Hi, you, hope all OK?? Am home so ring me when you get this. I miss you X
I switched the light off and lay my mobile on my pillow on vibrate mode, so I’d know when he replied. If he replied. If he hadn’t been savaged to death by Bovril or something. I fell asleep and dreamed that a Labrador with big teeth was chasing me.
I woke in the middle of the night and checked my phone. And felt a wave of relief when I saw a WhatsApp from him.
Am so sorry, my darling. Don’t want to ring and wake you, but just a difficult weekend at home. Can I sweep you out for dinner tomorrow night?
It was followed by three little emoji faces with hearts for eyes. Ha, I thought, he felt guilty. Good. I drifted back to sleep, my dreams troubled no further by Labradors.
15
AT WORK THE NEXT day I still felt a bit unsettled, and tired, unable to concentrate on anything more taxing than a piece about Britain’s fattest cat on MailOnline.
Peregrine interrupted my thoughts. ‘Polly,’ he barked from his office, ‘I want you to write a piece about how whippets are the new black.’
‘What?’ I got up and stuck my head around his office door.
‘I was with the Wolverhamptons on Saturday and they’ve just got a new whippet. So, I thought it would make a good story. The hottest dog breed right now. Eight hundred words by teatime. All right?’
I wasn’t feeling strong enough to argue. ‘Sure. Will do.’
I sat back down at my computer. By this time next year, I thought, as I opened a new Word document, I would no longer be writing about dogs. I probably wouldn’t be writing about Syria or the Gaza Strip either, but I would have a new job. Surely there was a middle ground between dogs and the Middle East, journalistically speaking? Travel pieces, perhaps. I definitely wanted to travel more. Where did I want to go? I opened a map on my computer and scrutinized it. Burma? Colombia? Sri Lanka? Perhaps I could be one of those intrepid journalists who went abroad with a small rucksack for several weeks and sent stories back about their adventures with criminal outlaws and remote tribes. I wondered what Jasper would think if I said I was off to hang out with a drug cartel in Colombia for few weeks. Then I closed the map and typed ‘whippet type of dog’ into Google.
Lala arrived a few hours later, bringing with her the fragrant aroma of cigarettes.
‘Pols, how was it?’ she asked.
‘How was what?’
‘The hen obviously.’
‘Oh yes, sorry.’ I sat back in my seat. ‘It was good, I think. The usual. Tears, bickering, willy straws, 593 bottles of rosé, drawing a naked man. How was yours?’
‘My what?’
‘Weekend.’
‘Oh, it was all right. I went on a yoga retreat.’
‘What?’ I sat back in my chair and looked at her again. Lala on a yoga retreat seemed about as likely as the Dalai Lama taking pills and getting smashed at a rave.
‘Yeah,’ she carried on, signing into her computer. ‘I just needed a weekend of chilling out, of being Zen. Dogging and that sort of thing.’
‘Downward dogging?’
‘That’s what I mean. Anyway, any word from himself this morning?’ Lala inclined her head towards Peregrine’s office.
‘Yes, he’s got me writing a piece about whippets.’
‘The ice cream?’
‘That’s Mr Whippy. The dog, I mean, the thin breed of dog. They’re in apparently.’
‘In where?’
I sighed. ‘Do you need a coffee, La?’
‘YES,’ she said emphatically. ‘And then I’ve got to finish off all the things I said I would on Friday and obviously didn’t. Do you want a coffee too?’
‘Yes please. Strong one.’
Lala nodded and, having done not a second’s work yet that morning, wandered off to get us both coffees.
She came back forty-five minutes later without any coffee.
Bill emailed me later that day.
How was the hen? I bought Willow a Scottie dog, we went to see it yesterday. She’s called Crumpet. The dog I mean, not Willow. Obviously. So, my life is ruined. Thanks for all your help. X
Buying a dog with someone basically meant you were going to marry them, didn’t it? Which means Bill was going to marry Willow. The thought depressed me. Yet another ring to coo over, as if having a diamond on your finger was the pinnacle of human achievement. Yet another wedding list to scroll through (let me think, the hand towels or the glass vase?). Yet another friend paired off. I turned back to my research on whippets.
Jasper was already upstairs at the bar of The Electric when I arrived that evening. ‘There she is,’ he said, standing up and holding his arms out.
‘Hi, you,’ I said, kissing him.
‘I missed you,’ he said, pulling a bar stool out for me.
‘Missed you back. And I want to hear about your weekend.’
‘Oh that,’ he said, waving his hand in the air. ‘No big deal.’ He reached for the ice bucket beside him and pulled out a bottle of champagne. ‘Anyway, I thought we should relax with this.’
He poured me a glass as I frowned at him.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ I replied, and then after a pause, ‘Well, something.’
‘OK,’ he said slowly. ‘What is it?’
‘You were just… well, it’s a bit embarrassing to say out loud like a 3-year-old. You were just a bit quiet all weekend.’
He ran a hand through his hair and laughed. ‘That’s why you’re looking at me like you are now? All pouty and sweetly cross?’
‘Don’t laugh at me. I was just… a bit… I don’t know. Sad maybe. And worried.’
He laughed again and leant forward, taking my hands in his. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. It was just home. Just fucking home. My father shouting at my mother, who didn’t come home on Saturday night. So, he sat up drinking all night and I had to talk to Vi and make sure she was all right and… it was a bloody awful weekend, if I’m honest.’
‘Oh.’ I felt silly. And sorry for him. ‘I’m sorry. Was it really bad?’
‘As bad as I’ve seen it. Dad threatening divorce. Mum saying he never would because he didn’t even have the guts to do that. Vi in tears in her room. Ian opening bottle after bottle of wine for my father. Not great.’ He stopped. ‘But I’m sorry for worrying you. I’m sorry for being selfish. I suppose…’ He stopped.
‘What?’ I said.
‘I suppose… the thing is… I’m still getting used to being in a relationship. As you know, I haven’t ever been very good at them. But I want to be good at them. You make me want to be good at this.’
My eyes welled up at this so I quickly blinked and shook my head at him. ‘No, no. The last thing you need is to worry about me.’
‘I was just a bit out of it. Anyway…’ He picked up his glass again. ‘Here’s to… us. Thank you for putting up with me. I don’t deserve you.’
‘OK,’ I said, raising my glass to his. ‘And no more sorrys. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘Yes, I want you to tell me all about your weekend. Apart from the bit about any naked men. I don’t want to hear anything about them.’
‘There weren’t any. Well, not totally true. There was Gavin from Norwich. But none apart from that.’
‘Gavin is a frightful name,’ said Jasper, picking up a menu. ‘Now, my darling, what are we going to eat?’ He looked across his menu at me. ‘Apart from you later, obviously.’
‘Oh. We’re in that sort of mood, are we?’
‘Yes. I am incredibly hungry,’ he said, leaning in to kiss me again.
‘No time for pudding,’ Jasper said, a couple of hours and a bottle of red wine later. ‘I want to take you home.’
‘Your home or my home?’
‘Either.’ He shrugged, gesturing across The Electric at the waitress for the bill. ‘I just need to nip to the bathroom, you’re in charge.’ He threw his wallet across the table at me. ‘Use the silver card, 4721.’
�
�OK, cool,’ I said, catching the wallet. ‘I can run away and steal all your money.’
‘I would chase you,’ he said, leaning down to kiss me. ‘And then I would spank you very, very hard.’
The waitress put the bill down and said she’d be back with the machine, so I opened his wallet. Not his gold American Express card. Not his gold Visa card. Not his dark blue Coutts card. He had more cards than a stationer’s in there. I retrieved the silver card sandwiched between several fifty pound notes and a receipt and ran my finger across his name on it – JRT Milton. Jasper Ralph Thomas. Montgomery men always had to have Ralph as a middle name, he’d told me. So presumably if we had a son he would have the same… STOP it, Polly. I looked at the bill.
It was £144. Madly expensive for a quiet Monday night supper but Jasper was the one who’d bought a bottle of champagne, I told myself, handing the waitress the silver card. I absentmindedly opened the receipt from his wallet as the waitress tapped at the machine. Blimey. I didn’t have to feel bad about dinner because this was even more expensive. It was a hotel bill for £850.
And then, and I still don’t know why I did this, what impulse made me do this, but I checked the date. It was from this weekend. A hotel in the Cotswolds called The Olde Bell. But. Weird. He’d been at home this weekend. So why did he have a receipt from a hotel in the Cotswolds in his wallet? My mind seemed to slow as I stared at the receipt. The bill was for two nights, two dinners and… five bottles of champagne. Plus a packet of Marlboro Lights. This weekend. I triple-checked the date. When he said he’d been at home, when he’d literally just told me he’d been at home trying to sort out his dysfunctional family. When he’d been oddly quiet all weekend.
My head felt foggy.
‘Sorry, madam, your PIN?’ said a voice at my shoulder. I reached for the machine. But I couldn’t remember what his PIN was.
‘All settled?’ said Jasper, appearing at the table again.
‘I can’t remember the PIN,’ I said woodenly, handing him the machine.
‘Polly, darling,’ he said, taking the machine and smiling at the waitress. ‘I don’t know. I tell you four little numbers and you forget in a matter of seconds. Here you go.’ He handed it back to the waitress. ‘And thank you very much, that was delicious.’
‘No problem. See you again soon.’
‘I hope so,’ said Jasper, reaching across the table for his jacket. ‘Right you, let’s go home immediately.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ I said, frozen in my seat.
‘What? What’s happened? I was only joking about the PIN.’
‘No, it’s not that,’ I said, fingering the receipt in my lap. ‘It’s just… Where were you this weekend?’
‘Oh, Pols. Come on. Can we not talk about my weekend again? Putting up with my decrepit father bellowing at my mad mother. I told you. Come on, let’s go home.’
‘Hang on,’ I said, placing the receipt on the table in front of him and smoothing it out with the side of my hand. ‘Talk me through this.’
He reached down, picked it up and frowned at it.
‘Presumably you know what it says on it,’ I went on, ‘because you were there this weekend. Drinking champagne. A lot of champagne. Like some sort of… some sort of… rapper in a music video.’
‘Ah,’ Jasper said, looking down at the receipt. He paused, then moved to crouch down beside me and sighed. ‘OK, OK, OK. I wasn’t at home. I was in Burford. At a hotel. But the reason I was there, which I couldn’t tell you before, is that Barny called me and he needed me to go and look after him. He and Willy are getting a divorce.’
‘What?’
‘The whole thing’s a bloody mess,’ he said, still crouching beside me. ‘She caught him cheating on her.’
‘With whom?’ The thought that Barny could persuade not one but two women to sleep with him was genuinely astounding.
‘Shh,’ he said, glancing over his shoulder. ‘Some woman he met in London. She went through his phone.’
‘But why didn’t you just tell me?’ I was close to tears. I couldn’t cry in The Electric.
‘Budge up,’ he said, standing up and sitting beside me. He took my hands in his. ‘I promised him. And I didn’t want to lie to you. So I thought the simplest thing was to get him drunk all weekend. And then I’d tell you in due course.’
A tear rolled down my cheek. I was now crying in The Electric. I was one of those women you see crying in public and feel sorry for.
Jasper wiped a tear away with a thumb and took my face in his hands. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for not telling you. I’m sorry for being evasive. But he’s one of my oldest friends and… and…’ He stopped. ‘Well, he needed me not to tell anyone.’
More tears rolled down my face.
‘Come here.’ He pulled my chin towards his face and kissed me, the salt of the tears mingling between our lips. ‘Now, let’s go home. Your home.’
I sniffed and picked my coat up. I felt relieved but still uncertain and confused all at the same time. And I had more questions but I felt afraid to ask them. We caught a black cab home but didn’t even make it to my bedroom. Instead, he sat down on the sofa while I stood in front of him, then he reached his hands underneath my skirt and rolled my knickers down my legs, pulled me on top of him and we rocked together until we both came, my arms around his neck, Jasper biting into my shoulder. I felt a bit bad about doing this on Joe’s sofa, but not that bad.
It was the next day that it all changed, although it started like any other in the office. Coffee, 430-calorie muffin when I told myself I was going to have a 200-calorie porridge, faff about on the internet for half an hour and try to think of a joke to post on Twitter, wonder where Lala is. I checked my phone. Nope. No message from her. Presumably her alarm hadn’t gone off or she had a sore ear lobe or something.
A summons floated out from Peregrine’s office: ‘Polly, can you step inside my office for a moment?’
I shut down Twitter, wiped crumbs from around my mouth and went in. ‘What’s up?’
Peregrine looked up from his computer. ‘Ah, Polly, morning.’ He sounded oddly formal.
‘What is it?’ I said, feeling nervous. Had we got into some sort of legal trouble? Had my piece about the most handsome gynaecologist in Britain caused a letter from his lawyer?
Peregrine opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. ‘Well, the thing is, I mean…’
Oh, shit. I envisaged Posh! being sued by a strong-jawed gynaecologist in a white coat. I’d be out of a job. Although at least it would force me to finally look for another one.
‘What I’m trying to say,’ he went on, ‘is that I’ve been sent some pictures. Some paparazzi pictures. From the weekend, apparently. And, well…’ He stopped.
‘What?’ I said. ‘What are they?’
Peregrine turned his computer screen to face me and I leaned in towards it.
They had been taken in the dark and clearly from some distance, so it was quite hard to make them out. There was a figure, a tall man, and a woman with brunette hair in some sort of clinch outside a country pub. And the thing is, I don’t know if you’ve ever discovered that someone you’re in love with has been cheating on you. It only takes seconds to work it out when you find something – a pair of foreign knickers at the end of your bed, a text message that you ‘accidentally’ find on their phone, a grainy photograph of them kissing someone else – but everything slows down in those early seconds. Or stops, even. You can’t compute it. It’s like your brain is going on strike.
Me: He wouldn’t do this to me. He couldn’t.
My brain: This is fairly conclusive evidence.
Me: But I was with him just last night. He told me he loved me when I left this morning. His sperm was actually still inside me. Some of it’s probably still inside me now.
Brain: I know. Brutal. But you did know he was trouble. You knew that from the very start. You just forgot.
Me: Yes, but how could he do this? How could he phy
sically actually do this? When he said he loved me?
Brain: He’s a bastard.
Me: No, he’s not, I love him.
Brain: Even though he’s kissing someone else? That’s quite a kiss, by the looks of things.
Me: Yes. No. I don’t know. Fuck off.
It sort of went a bit like that in my head. It was Jasper in the photos, no doubt. It was his hair and his tweed coat. But who was the woman? I leant in closer. Oh my God! I suddenly realized. Of course it was. It was Celestia from the photo shoot. Five-hundred-avocados-Celestia-Smythe, who wasn’t Honourable at all, it turned out. Jasper had been away with Celestia this weekend. In Burford. Drinking all that champagne.
I stood up and felt dizzy.
Peregrine cleared his throat. ‘So I’ve said we’re not interested in the pictures.’
I stayed quiet.
‘And, er, would you like to take the rest of the day off?’
I remained quiet.
‘The thing is, that family, you know. Barking, I always thought…’ He tailed off. ‘Right, well, I’m just going to nip out for a second,’ he added. ‘You stay here for as long as you like.’ He glanced up at his clock. ‘Although I have got a meeting in an hour or so, but that can always be moved.’
Peregrine disappeared and I stood staring down at his computer screen. Then tears started rolling down my face. Of course. Of course this was going to happen. Of course I was never going to marry him. Of course there wasn’t going to be a happy ending. There was never going to be a happy ending. I thought about Lala’s warnings. I thought about Bill’s warnings. I thought of Barny’s snideness about Jasper’s girlfriends and felt great waves of sadness fight with sheer disbelief inside my chest.
I had competing voices in my head. If I was really, truly, honest, hadn’t I always felt like a fling for him? He was always going to end up with someone glossy and shiny like Celestia, wasn’t he? Except he’d told me he loved me and he’d told me how different I was to the other women he’d ever dated. And then I thought back to my visit to Castle Montgomery four months ago, when I arrived a sceptic, assuming he’d be a bastard. A handsome bastard. But a bastard all the same. Except then he’d managed to lower my defences. So maybe I’d been nothing but a challenge for him all along? And once he’d proved he could win me over, the hunt was up. They loved fucking hunting, didn’t they, the aristocracy? Jasper was the hound and I was the fox. The poor old fox. And now he’d caught me.
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