In fact, I am so taken with the idea of finding my true self through developing a focussed new life-plan that when I decide to telephone the office on Thursday afternoon to find out whether Habibs have made their offer for Cherry Ditchling, I find I am totally sanguine about a possible no-go. But not for long. (Obviously fooled myself about that.)
‘Davina,’ I tweet. ‘How’s everything going?’
‘Tickety boo,’ she says. ‘Is there something you want?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing important. I just couldn’t bear waiting till Monday to find out.’
‘Find out what?’
(Forget that, in Davina-world, staff commission is less important than colour of tights.)
‘Did they buy it?’
‘Buy what?’
(Ditto.)
‘Cherry Ditchling.’
‘Cherry Ditchling?’
‘The Habibs. Did they make a firm offer?’
‘Oh, them. Yes, they did.’
Yes!
‘For how much?’
‘Four twenty five.’
Excellent!
‘And?’
‘And nothing. The Rutlands-’
‘Pardon? And nothing?’
‘Like I just said. And nothing. The Rutlands said no.’
‘No? They said no? But that’s only five grand off the asking price. Why?’
‘Because it wasn’t enough.’
‘Wasn’t enough! Christ! But that’s absolute rubbish. They knew they’d have to negotiate. Mr Rutland said as much to me only last week. Look, have you rung and discussed it with Mr Habib? The amount that we’re talking here, I’m sure they’d be prepared to meet them halfway or something. They loved the house. They wouldn’t want to lose it for the sake of a few thousand. Should I -’
‘Charlie, I haven’t rung them because there’s no point. The reason Mr Rutland declined their offer is because he had a better one. An offer at the asking price, in fact. from a cash buyer.’
‘What?’
‘So, understandably, he took it.’
‘Oh, God, that is so unfair! I don’t believe it! How long have we been trying to sell that dump? Three years? I can’t believe it. And - oh, God - don’t tell me - it was Metro, wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was Metro. Metro have sold it, haven’t they?’
There is a silence so short that a flea would dwarf it. I hear it anyway.
‘Not at all,’ she purrs. ‘We sold it.’
‘We did?’
‘Hugh did.’
‘Hugh did?’
‘Uh huh.’
Hugh did. Not me. Hugh. ‘So,’ I say finally, ice crystals misting the receiver, ‘Willie JJ are happy. And Hugh’s in the money. And the Habibs can’t exchange as they’ve nowhere to go.’ I laugh, and the mist superfreezes to minus two-seventy Kelvin. ‘Well,’ I add. ‘I must say, I’m really glad I phoned.’
‘You know how things work here, Charlie. You weren’t here, he was. He has his own sales figures to think of.’
Then I think. ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Surely we’d have been better off getting the Habibs to match the cash offer. That way, we’d still get the commission on Cherry Ditchling, but we’d get the commission on their sale as well. This way there’s a chance that we won’t get that sale now. It could be months before they find a new place to buy, and there’s a strong possibility that their buyers might end up looking for somewhere else.’
‘Charlie, you know the score. A bird in the hand and so on. Besides, Hugh’s out valuing a new property right now. An estate up on the hill. Could be perfect for the Habibs.’
‘Then perhaps I’d better see if I can get back for tomorrow, before he has them pens in hand, signing the contract.’
There is a small exhalation.
‘Don’t be churlish,’ she simpers. ‘Enjoy the rest of your break. See you next.’
Bitch.
Bastard.
Low life scum.
Never trust a man with rings in his nipples. And more fool her. That boy is up to no good.
For ten seconds after I put the phone down I stare at it in appalled fascination, as if it, and not reality, was the orchestrator of my misery. My air of nonchalance, I manage to note, has dissolved along with the last traces of snow. Or perhaps not dissolved, but simply been buried alive under the malevolent bile that has risen pheonix-like from the ashes of my happy mood.
The point being, that it isn’t really me that does what I do next.
It’s a long number. Full of noughts and sevens and eights. And I’m still making sure I got it right when he answers.
‘Hello,’ he says.
I say it back.
‘Hello. God! Charlie! Hello!’
And then I’m not sure quite what to say next. ‘Adam, I -’
But he is. Or seems to be. ‘How are you? How’s Rose? Have you -’
‘Um. Fine. She’s fine. She’s, er...fine, and, well, I...Well, I thought...well.....I thought. Well, here I am, anyway. You wanted us to meet up. And, well -’
‘So you changed your mind? I’m very glad, Charlie.’
‘Are you? Are you sure we should do this? I mean, God, Adam, you know, meet like this?’
‘Of course I’m sure, Charlie. Or I wouldn’t have asked you.’
‘I know that, but...well, you have..well, you have things to lose. I can’t help but keep thinking....’
His voice is firm. ‘Then don’t. I suspect you could think yourself out of most things if you put your mind to it. So let’s get on with it before you do exactly that, shall we? Where and when? You say.’
Me say. Oh God. ‘I’m due to leave here tomorrow. I was going to set off early evening but Matt’s due back at eleven, and Rose will... well, anyway, I could leave here in the morning and be in London by lunchtime. Would that be any good?’
‘Fine. Absolutely. So where should we meet? Somewhere around here? I’m just off Portland Place. But what about your car? You don’t want to have to bring that into town, do you?’
Someone (me, I guess) tells him I’ll put it in the car park off Regent Street and we arrange that he’ll meet me, just outside there, at one. Spit spot. All sorted.
‘Charlie,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
My heart goes kerplunk.
‘Is that an underlined thank you?’ I ask him.
‘In bold.’
‘Are you shocked?’ I ask Rose, some minutes later, while still blowing the smoke from my mental revolver.
‘Not in the least,’ she assures me chattily. She pulls her legs up onto the sofa and smiles. In contrast to the beginning of the week, it is a happy, fulsome smile. The smile of a woman at peace with her career choice, at ease with her love life, and at one with her yin and her yang and so forth. And with a whole term’s sick leave, to boot.
I blink. ‘You’re not? I am.’ Indeed, I am as shocked as it’s possible to be. Life seems one big round of unexpected behavioural tics just now.
‘No, I’m not,’ she re-iterates. ‘Mainly because you already told me you have Adam’s mobile phone number in your handbag. You don’t make a point of carrying around the phone number of someone you don’t ever intend ringing. You particularly don’t carry it around if the agenda for the rest of your life is to make strenuous efforts not to communicate with the person in question ever again.’
‘I said that?’
‘More than once.’
‘I did believe it.’
‘No you didn’t.’ She puts her Hello! down and takes off her reading glasses. ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,’ she says. ‘Don’t kid yourself about this. You’ve spent most of the week looking for an excuse to ring him. Now you’ve got one, so you’ve rung him. Seems pretty straightforward to me.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yes it is. So stop beating yourself up about it.’
I sit down on the floor beside her, pull my legs up and cradle my knees in my arms. I’m conscious that even if Rose is having none of it, I seem to be creeping ever closer
towards the tragic-heroine persona I’ve sketched out for myself.
‘But what a crap reason for ringing him!’ I wail. ‘What a crap reason for seeing him. “Oh, hi, Adam! Just thought I’d call to say I’ve decided I will meet you after all, not because I think I should but because your wife is a bitch and I want to get even.” Great.’
‘But that’s not the reason, is it? That’s my whole point. You’re desperate to see him. In fact you make desperation look like a laissez-faire option, quite honestly. You just needed something like this to happen so you wouldn’t feel so bad about yourself.’
‘So why do I feel bad, then?’
‘Because you’ve convinced yourself otherwise. You’ve convinced yourself that you have to like Davina; that, as she’s the wronged woman - though she isn’t, not so far, remember - you have to feel some sort of benevolence towards her. Do the right thing by her. Make some sort of grand gesture of denial. Which is rubbish! You’re not a saint. So you don’t have to set yourself up as a martyr. And you never got on with her before, so why should you get on with her now? Plus she’s made it pretty clear where her loyalties are, work wise. You have every right to dislike her. And that Hugh. He sounds like a real piece of work.’
‘I wish I could fathom what’s going on there. Things are happening, but I just can’t figure out what. Hey! You don’t think Hugh and Davina -’
‘No I don’t think, quite frankly. Far too convenient. Just more wishful thinking on your part, Charlie girl.’
‘No, you’re right about that. But then again, there is Austin Metro -’
‘Oh, come on, Charlie. Who cares? Who gives a stuff about any of them? You phoned Adam. You did it. That’s what’s important. That you’re going to go and meet him.’
‘Christ,’ I say. ‘My stomach’s churning like you wouldn’t believe.’
Rose grins broadly. ‘Ha. Tell me about it,’ she says.
Like most momentous, life changing comments, this one, at first, goes straight over my head. Until much later, that is. It’s a little before eleven and I am packed, plucked, waxed and polished. I feel like a little girl who’s due to leave for holiday in the small hours. The excitement is palpable, but tinged with anxiety. Rose sips her wine and looks on benignly as I paint my nails purple.
‘Chose the dress then,’ she observes, noting the shade. ‘Expecting an unseasonal heatwave?’
‘It was either that or my hairy green trousers,’ I tell her. Even talking about it sends my gut into freefall. And suddenly, another thought comes crashing down to join it. ‘Tell me,’ I ask, ‘you know earlier, when I said about my stomach churning?’
She nods.
‘Well, you said “tell me about it!”. In a very pointed way. Not as in ‘tell me what it feels like’. As in ‘I know what it feels like.’ It just came back to me. What did you mean exactly?’
Rose gazes into her wine for a full thirty seconds. Then narrows her eyes. Ah.
‘Nothing,’ she says.
‘Liar.’
She smiles. ‘I knew it.’
‘Knew what?’
‘That you’d notice.’
‘So I’m right, then!’
Her expression changes. ‘This must never -’’
I tut. ‘Oh, for God’s sake! As if!’
‘I know. I’m sorry. But you know what it’s like. I’ve never told a soul. Anyway. Yes. You’re right. Been there, done that. Etcetera.’
Been where? Done what? Wow.
‘Wow!’ I say, wide eyed. ‘You what?’
‘Have been there and done that.’ She drains her glass.
‘When?’
‘Oh, a long time ago now. Ellen must have been two when it started.’
This is too much to take in. ‘For how long? What happened? God, I would never have thought! I thought you and Matt - well, you know. Wow. This never occurred to me.’
I finish my wine too and reach for the bottle. Rose holds her glass out and says,
‘Oh, it went on for over two and a half years. A lifetime at the time. Now I look back and it seems such a short chunk of my life. But it was very intense. I think I lived more life in that time that I ever did before or since.’
‘But what happened? Who was he? How did it all start - did you end it or did he? Do you still -’
I take hold of my last sentence and retrieve its tail end. ‘Do you really want to talk about this? Honestly, Rose? I mean, if you don’t -’
She smiles. ‘Funny. I never envisaged actually talking about it with anyone. Ever. Particularly you, the way you’ve been prattling on about morality all week.’ She grins at me. ‘Mrs holier than thou. Mrs righteousness-personified. But, yes. I do. Though there isn’t actually that much to tell. I fell in love, had an affair, fell out of love - well, not out of love exactly, but out of the idea of that sort of love. Mainly out of love with myself, I suppose. The pull of everything else; Matt, the children, the awful, awful consequences of what I was contemplating - it did the trick, I can tell you.’
‘But how did it happen in the first place? I thought you and Matt were like that.’ I hold my thumb and forefinger together. She nods.
‘We are. We are now. We weren’t always. After Ellie was born we went through a really bad patch. Actually, I’m exaggerating. It wasn’t so much a bad patch as just a dreary patch. Sex was hopeless - well, boring, infrequent. Matt was stressed about work, I hated being at home. I was climbing the walls. We didn’t row much - we just couldn’t be bothered with each other. Looking back, I guess if either one of us had been more motivated to do something about it, our marital doldrums wouldn’t have lasted nearly so long. But the truth was that it was simply easier not to communicate. We didn’t have the energy. And then I met him, and what energy I did have was well and truly channelled elsewhere.’
I wonder how many calories are melting away for me. ‘And I suppose you suddenly found plenty. But how did it start?’
‘With a blazing row on a windy day outside Tesco. I’d put Ellie into her car seat and thought I’d shut the door, but she kicked it and it flew open and made a three inch dent in his Volvo.’ She laughs. ‘He started banging on about people with kids having some consideration and being more careful, and I just blew my top and told him he could shove his Volvo up his arse. I was also very specific about where he could shove his crappy side impact protection system as I recall.’
‘Very romantic.’
‘Exactly. Which is why, I suppose, it caught us both off guard. One minute I was screaming at him and the next I was in floods of tears and railing against life, the universe and everything. And of course he was completely mortified. When I went round to his place to give him some money for the repairs, he wouldn’t hear of it. And he asked me in for a coffee and said he’d been worried about me, and, well, wham! Bingo! I simply couldn’t stop thinking about him. And then we seemed to find ourselves meeting almost every day. He worked nights then, of course, which made it all the more likely. If I went to the shops he was there. Walked into the bank, he was there. Went to put petrol in the car, he was there. It took a couple of months - no more - before we took things that step further. I can’t even remember now, how it happened exactly. But it did. We had sex. Just like that. In the Volvo. Fully clothed, as I recall. We were like animals. I tell you, Charlie, I never had sex like it. Haven’t since, for that matter.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Oh, don’t fret,’ she says, flapping a dismissive hand. ‘Everything’s just fine, really. You can’t hope to maintain that level of excitement for a lifetime. Not even for a year. Not with anyone, can you? If I’d left Matt and the kids, it would have been no different. Worse, probably - guilt has a way of sapping your lifeblood.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.’
‘So what happened?’
She reaches out her hand to put her wine glass on the coffee table and as she does so the stone in her engagement ring sparkles. She follows
my eyes and smiles reassuringly.
‘Oh, it was quite something, Charlie. We managed to spend the best part of three years living in cloud cuckoo land; God knows how I kept things going at home. But you can, you know. Once you lose that connection as a couple, it’s all too easy. You just exist on another level. It happens all the time. And I was completely obsessed. I didn’t think about the future. It was like getting my next fix. Looking back, I can hardly believe myself, really. One minute dropping Ellen off at playgroup and chatting with the other mums about shopping and clothes, and next minute we’d be off in the car somewhere, and going at it like rutting stags. God, sometimes I’d go down to pick her up at twelve with my bra and knickers shoved in my handbag!’
‘Cripes!’ I cradle my wine in my hand and try to imagine jolly, down-to-earth, sensible Rose in the grip of an unbridled passion. And can’t. ‘Cripes!’ I say again. ‘But how did you feel about him? I mean with Adam, it isn’t really about sex - No, that’s stupid. It is partly. Of course it is. But it’s not just about sex. It’s much more about having that sense that we could be so - oh, listen to me. Now I’m beginning to sound like a Jane Austen heroine.’
‘Which is exactly how I felt, so don’t worry. I loved him, Charlie. I really loved him. But there was never a moment when I didn’t love Matt, too. Except that at the time, it felt more like compassion than love. Just a deep seated belief that there was always something there that we could rekindle. And that he couldn’t really be the father of my children and me not love him. Which is silly, isn’t it? But made me realise there must still be something in our marriage worth hanging on to.’
Virtual Strangers Page 19
