The Friendship Pact

by Alison James

  ‘Pinky promise,’ agrees Lucy happily. She’s had so much fun that she’s quite prepared to overlook the fact that she saw Adele taking one of the silver christening bracelets from her jewellery box and secreting it in her skirt pocket.

  Later that evening, Lucy sits with the jewellery box on her lap, looking at the square tray of red velvet where the silver bracelet used to be. An empty space created by Adele taking something from her. She experiences a strange, haunting sense of premonition, although she has no idea what it could mean.

  Two

  March 2018

  ‘This is my wife, Lucinda.’

  As Lucy has anticipated, necks crane discreetly to see exactly who has managed to bag the eminent Mr Marcus Wheedon FRCS, celebrated interventional cardiac surgeon. Saviour of at least one member of the cabinet and – it’s rumoured – a senior member of the royal family. The frank scrutiny of the assembled diners towards her make her feel like the painfully shy eleven-year-old who arrived at Redgate High with no friends and who shrank from the stares that her glasses, her height and her pale blonde hair attracted. Next to her, Marcus is like her shield, his confidence wrapping her in a protective cloak.

  They are at a dinner party at the home of Marcus’s sister, Fiona, in her large detached house on the edge of Wandsworth Common. Lucy has known her sister-in-law since she and Marcus first married, and she remembers meeting one of the couples – Fiona’s friend Jane Standish and her husband Robin – at a Christmas drinks party, but the other people round the table are all strangers. The women wear jeans and casual tops, rendering her instantly overdone in her black figure-hugging Roland Mouret and teetering heels. But Marcus likes her to wear a dress when they go out.

  ‘Lord knows you slob around the house in your jeans and sweats far too much as it is,’ he chides her. ‘It’s not too much to ask to see you in something feminine is it, Lucinda? Every once in a while?’

  That’s Marcus’s refrain if he ever senses the possibility of not getting his way – ‘Is it too much to ask?’ In doing so, he makes himself seem the reasonable one and Lucy, in wanting to dress for comfort rather than show, unreasonable.

  ‘Besides,’ he adds, because Marcus knows how to charm better than anybody, ‘You should show off your fabulous figure. I want everyone to know how lucky I am.’

  He is such an admirer of Lucy’s willowy but curvy form that he cites it as one of many reasons for them not to have children: ‘Think what pregnancy and childbirth will do to your body. I know; I saw it on my obs and gynae rotation as a junior doctor. You don’t want that,’ he assures her, meaning he doesn’t want that.

  They’re late arriving at the dinner, of course, because Marcus was operating. But Lucy has discovered that people are only too willing to forgive a late arrival if they think you’re saving a life, and everyone round the table beams when Marcus announces that he’s come straight from an emergency quadruple bypass.

  ‘Sorry… sorry!’ He holds his arms wide in exaggerated bonhomie.

  ‘Poor you,’ one woman with glossy dark hair murmurs. ‘You must be exhausted.’

  ‘Get that man a glass of champers, stat!’ one of the male guest chimes in. The Wheedons have missed their starter of crab cakes and arrived just as the boeuf bourguignon is being served. Marcus is seated next to the woman with the dark hair, who cups her hand and stares at him in frank awe. Lucy is next to Robin Standish, a quiet, serious academic with a weak chin and glasses. He, at least, doesn’t seem to be affected by the godlike aura of Marcus Wheedon.

  ‘Shame you had to miss the crab,’ he says equably, pouring her wine while everyone fusses over making sure Marcus is served the vegetables first. ‘Must be a pain, being permanently on the on-call surgeon’s diet.’ He raises an eyebrow and Lucy smiles back at him. She catches sight of Marcus watching her, and smooths a loose lock of creamy blonde hair behind her ear, pretending to examine the silver mark on her knife. Robin’s expression switches to one of combined pity and curiosity. She knows he’s pigeonholed her as a trophy wife and, sadly, he’s right. Mrs Lucinda Wheedon (Marcus never calls her Lucy) has always been pretty, stylish and elegant, and completely in the shadow of her overachieving husband.

  As the plates are cleared and chocolate mousse is served, one of the women leans across the table to Lucy. ‘Do you and your husband have children?’

  Lucy is about to shake her head, but before she has a chance, Marcus cuts across her.

  ‘Two,’ he says. ‘One of each.’

  ‘They’re my stepchildren,’ Lucy adds, as always feeling the need to explain this.

  The woman doesn’t even try to hide her curiosity. ‘How long have you two been married?’

  ‘Five years,’ Lucy murmurs, dipping her head.

  ‘So… didn’t you want any of your own?’

  Marcus is watching her over the rim of his claret glass. She shakes her head at her inquisitor, as she is expected to do. Because having had two children with his first wife, Amber, Marcus was adamant that further offspring were quite unnecessary. Surplus to requirements. ‘More than two will be too much work,’ he had said firmly. ‘Not to mention the expense.’

  Lucy didn’t point out that plenty of doctors on a similar salary managed to provide for three or even four children more than adequately.

  ‘And, anyway, there isn’t the space,’ he had added. (This last reason despite their house having four bedrooms: one for them, one for each of his existing children and one for guests; rarely used).

  As a result, alternate weekend visits from fourteen-year-old Tom and eleven-year-old Lydia are the extent of Lucy’s parenting experience, and likely to remain so.

  ‘You’re free to work full-time then,’ Robin says. ‘What is it you do for a living?’

  The dreaded ‘What do you do?’ question. Lucy’s heart sinks. The truth is that her job is to make Marcus’s extremely pressured working life easier. By anticipating and dealing with any minor problems that can’t be allowed to disrupt his day.

  ‘At the moment I’m studying part-time,’ she tells him. ‘Social Anthropology.’ The part time structure of the course had been a compromise Marcus had insisted on: full time would have meant her being away from home too much in his opinion.

  ‘Ah. That sounds very interesting,’ he says kindly. ‘What sort of career will it lead to when you’ve finished?’

  Before she can stop herself, Lucy has let out a bitter little laugh. ‘Sadly, there’s only room for one career in our household. And, according to my husband, Humanities degrees are pointless and “arty-farty”.’

  Across the table, Marcus sets his wine glass down slowly. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my wife.’ Even though the remark is addressed at the assembled guests, his gaze is directed straight at Lucy. ‘Jokes never were her forte.’

  ‘But, actually, there are lots of careers you can do with a master’s in Social Anthropology,’ Lucy has turned back to Robin but raises her voice slightly so that her husband can still hear her. ‘Human resources, charity work, NGOs, the criminal justice system…’

  Fiona appears from the kitchen with a big tray of cups. ‘Coffee in the sitting room, I think. It’s a bit too chilly for the garden.’

  Her husband, Jonathan, stands up and the other guests start to get to their feet too.

  ‘A word please, darling,’ Marcus says to Lucy, with a rictus smile. She follows him out into the hall, where he grabs her elbow and jerks it sharply upwards. ‘Why are you always so intent on making a scene?’

  ‘I was not making a scene!’ Lucy feels suddenly cold, even though the skin on her neck and cheeks is burning. ‘Robin asked me a question and I answered it.’

  ‘Well, I’ll thank you not to show me up like that,’ he releases her arm abruptly, pulling her off balance so that she stumbles sideways into the wall. Fiona and Jane are watching mutely from the kitchen doorway, and from their silence Lucy knows that they are embarrassed to be witnessing this marital discord.

  Fiona bustles
forward with the jug of milk she has been to fetch. ‘He’s overworked, that’s all,’ she says quietly, her tone placatory. ‘Under terrific strain, with all the NHS cutbacks in his department. Poor Marcus: his working life is intolerable at the moment.’

  Lucy knows from past experience that Fiona, who worships her older brother, will always make excuses for him. And saving lives on a daily basis is the best excuse of all, every time. His family indulge him; his colleagues worship him or fear him, or both. A god at work and a dictator at home. She manages a weak smile, rubbing her elbow.

  It’s a relief when Marcus decides they need to leave before the port and brandy are produced.

  No sooner have they got in through the front door of their house in Barnes, when the phone rings. Marcus answers.

  ‘Marcus Wheedon… Oh, hello there, you! Yes, of course.’ His tone is graciousness personified, but he covers the handset with a scowl and says, ‘It’s Fi’s pet guard dog.’

  Lucy takes the handset, frowning.

  ‘Lucy, hi… it’s Jane Standish. Listen, are you okay? Only I was a bit worried about you earlier.’

  Marcus stands three feet away from her, his eyes on her face. A muscle twitches in his neck.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Lucy says as brightly as she can muster. ‘Of course I am. I’m absolutely fine.’

  Three

  A week later, Lucy receives a text from an unknown sender.

  Hi Lucy, I’m in the Barnes area today, and I wondered if you fancied meeting for a coffee? It would be great to have a chat. Jane x

  It’s obvious to her that Jane Standish is checking up on her, having witnessed Marcus’s behaviour at the dinner party. A tiny part of her is relieved. Marcus is so charming when in company that no one is ever willing to believe anything negative about him. And here, now, is someone who has seen with her own eyes what he can be like. Someone who is prepared to reach out. On the other hand, if Marcus knew she was meeting with Jane Standish behind his back, he would be furious. She starts to type.

  Sorry, afraid I’m not free.—Then she pauses and deletes what she’s just typed. Marcus will be in the operating theatre all day: he has no idea how his wife will be spending her morning. And she would only be going in order to reassure Jane anyway. To show her that she really is fine. She types again.

  Great. How about The Good Egg café on White Hart Lane? 11.30?

  As she sets off on foot in the direction of Mortlake, she wonders how, or even if, she will be able explain her marriage to Jane. It was never going to be easy taking on the role of a second wife, but at the time of their engagement, Lucy was still so infatuated with Marcus that she reassured herself – and everyone else – that it would be fine. Not that there was any vigorous opposition: her future husband won over both of her parents, especially her father. Her mother died from breast cancer three years ago, and although she liked Marcus, she was a little more wary. ‘He is quite a bit older,’ she had counselled. ‘And taking on someone else’s children isn’t going to be easy, especially for an only child with no experience of younger siblings.’

  Therein lies Lucy’s problem, according to Marcus. Whenever they have a disagreement or Lucy shows any sign of doubt or weakness, he claims that her character defects are due to her mother being overprotective, mollycoddling her, insulating her from the realities of life. Perhaps there is some truth in that. But Lucy attended university a hundred and fifty miles from her parental home and loved every minute of it. She has had plenty of other boyfriends too. Because she went to a girls’ school for GCSEs and A levels, she was a late starter on that front, but she had only been at university for days when she fell into her first proper relationship. Dan was a medical student that Lucy met at a freshers’ week party. He was shy, serious and sweet-natured and they dated for over two years.

  After she graduated, she had a few short flings and a couple of relationships that lasted nine months and eighteen months respectively. But none of these men had the impact on her that Marcus did. Compared to Marcus, they were just boys. Dan was an embryonic doctor, a doctor-in-waiting, but Marcus Wheedon was the finished article. He could crack open a chest cavity and get to the heart in under two minutes. Lucy’s male contemporaries could barely do their own laundry. Marcus knew things too: if he couldn’t fix a practical problem himself, he always knew someone who could. He got stuff done, and in the early days of their relationship, he seemed to delight in doing things for Lucy too. He took care of her. She passed seamlessly from the care of her parents to the care of this older, more worldly, man.

  They met when she was hired to do some temporary work organising a research project in Marcus’s department at St Mary’s Hospital, six years after graduating from UAE. When she overheard him in the coffee room asking one of the junior doctors, ‘Who’s the pretty blonde with the fantastic legs?’ her first reaction was astonishment that he meant her. That someone so powerful and charismatic had noticed her at all. From then on, every time she passed him in the corridor, her heat rate would speed up, something that she previously thought only happened in cheap romance novels. He was tall and extremely handsome, with piercing green eyes and a thick shock of chestnut brown hair so shiny that Lucy’s fingers itched to reach out and touch it. Her discomfiture seemed to amuse him, and he made a point of smiling at her every time he saw her.

  Then one day he saw her name written down on a piece of official paperwork and started saying, ‘Morning, Lucinda’ or ‘Goodnight, Lucinda’. She had asked her other co-workers to call her Lucy, but somehow she didn’t mind the more formal name from him. One day he even said, ‘And how are you, Lucinda Katherine Mary?’ and laughed when she blushed, unsettled at the intimacy of him having memorised her full name.

  After a few weeks, Marcus asked her to help him with preparation of his research papers and started visiting her at her desk and leaving her flirtatious notes when she wasn’t there. He would come in wearing blue scrubs that revealed a patch of dark chest hair and blood-spattered white clogs, surgical mask still knotted round his neck; attire that Lucy found both strangely glamorous and extremely sexy.

  She was single at the time and renting a room from a friend in Battersea. As her infatuation with the dashing surgeon took hold, she all but abandoned her social life to spend most of her waking hours at work. She would rise early to wash her hair and plan her outfits, hurrying out of the house with her heart already pounding, and leave long after most people had gone home, dawdling in the hopes of snatching stolen moments with Marcus Wheedon. Within six months, she was hopelessly smitten. She overheard someone referring to her as ‘Wheedon’s latest acolyte’, but this didn’t trouble her. By definition, an acolyte was, after all, someone who provided help and devotion.

  Even so, she could hardly avoid the knowledge that Marcus was married, though there were rumours that the marriage was troubled. She studiously avoided the subject of his wife and children, but one evening when he was leaning on her desk, and everyone else had gone home, he told her how unhappy he was with Amber, how impossible she was, how he wouldn’t still be there if it wasn’t for Tom and Lydia. These admissions were talismans of hope for Lucy, who would never have dared act on her infatuation otherwise. She told him she was sorry.

  ‘I know you are, Lucinda; that’s because you’re lovely.’

  He put a finger under her chin and tilted it slightly so that their eyes met. It was the first time there had been physical contact between them, but it was his words that thrilled Lucy as much as his touch.

  A couple of weeks later, Marcus came round to her house to deliver a departmental laptop that she was borrowing. It was a flimsy excuse to visit, and they both knew it: there was no need for him to bring it round in person. For her part, Lucy suggested a time when her flatmate was out, and offered him wine. After a couple of drinks, Marcus told her that he and Amber were separating. That was all the encouragement Lucy needed, and they ended up in her single bed in her rented bedroom. The sex was as sensational as she had fantasised it would
be. And so their affair began.

  As an isolated only child who had grown up with her nose in a book, she had a rich fantasy life and a very romantic view of the world. And here was a real-life romance, one that was happening to her, while her friends and contemporaries were still dating one disappointingly immature twenty-something after another. She felt special, chosen.

  Six months later, by which time Marcus and Lucy were the chief topic of departmental gossip, he informed her that he was moving out of the house in Notting Hill Gate that he shared with Amber and into a flat of his own.

  And then came the phone call.

  ‘Is that Lucinda Wheedon?’ The voice was cold, unfriendly.

  ‘Yes; speaking.’

  ‘This is Amber Wheedon.’

  She never explained how she had got hold of Lucy’s number, but by the time the call had finished, Lucy had a pretty good idea. Because what Amber had to say was that she and Marcus were not separated at all. He was still living under the same roof as Amber – and still sleeping in the same bed.

  Marcus dismissed Lucy’s attempt to end their relationship briskly and dispassionately. That was just Amber making trouble, he told her. He was in the process of moving out, and Amber was simply refusing to accept the inevitable.

  ‘Could I visit you at the flat, then?’ Lucy asked, still troubled. All their trysts were still in the bedroom of her shared house. This, and Amber’s overt unhappiness, were not part of the romantic script she had written in her head.

  ‘Not yet,’ Marcus said firmly. ‘When it’s all settled.’

  Confused and shocked, Lucy had taken the unprecedented step of not speaking to Marcus or returning his calls for three whole days. It was the tone of Amber’s voice that disturbed her most. The fact was: Lucy believed her.