too late to fly anywhere so I thought how about a night in an hotel?’ He does the silent ‘h’ thing. ‘And this is by the sea…’
I cock my head. ‘Well, this is a surprise. When?’ I’m looking at the confirmation form. ‘Today?’ I look up at Jake.
‘Yes, today! Why not?’ Jake shrugs. ‘I thought we could drive down after breakfast; potter about The Lanes; walk along the seafront; grab some lunch before we check in? Get some sea air; eat some fish and chips. Take the chance to be just us again before the baby comes. What do you say?’
‘Sure…’ I’m warming to the idea. He’s right – it would be lovely to get away for a night; get a change of scene.
‘Sarah suggested it,’ says Jake. ‘She thought you’d like a “babymoon”.’ He draws the inverted commas in the air with his fingers and I can see he’s pleased with the word. ‘Honestly, I wouldn’t have thought of it myself.’
‘Great. I’ll remember to thank her.’
Jake ignores – or misses – my sarcasm. ‘Have you ever been to Brighton?’
‘Not really. Only once, and I didn’t stay over.’
‘Right, well, eat up and we can pack and get going.’
Jake goes off to get our overnight bags and I google the hotel. He’s picked a three-star place on a side street off the main seafront. It looks okay and it’s in a good location. I hope our room’s one of the ones with a partial sea view rather than a view to the car park out the back. I scroll through the other hotels on the booking website then see one I’ve actually heard of: The Grand. I bring up its website.
‘Oh wow.’ I cup my hand over my mouth as I scroll through gorgeous room after gorgeous room.
‘Did you look at The Grand?’ I call to Jake. ‘It looks gorgeous.’
‘Yeah – no space.’ His voice is muffled from the inside of the under-stairs cupboard. ‘Some conference or something.’
‘Oh, shame.’
Still, we’re off to Brighton! I find an image of Brighton seafront and upload it to Instagram. #Babymoon
Twenty-three
The hotel was dreadful. I’ve no other word for it. The reception was tatty, with a threadbare carpet and a teenage receptionist who’d clearly rather be Snapchatting her mates than doing her job. Having worked for so long in a service-industry role myself, this is my pet hate and guaranteed to make my blood pressure rise in seconds, so I’d turned away and browsed a rack of leaflets of things to do in Brighton, trying to shut out the sound of her nasally voice. She did nothing to make our check-in go smoothly, and I could hear in Jake’s tone that even he was becoming exasperated as she made him fill out a long form while she looked on, snapping the gum that she was chewing. There was a largely unidentifiable smell of old food hanging in the air – a cross between stale grease, eggs and toast – but even then I was still hoping for the best; hoping that the room was going to be better.
It wasn’t. After we’d creaked our way up a narrow staircase past rooms from which we could hear snippets of other peoples’ lives – a television blaring, a couple arguing while a baby cried – Jake opened a small door and we stood on the threshold of the room, already pinned against the wall by a bed that took up the entire space. The ‘en suite’ bathroom turned out to be a toilet and a sink on a tiled area behind a shower curtain that looked as if you could catch something off it.
Jake and I look at each other.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘It looked better in the pictures. Shall we just go home?’
I throw my handbag onto the bed and sigh. ‘It’s such a shame. I was so looking forward to being in Brighton.’
‘We could come back next weekend?’ Jake says.
‘We’re here now.’
Jake closes the door behind him and we sit next to each other on the bed, which sags beneath our weight. There’s not even space for a chair in the room. The wallpaper is flowery, with damp patches; the view is of the brick wall of the next-door building.
‘We could go to The Grand and see if they’ve had any last-minute cancellations?’ I say.
Jake shuts his eyes then opens them slowly. ‘We could do. Is that what you want?’
I nudge him playfully. ‘Well, it is a lovely hotel… and this is supposed to be a romantic break… What do you think?’ I smile and he doesn’t say anything. ‘In fact…’ I get out my phone and open my booking app. ‘Let me just have a look here… Oh wow, great! It’s got space! They must have had some cancellations.’
I look hopefully at Jake.
‘How much?’ he asks.
‘Various,’ I say. ‘Have a look.’ I hand him my phone. ‘Just look at the size of some of those rooms! They have a sitting area – a sofa – a balcony. And they face the sea!’ I’m clasping my hands together, forefingers crossed by my temples in the hope that Jake will go for it. ‘It’ll really be a babymoon to remember.’
Jake scrolls through the pictures and prices.
‘Okay,’ he says finally. He taps the screen a few times, then pulls out his credit card. ‘You really want this?’ I nod. ‘Okay. Done.’
So we get back in the car and drive around to The Grand. When we walk in, pulling our cabin bags behind us, I almost expect the doorman to push us right back out of the revolving door. Although the outside’s not really what I expected, the inside is like walking into a palace. With its huge, expensive-looking rugs, incidental sofas, beautiful staircase and even a grand piano – oh my god, a grand piano! – it’s homely and grand at the same time. It makes me feel as if we’re entering the home of some very, very rich friends.
‘Wow.’ I say it quietly, not wanting to look like we don’t belong in a place like this, but also needing to say something. ‘I can’t believe this is a hotel.’
Jake smiles. ‘It’s certainly very nice.’
He walks up to the reception desk to check us in while I wander about, looking at the furniture, the lamps and the flower arrangements before sitting on one of the settees. I’m so excited to be here, I upload a quick picture of the reception area to Instagram: #Brighton #thegrandbrighton #livingthedream
‘Right. The room’s ready,’ says Jake, coming over. ‘We can go up to it now. Let’s hope it’s better than the last one.’ He holds out his arm for me to heave myself up. ‘Shall we?’
*
Jake opens the door and stands back for me to enter first. If he hadn’t, I might just have pushed my way past him.
‘Oh my god!’ I say, going straight to the window. There are three huge, floor-to-ceiling windows, through which I see the black of an intricate balcony rail and, beyond that, the irresistible sparkle of sun on the ocean. It’s a cold day, but bright, and I cross the room, absorbing as I do so the tranquillity of the greys and whites, the pale settees, the white coffee tables and the lushness of the pillows and the throw on the bed, but my focus is on one thing only: the ocean. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed it. I pull open the balcony door and step outside, breathing in the damp, slightly fishy smell of it. Seagulls wheel around us, their squawks ripping the air.
‘Wow!’ It’s all I can say. I turn and wait for Jake to catch me up. He slides his arms around me, pressing his warmth against me as we both look out at the sea, the strip of orange beach, the road below us and the pier.
‘How does madam find the view?’ Jake asks.
‘It’s perfect.’
‘It’s not sand, by the way. It’s shingle. I don’t want you to be disappointed when we get down there.’
‘Really?’
‘Sadly so. But it’s not like we’re going to be building sandcastles in this weather, is it?’
> I breathe in deeply, pulling the cold air in through my nose and deep into my lungs, then breathe it out, imagining all the car fumes and city pollution being expelled from my body, and the baby responds with a flurry of cramped kicks. Without saying anything I take Jake’s hand and place it on my belly so he can feel it too, remembering with a gush of shame the feel of Simon’s hand in the same place.
‘Weird,’ says Jake, ‘that this is perhaps the last time we’ll stay in a hotel on our own without having to worry about childcare.’ He pauses. ‘Maybe the last time we stay in a nice hotel at all.’
I tut. ‘I’m sure we’ll do it again.’
‘Once he’s left home maybe.’
‘Harsh,’ I say and Jake laughs. ‘Come on, let’s go in. It’s cold.’
Twenty-four
While we were in Brighton, Jake made it his mission to take me out for fish and chips. Looking back it seems odd, but he was almost obsessed with the idea.
‘I can’t believe you’ve never been “down the chippy”,’ he says in the room that afternoon. He’s standing by the window, looking down at the bustling seafront. We’ve been out for a walk and a bit of lunch but I tire easily and wanted to come back for a rest. I’m on the sofa with my feet up, flicking through the hotel information folder provided in the room. Jake’s made us both tea, which I’m drinking with a packet of very English shortbread fingers.
I put the folder down on my lap and squint into the room – can he be right? ‘I’ve had curry and chips,’ I say. ‘That’s British, isn’t it?’
‘Not the same,’ says Jake.
‘Chips and cheese?’ I say. ‘Chip butty?’
‘Nope. Right. I’m taking you to a greasy chip shop tonight. Nothing beats the real deal. Crispy batter, soggy chips in paper… salt, vinegar… mmm…’
‘Sounds great,’ I say, but then I turn to the restaurants page of the hotel folder and see that The Grand has its own seafood restaurant. I download the menu onto my phone.
‘Darling,’ I say. ‘About the fish and chips. How would you feel about having them at the hotel restaurant? It’s got…’ I swallow the saliva that floods my mouth just reading the words, ‘mussels, prawns, crab, market fish, lobster! A lobster burger! They’ve even got steak. Fillet steak. “Aged Aberdeen Black grain-fed beef which has been personally selected”…’ I laugh. ‘Do you think they interviewed the cows? “Madam, could you please come here? Please walk this way, walk that way, let me see your gait. What is your opinion of Brexit?”’
I Know You Page 13
