She didn’t find the red tape at the prison intimidating this time. She dazzled the guards with her radiant smile and they looked at her slightly askance, not used to visitors being friendly. She could hardly wait, jiggling with impatience in the queue as they waited for the door to the visiting room to be unlocked.
Ed looked even more gaunt than he had last time. His face was set hard; his eyes like granite. As she walked towards him, Charlotte thought how she would feed him up when he got out, and take him for lots of walks - he would love the freedom of the moors, the wildness of the coast. He would soon lose his prison pallor.
‘Hi,’ she said, sitting down with a smile.
He nodded curtly in reply.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s the occasion? What’s so important? You brought divorce papers for me to sign or something?’ His voice had an edge. He was putting on an act, playing the tough guy to prove he didn’t care.
‘No,’ she told him. ‘The exact opposite.’
He scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, Ed,’ she sighed. ‘I know it’s taken me ages to get my head round it. And I’m really sorry. But I’ve finally managed . . . to understand what you did. And why you did it.’ She leaned in as close to him as the rules allowed. ‘I’m not saying it was right. I’ll never say that. But . . . it doesn’t matter. Not any more. It’s history. So what I’ve come here to say is . . . let’s start again.’
His face remained deadpan.
‘You what?’ he said. ‘You mean . . . us?’
‘Well, of course us. It’s not going to be easy, I know. You’re going to be in here for a while, for a start—’
To her total consternation, he started to laugh. Not a laugh of joy and relief, a nasty, bitter, mirthless sound.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘It would be funny, if it wasn’t so fucking tragic.’
His eyes bored into her mercilessly. She swallowed nervously. This wasn’t quite the reaction she had expected.
‘I know you’re probably angry with me for taking so long to see the light. I can understand that. But we can work through it. Talk about it.’
‘Don’t give me that bloody counselling shit.’
Charlotte put up her hands.
‘OK, OK. It’s going to take time—’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘Oh.’ She managed a smile. ‘Good.’
‘It’s not going to take any time at all. Because it’s not going to happen.’
Charlotte put her face in her hands and breathed in for a moment. She realised she had been hopelessly optimistic, thinking she could just waltz in here and forgive him magnanimously. He’d had all the time in the world to brood on how she had treated him, after all, and he was bound to be harbouring some resentment. No doubt the other inmates had poisoned him; they were bound to swap stories, and they had probably vilified her to make him feel better.
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just swanned in and expected it all to be hunky-dory. The thing is, I can’t imagine what you’ve been through over the past few months.’
‘No. You can’t.’
‘It hasn’t been easy for me either.’ Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure she should be grovelling quite so much. ‘But I think we should try our best to put the past behind us and look to the future.’
Ed nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s what you think, is it?’
‘Not that we should forget what’s happened. That wouldn’t be healthy.’
Another bark of mirthless laughter.
‘Have you been to a shrink or something?’
‘No. It’s common sense.’
‘Right. Well. Delightful though your proposition is, I’m afraid it’s not going to work out.’
He looked away for a moment. When he looked back, the expression in his eyes had changed. There was something like pity lurking in there. And . . . guilt? And a bit of defiance. It made Charlotte uncomfortable.
‘Why not?’ she demanded. ‘We can make it work, if we want to.’
‘Charlotte . . . I might as well tell you. There’s someone else.’
For a moment, you could have heard a pin drop.
‘Someone else?’ Charlotte stammered. She hadn’t expected this.
‘Well, who? You can’t have met someone in here.’ She looked wildly round. Surely he hadn’t turned gay. Though she supposed it could happen.
‘It’s not someone I met in here. It’s someone I knew before.’
She could see he was struggling with his confession. She felt a tightness in her chest, a sense of impending doom.
‘Just tell me.’
He looked down at the table.
‘It’s Melanie.’
Charlotte’s mouth went dry.
‘Melanie?’ she whispered.
Melanie. The podgy little pop-eyed assistant who had followed him around like a lap dog. She had always fawned over Ed, hung on his every word. He couldn’t be serious about her. She’d probably been sending him sickly sweet letters on pink notepaper written with a scented gel pen. Adorned with stickers and signed with hearts and kisses. Charlotte cast her mind back to the last time she had seen her. It was at the ball. Melanie had worn white. White to defy Charlotte. White to draw attention to herself.
Charlotte remembered Melanie and Ed in the doorway, talking urgently. She had felt at the time she had been fobbed off, that there had been more to their conversation than Ed was admitting to, that they were colluding in some way. But she had been so preoccupied with the ball she hadn’t given it a second thought. Now it made perfect sense. Melanie adored Ed. She’d been after him from the beginning. She would have got her claws into him as soon as she could. Well, she could bloody well take them out again. Melanie wasn’t a threat. She was no contest.
Charlotte gathered up all her strength.
‘You’ll just have to let her down gently. Tell her it’s over.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Ed, for heaven’s sake. She’s just your assistant. I’m your wife!’ She could hear her voice rising in panic. A few people looked round, wondering what the problem was. She put her head down, embarrassed, and put her hands up to mask her face.
Ed didn’t flinch. He leaned forward, speaking low. ‘It’s a pity you didn’t remember that six months ago. Or think it was important.’
Charlotte glanced at the clock, thinking fast. She didn’t know how she was going to talk him round in the few minutes they had left. She’d have to arrange to come again.
‘I’m sure Melanie’s been very supportive,’ she ventured. ‘But—’
‘Listen to me, Charlotte.’ Ed looked straight into her eyes. ‘Melanie has been amazing. She didn’t judge me, not for one second. All the time following my arrest, she was there for me. While I was awaiting trial, she stood by me. She comforted me, encouraged me, looked after me. In my darkest hours, when I felt like jumping out of the window, she talked me out of it. She was there in court for me. She’s been to visit me every week. She writes to me, sends me presents. She records my favourite shows for me for when I get out. Little things. But when you’re stuck in here, little things matter.’
Charlotte opened her mouth to try to speak, but Ed put up his hand to stop her. As he finished his speech, Charlotte realised he was fighting back tears.
‘Basically, Charlotte, Melanie taught me that life without you was worth living.’
Charlotte felt a horrible falling sensation, as her future slipped out of her grasp.
‘But . . . you can’t give up on us. Not without giving it a chance.’
‘You didn’t give me a chance, Charlotte. You made me feel like shit. You made me feel like I wasn’t fit to walk this earth.’
‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry! And, Ed - you’ve got to remember you did a terrible thing—’
‘You see? You still can’t let it drop.’
‘I can’t believe this. You’re giving up on us for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please, Ed. At le
ast let’s talk about it again. I’ve got such great plans. Amazing ideas. I’ve found us a place to live. You’ll really love it.’
‘Enough!’
He slapped his hand down on the table. Startled, Charlotte stopped in mid-flow.
‘I’m not giving up Melanie. Not now. For one very simple reason.’
‘What?’
He paused. Swallowed. Looked at her uncertainly.
‘She’s pregnant.’ There was a long pause. ‘I’m sorry.’
Charlotte sat very, very still.
Around her, the noise of the prison receded. All she could hear was the pounding of blood in her head, and the sound of Ed’s words.
Melanie. Melanie was having Ed’s baby.
She felt her heart crack. For in that moment, not only did she realise that Ed had betrayed her beyond forgiveness, but that their unxplained infertility was down to her. That he could now go and procreate as many times as he wished but that she, short of a miracle, never would.
If he had wanted to destroy her, annihilate her, tear out her heart and stamp on it, he couldn’t have found a better way.
She could forgive infidelity.
But she couldn’t forgive him for taking away her hope.
She didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not here, in front of all the other inmates. She didn’t want them speculating as to why she was weeping. No doubt they would have worked it out for themselves. She imagined Melanie coming to visit, her bump more than apparent. She’d be one of those women who thrust themselves into maternity frocks when they were just two days late. She could picture her in a Laura Ashley dress with a Peter Pan collar.
‘Well,’ she said sadly. ‘I guess that’s it, then.’
‘This isn’t how I wanted it,’ said Ed.
‘Don’t worry about it. Looks like it’s my fault, not yours,’ replied Charlotte, with an uncharacteristic bitterness.
And it was her fault. If she’d been able to get pregnant in the first place, none of this would have happened. They’d still be in their house in Parsons Green, with a fat little baby lying on a rug on the floor, and maybe another one on the way.
Ed looked anguished. ‘It wasn’t your fault. Don’t think that.’
Suddenly he looked like his old self again. Gone was the hard-nut jailbird image. He must have put that on as an act to protect himself, and to distance himself from her.
Charlotte got to her feet. She couldn’t cope with pity at this juncture.
‘I suppose you’ll want to marry her. I’ll get things started.’
‘I haven’t asked her to marry me.’
‘Well, you should. It’s only fair on the baby.’
They looked at each other. They were husband and wife, yet they were miles apart. How the hell had it come to this, wondered Charlotte, when they had once loved each other so much? It just wasn’t fair. Would it have been too much to ask, for her to have got pregnant? Just the bloody once?
‘I better go,’ she said, before she started crying.
Ed gave the bleakest, most fleeting of smiles.
She hurried out. As she collected her bag from one of the prison officers, he gave her a friendly smile.
‘Cheer up, love,’ he said. ‘It might never happen.’
That was, Charlotte thought, just the problem. It hadn’t.
Eighteen
The Wolseley was packed, even at quarter past seven in the morning, filled with people, beautiful people, who clearly had very important business with each other indeed. With its grand pillars, arches and stairways, it wasn’t the place for mere tittle-tattle, but somewhere to broker life-changing deals and cement strategic relationships. Catkin toyed with her pancakes and maple syrup. The excitement in her stomach had taken the edge right off her appetite.
Martin Galt sat in front of her with a plate of eggs Benedict. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying, but she wasn’t really interested in the detail. All she cared about was the fact he’d called her, told her he loved her proposal, and that the broadcasters were interested in an initial six-episode run, subject to pilot.
‘I want to shoot it as soon as possible. So if you can fax my office your availability, we can get going. I’ll start work on a script, get the researchers moving.’
Catkin couldn’t believe it. After the hideous fracas of the exhibition, she had been thoroughly shaken. It had knocked the stuffing out of her. The public humiliation had been almost more than she could bear. She had felt like running away. She didn’t want to face the outside world, especially the one she moved in, that was so judgemental, so happy to believe anything bad when it happened, so filled with Schadenfreude. But she’d pulled herself up by her boot straps. She reminded herself that she was in control of her own destiny. If she wanted to sink into a mire of self-pity, then she could, but if she wanted to succeed, she needed to take positive action. People would be waiting for her to fail, and so she had to prove them wrong. She’d taken the bull by the horns, swallowed her pride and couriered her proposal round to Martin. No one got anywhere by moping. You had to make things happen. And she had.
Her own show! She still couldn’t believe it. Of course, there were plenty more hoops to jump through before they got the green light, but she’d jumped through the biggest: getting a big-name producer to take her seriously. He was sitting right in front of her, talking contracts, schedules, transmission dates. She remained coolly professional, as she had trained herself to do. But inside, she was jumping up and down with glee.
By eight o’clock they’d shaken hands on a deal, finished their breakfast and were both on their way to their places of work. It had been that simple. Catkin felt as if she was walking on air as she made her way along Piccadilly looking for a cab.
Half an hour later, as she walked into her dressing room, the smell of orchids hit her. Someone had put them in a vase. Without even stopping to read the card nestling among the blooms, she pulled the bouquet out and shoved it in the bin. Then she sat down in front of the mirror and surveyed her reflection.
Perhaps a change of image? Perhaps a totally new look, to show this was the new Catkin. The woman who had moved on. The woman who was going to be the next big thing. She looked at her profile, wondering about changing her bob to a crop.
No, she decided. The bob was her brand, her look, her trade mark. She’d keep it. She was perfect as she was.
Sebastian was at his wit’s end. He had tried everything he could think of. Lavish bouquets of white orchids sent to her dressing room. Texts, emails, letters, all unanswered. A tiny heart-shaped gold locket, with a photo of each of them inside, which came winging its way back by courier the next day, unopened.
Every morning he watched Catkin on the television. He felt like a stalker as he scanned her face for signs of misery. But there was none. She looked as radiant as ever. Of course, she would have spent a good hour in hair and make-up before going on, so any dark circles or worry lines would have been smoothed out. But she didn’t seem to have missed a beat. She came across as on top of her game. Not a woman who was pining for her husband in the least.
The only thing he hadn’t dared do was approach her in person. He didn’t think he could face the humiliation of an outright rejection. He didn’t want to see the look of contempt in her eyes.
He lay back on his bed. He had barely moved from it for days. He’d been living off pasta and grated cheese. Stacey would have a fit if she could see the place, thick with dust, curtains unopened, clothes littering the floor. He’d regressed to his student days. Three empty bottles of Grey Goose were lined up on the floor. He’d been sipping at it gradually, just so he had a permanent level of anaesthesia, not total oblivion. He had to be on the ball in case she ever did call, or come back.
The television was blaring out the theme music for Hello, England. The bland, moon-shaped face of the presenter came on, beaming cheerfully.
‘Coming up in the next half-hour, Catkin Turner is with us, providing her usual common-sense solutions to yo
ur problems. If you have a problem and you think Catkin might be able to help, call us right now on this number . . .’
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