by Isabel Wolff
From outside now came the gentle whine of a milk float, then birdsong. A triangle of opalescence was visible through the curtains. We lay there as the room filled with a gauzy light.
‘I guess we’d better get up,’ he said dreamily. ‘What time do you have to be at work?’
‘Not till ten.’
‘Let’s have a shower together then.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Like we used to, remember?’
‘I do.’
‘Then we’ll have breakfast in bed—I’ll go and get some Florentines.’
‘My absolute favourites.’
‘I remember that too. I remember so many things about you,’ he murmured.
‘Like what?’
‘I remember that your grandmother was French, and that you had a hamster called Percy…I remember that you locked yourself in a loo on Euston station when you were seven and the fire brigade had to be called out.’ I smiled.
‘I remember you were afraid of the dark…’
‘I still am.’
‘…and that Felicity accidentally broke your nose showing you how to play hockey when you were nine, hence its slightly odd, but fetching shape.’ He kissed me. ‘How am I doing? Am I through to the next round?’
‘You are. Plus you’ve picked up some bonus points.’
‘And are there any other contestants?’
‘No. They’ve been eliminated.’
I went into the en suite bathroom and turned on the shower. As I did so I thought of how with Luke I could have the best of both worlds—the delicious tension of a new relationship, with the comforting familiarity of an old one. I could have novelty and history, new experiences and shared memories. With him I could have Now—and Then. As I tested the warmth of the water, I suddenly heard the phone, sharp and insistent, drilling into our mellow mood, like a Black and Decker.
‘Yes…’ I heard Luke say, his voice cracking with fatigue. ‘What? No I haven’t listened to your messages—I came back late. No. I was at the cinema. With a friend, if you must know, now what is it Magda—it’s very early…Are you sure it’s a crisis?…I’m not being callous—it just doesn’t sound that serious…Have you given her Calpol?…No—I don’t want her missing school unless it’s absolutely necessary…’
As Luke spoke to Magda, his voice rising with frustration and stress, I opened the medicine cabinet to see if I could find the promised toothbrush. There were Luke’s shaving things and his bottle of Penhaligon’s Vetiver. There was a tube of Colgate and some floss, and some Calpol and a tiny pink hairband and a box of Little Mermaid sticking plasters. And, on the shelf below, I now saw, there was a bottle of Lancôme foundation, an atomiser of Guerlain, two lipsticks and a wand of mascara, a bottle of Decleor moisturiser, some No. 7 cleansing lotion and an open packet of Tampax. I felt as though my veins had been flooded with fire.
‘All right, Magda, all right. Driving over to Chiswick in the rush hour is not ideal, and I don’t think it is an emergency, and I’ve got a very busy morning at the gallery, but if you can’t cope…’
She’d left him ten months ago. Why were her things still here? I was so tense I could hear myself breathe.
‘No, no—of course I’m not saying that you’re an incompetent mother…far from it, Magda…’ Realizing that this conversation was not going to be brief, I turned off the shower. The sudden silence seemed to resonate, as though I’d just banged a large gong.
‘What?’ I heard Luke say. ‘No-one. No. I’m on my own. That’s because I was about to have a shower but now I’ve turned it off—okay, okay, you win; I’ll come over straight away and I won’t shower first. Satisfied? Good. Now will you let me get off the phone?’ He sighed as he replaced the handset. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said as he came into the bathroom and ran the cold tap. ‘She constantly stresses me out, as you must have noticed.’
‘Why did you say you were alone?’
He splashed water on his face then grabbed a towel. ‘Because I don’t want to razz her up. If she thought I’d had a woman here she’d have gone crazy.’
I flinched, as though I’d been slapped. ‘Even though she left you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And even though she’s got a boyfriend?’
‘Yes.’ He began to pull on his clothes.
‘Don’t you think that’s rather unfair?’
‘Yes. But Magda isn’t fair—plus she’s very erratic, if not slightly insane.’ He stepped into his boxer shorts, then pulled on his jeans. ‘If I annoy her she’ll reduce my time with Jessica—that’s what she constantly threatens me with.’ He pulled on last night’s shirt. ‘Or she’ll try and turn Jess against me…’
‘Would she do that?’
‘If she was angry enough with me, yes. She’s very volatile, so I do whatever I can to keep her sweet.’
‘Her things are still in the bathroom cabinet,’ I said quietly, my heart still pounding from the shock of seeing them there.
‘Are they?’ He finger-combed his hair. ‘I can truthfully say that I hadn’t even noticed—I’ve got so many other things on my mind.’ He slipped on his shoes. ‘She either forgot them, or couldn’t be bothered to take them all when she left. Anyway, I’ve got to go right now.’ He kissed me, then wrapped his arms round me for a moment. ‘I’m sorry about breakfast.’ I felt a pang of disappointment—eating Florentines in bed with Luke would have been heaven. ‘Help yourself to anything in the kitchen and just lock the front door with this spare key, then post it back. We’ll speak later.’ He kissed me again, then left.
It was strange being left alone in Luke’s house. As I picked up my discarded shirt, I noticed a photo of his parents looking much the same as I remembered them, and of his sister, Kim, who’d gone to live in Australia, and one of Rocky, his old dog. The wardrobe door was hanging open so I went to close it and, as I did so, I peeped inside. There were Luke’s jackets—mostly casual, but three smart ones, presumably from his Christie’s days. Next to them were his shirts, subtly striped and finely checked, and one Liberty print one. They’ve recently become fashionable with men. I could imagine Luke looking good in it. It was that classic art nouveau pattern in turquoise and red. I pulled it out but, as I did so, I saw that it wasn’t a man’s shirt at all. It was a woman’s. I felt as though acid had been spilt on my chest.
Next to it, I now saw, was a black, heavy satin vintage cocktail dress, and hanging alongside that was a velvet jacket—size eight—and, next to that, a pale green silk dress,forties-style, with a lily-of-the-valley print. Then I looked on the wardrobe floor. There were three pairs of high-heeled shoes. She had tiny feet. I found myself resenting her as much for this as for the fact that, almost a year after she’d left him, Magda’s things still hung alongside Luke’s. I suppressed the urge to rip them off their hangers and stuff them into bin liners. But I couldn’t resist the masochistic temptation to look for further evidence of her. It was all too easy to find.
On the mantelpiece, in the china bowl in which he kept his cufflinks were two pairs of crystal earrings, a big diamante brooch, some sparkly hair clips and a string of pearls. On the shelf beside the bed was Bridget Jones’s Diary; a Hungarian-English dictionary, and The Handbook of Goat Care and Health. In the bottom of the chest of drawers I found two silk nighties, a hydra of tights and, to my dismay, several pairs of lacy black knickers. In the bedside table on what must have been ‘her’ side, were a silver watch, a hairbrush, a bottle of sea green nail polish and a small leather purse. Everywhere I looked I saw this residue of Magda—a glistening snail-trail of her personal effects.
I sank on to the bed, heart pounding, nausea rising in my throat. Why were so many of her things still here—let alone such intimate ones? Were she and Luke still… ? I breathed deeply, forcing myself to think rationally. Then I drew back the curtains. By now the sky was a flawless blue. The answer had to be no. Because if they were, that would mean their relationship was fine, in which case they’d still be living together, which is what Luk
e had wanted, because of Jess—in which case he would not be pursuing me.
‘She left him, she lives elsewhere, she’s with someone else,’ I said firmly. Even so, I felt confused and distressed. But then, as I stepped into my skirt, I saw something that surprised and consoled me. Sitting on a chair by the window was Wilkie, my old bear. I picked him up and held him, inhaling his musty aroma. His suede-covered paws were shiny with wear, and the green jumper my mother had knitted for him when I was five was badly frayed, but he was otherwise in fairly good shape. I’d given him to Luke when he was recovering from appendicitis because I’d wanted him to have something of mine that I’d loved. He’d kept him all these years, and he’d clearly cherished him. Calmer now, I let myself out.
My equanimity was to be short-lived.
‘Hi Tom,’ I said when I got in to work a couple of hours later. He was engrossed in the newspaper. ‘Morning Tom,’ I tried again. He seemed unable to hear me. ‘Can you hear me, Major Tom?’
‘Oh. Laura…er…sorry.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry.’
‘Anything up?’
‘Well…’ He looked very uncomfortable, I now realized. So, it seemed to me, did Dylan and Sara, who seemed to be slinking away. And Nerys had given me a peculiar look when I arrived, but I wondered whether that might have been because, being a shrewd old bird, she’d detected my postcoital glow.
Tom put the paper down, then ran his left hand through his hair. ‘I’m afraid there’s something in here you’re not going to like.’ He handed me the paper. The Incognito gossip column was dominated by a large photo of me—taken yesterday I realized—walking up Portobello, looking distracted.
QUICK TEMPER it was captioned.
‘Wh-at?’
Laura Quick, the host of Channel 4’s quirky new quiz, Whadda Ya Know?!!, may have cut the mustard when she made her TV debut last week, but at a party in Notting Hill over the weekend fellow guests were said to be ‘appalled’ by the Clever Clogs’ not so brilliant behaviour. She was ‘drunk and obnoxious’ said one party-goer. Quick allegedly has personal problems—her husband, charity supremo, Nick Little, went out to buy a pint of milk three years ago, and decided not to come back. Is it any surprise, Incognito can’t help wondering…
I felt as though I’d fallen down a mineshaft.
‘This is terrible,’ I croaked. I closed my eyes, breathed in, then looked imploringly at Tom. ‘It’s just…terrible—and they’ve completely twisted it.’
‘I thought they must have done—but what actually happened?’ I told him. ‘So this Scroggins is obviously both the source and the unnamed “party-goer”.’
‘Yes—it’s Scrivens all right—but it’s trash.‘ I snapped through to the City pages: there he was—complete with hideous photo-byline. ‘He probably wrote it himself.’ Now I thought, with horror, of all the people I knew who might read it. ‘I want you to sue the Post, Tom,’ I said impotently.
‘Well, it wouldn’t be Trident who sued them, Laura, it would have to be you. And it would be hard to prove defamation given that, by your own admission, you did have too much to drink, didn’t you?’
‘I was just merry—it was a family christening—and of course my behaviour wasn’t “obnoxious”. It was just unfortunate that my admittedly unflattering remarks about Scrivens were overheard on the bloody baby monitor. I unwittingly insulted him and here’s his revenge.’ Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Hope said he was a shit and she was right! But a million people will read this, Tom. And some of them will believe it.’
‘If it makes you happy I’ll ring the Channel Four lawyers,’ he replied quietly. ‘But I know what they’ll say. It’s tough, Laura, but you’ll just have to take it on the chin. You’ll also have to be more careful because the show’s sparked a lot of interest—so what you do or say could get in the press. And you won’t have much redress, because the papers will be able to claim that you’re a public figure now.’
I laid my head on the desk. My morning had started blissfully but, from the moment Magda had rung, it had gone crashing downhill—as though her phone call had cursed my day.
‘This is a disaster,’ I moaned. ‘Everyone I know will have seen it. I’m just…cringing.’
‘People will forget,’ Tom said soothingly. ‘I know, because, well, I’ve been there myself you may remember.’
‘Oh yes,’ I said vaguely, though I didn’t feel I should say any more.
‘And let’s face it,’ he went on, “TV presenter drinks too much at party” is hardly an interesting story, is it?’
I pushed myself up. ‘No. But the fact that said TV presenter’s husband has been missing for three years ago is an interesting one.’
‘Well…yes,’ said Tom regretfully. ‘I’m afraid that is.’
‘How could you?’ I said to Felicity five minutes later. I’d gone up to the boardroom to berate her in private. ‘It was bad enough that you invited that creep to the christening, but why the hell did you have to tell him about Nick?’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whined. ‘I had no idea he worked for a newspaper.’
‘Even if he didn’t, you had no right to discuss my private affairs with him—or with anyone. I told you it was essential to be discreet, but you blabbed. You even told him that Nick had gone out to buy a pint of milk—what a delicious little detail! I was hoping it wasn’t all going to be dragged up—or at least not for ages, until I could perhaps cope with it. But now, thanks to my own sister, it’s right out there, on Day One, in black and white!’
‘I’m sorry,’ she wailed. ‘I was trying to make him feel sympathetic towards you.’ I rolled my eyes. I could just imagine Felicity laying it on about how I’d been ‘cruelly abandoned’ by my ‘cowardly husband’ who’d just ‘run off’. She’d never pulled her punches about Nick, and after he’d ‘gone walkabout’ as Mum tactfully puts it, she’d really had it in for him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I was only trying to help.’
‘You’ve done the opposite.’
I put the phone down feeling slightly better for having at least vented my indignation. As I passed Tom’s office I noticed that his casement window was wide open and that the breeze was lifting his papers off the windowsill, sending them flying. I went in and closed it, then picked up the bits of script and correspondence that lay scattered about the threadbare carpet. Beneath a letter from the bank was Tom’s Valentine card. It was a cute, rather than a romantic, one, depicting a large teddy bear clutching a red satin heart. With a guilty pang I looked inside, unable to resist a quick peek.
To Tom with lots of love from… The writing was deliberately childish—and there was a string of hugs and kisses after the signature which was, teasingly, just legible—S…a…m. So he was seeing someone called Sam…Samantha. I left the card there as I didn’t want Tom to think I’d been snooping.
As I went downstairs I found myself wondering who Samantha was, and what she looked like, and what she did, and if she was like Samantha in Sex and the City and whether he made a habit of asking her ‘very serious’ questions; I also wondered how he’d met her, and how long they’d been together, and what they had in common, and then I realized, with relief, that this train of thought had distracted me from the horror of the Incognito piece. In any case I knew I’d have to put it from my mind because today was a recording day. But when I got to the studio I saw that one member of the audience was holding a copy of the Post. Just seeing it made me feel sick. I was convinced that he’d read the offending article out loud to everyone and that they’d all been sniggering about it.
‘They were giving me funny looks,’ I confided to Marian as she did my make-up. ‘A few of them were waiting in reception when I arrived, and they were all looking at me in this shifty way.’
‘They were only doing that because you’re the presenter and they were curious,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no need to be paranoid because of one silly little piece in a cheap newspaper. Just forget it, and put on a good show.’
Somehow, I manag
ed to do so, although my concentration was shot to pieces. I felt hot with indignation and shame. I dropped my question cards at one point because I was so distracted—they just flew out of my hands. To my relief, the winning contestant didn’t want to Turn the Tables—I didn’t think I’d have coped—and, at the post-show party no-one mentioned the piece. My anxiety began to recede.
‘Tom’s right. People will forget,’ I said to myself firmly as I got the taxi back to the office. ‘It’s tomorrow’s chip wrappings.’ But when I arrived Nerys told me that she had fielded no less than eight interview requests from the manufacturers of rival chip wrappings.
‘They seem desperate to talk to you.’
‘About what?’
‘Well…about…your husband.’ I felt sick. Look what that Incognito column had stirred up! This was just what I’d hoped to avoid. ‘They all said they want you to “open your heart” about your, what was it…?’ Nerys looked at her notebook. ‘Oh yes—’ she fiddled with her locket—‘“Secret Heartbreak”.’
‘Oh shit. And who are “they”?’
She peered over her glasses at her list. ‘The Daily News, the Daily Post, the Daily Mirror, the Daily Star, the Daily Mail, the Daily Express…’
‘The Daily Muck and the Daily Filth. I’m not talking to any of them,’ I said. ‘Why should I, just so they can sell more copies of their tabloid rags?’ I silently cursed Felicity again.
‘I’d do it if I were you,’ Nerys said matter-of-factly as she took off her glasses.
‘Why? I don’t have to.’
‘No, but if you don’t, they’ll never leave you alone.’ Annoying woman—always prescribing.
‘Thank you for your advice, Nerys,’ I said coldly. ‘But if I don’t talk to them, then they don’t have a story, do they? In my view, silence is golden.’
She shrugged. ‘Up to you. But in my view you’re making a mistake.’ Blasted woman, sticking her oar in, as usual. ‘Good afternoon. Trident Tee-veee. Tom O’Brien? Certainly…putting you thro-ugh…’
