‘So how’s work going?’ Myles threw me a lifeline, albeit a mundane one. ‘How are you coping without Megan?’
‘It’s all good, so far,’ I said. ‘I’m going to visit her tomorrow, to meet little Ethan and bring her up to speed on what’s been going on at the agency. Which, to be fair, hasn’t been very much. It’s been business as usual, really. But that’s good, right?’
‘Better than it all imploding as soon as her back was turned.’
Myles splashed more wine into our glasses. I was drinking fast – way too fast, given the head start I’d had while I waited for him. I was relieved when the waiter brought over our starters and there was the flourishing of pepper grinders, offering of more bread and careful presentation of a finger bowl for the gentleman.
With its old-school décor, service and menu, Tre Amici was about as unfashionable as a restaurant could get, but Myles loved it, saying that it was how Bermondsey used to be before the property developers moved in, and I’d come to love it too, because it reminded me of the small-town trattorias my dad used to take me to when I was little.
I forked up some salad and Myles tweezed out a mussel using the empty shell of another, then passed it over for me to try. He’d always done stuff like that: if I came downstairs when he was up already, he’d make me a coffee and offer me a bite of his toast. If we ordered cocktails, he’d let me have a sip of his before even tasting it himself. When he shopped online, his order would always include some random gift for me – a scarf or a little box of chocolate truffles or a pair of earrings. I loved his generosity.
The taste of that garlicky little morsel, and the awareness of what it represented, made me suddenly feel relaxed and happy. Or, of course, that might have been down to the fact that I’d necked almost an entire bottle’s worth of Primitivo. I forked up some salad – a good bit, with lots of shaved Parmesan and salted anchovy – and passed it across to him, brushing his hand with mine as he took it.
The touch of his skin – warm and smooth, but also strong, somehow, like an expensive leather purse – was another, heady reminder of why I fancied him. Now, I found I could look across the table, meet his eyes and smile.
‘So I was on the subway today,’ I said, ‘and there was this guy. Totally normal-looking dude, in jeans and a kind-of smart shirt and normal leather shoes.’
‘Right…’
‘Except, alongside all the normal, he was wearing a dog collar.’
‘What, he was a vicar?’
‘No! Not that kind. A literal dog collar. A studded brown leather one round his neck.’
‘Like a bondage thing?’ Myles looked amused, fascinated and mildly horrified, as I’d known he would. I adored his essential Britishness; how he’d be shocked and intrigued to see such a thing, but would never, ever lean in for a closer look, as I admitted I’d done.
‘Yeah, like that. And you could see the way the strap had worn away, when it had been on a looser setting. It was kind of tight, not restricting his breathing or anything, but definitely snug.’
The waiter brought Myles’s pizza and my melanzane, and I noticed that Myles waited until the guy was well out of earshot before he said, ‘So he’d displeased his mistress, maybe? His punishment might have been getting sent out with a reminder of his status, right there round his neck.’
I laughed. ‘That’s what I figured.’
‘So it gave you ideas, did it? Like next time I forget to put the recycling out or I’m late to meet you for dinner or whatever, it’ll be on with the leather humiliation kit?’
‘Well, now you put it that way, I’m thinking maybe you’re on to something.’
Our eyes met, held each other for a long moment, and then we burst out laughing. Even though I knew Myles had no interest in being a sub or wearing a dog collar, and I couldn’t think of anything worse than making him, the brief glimpse we’d shared into the sex life of strangers made everything between us charged with an electricity that hadn’t been there for the longest time.
We finished the wine, but we didn’t make much headway with the food. Myles kept brushing my knee under the tablecloth, gradually moving his hand higher up my thigh until he encountered the top of my stocking and the skin beyond it, and I saw his face go all still and heard his half-gasp of excitement and pleasure.
‘Shall we get the bill?’ he asked.
And I nodded, knowing I didn’t need to say anything at all.
Four
‘You look so well!’ I said to Megan, once I’d finished hugging her, handing over a bottle of champagne, a hamper of ripe blue cheese, camembert and brie (which I knew she’d found so hard to resist during her pregnancy) and a bright yellow fluffy dinosaur for Ethan, who I could only peer at and whisper over, because he was fast asleep in his carry cot.
If I’m honest – well, I wasn’t being honest. Megs looked exhausted. Her hair was unwashed, scraped back into a ponytail secured with what looked like the ribbon from another gift. She was wearing a towelling bathrobe that smelled of what could have been cheese but was more likely to be baby puke. And her apartment – which usually looked like something straight out of a magazine – was a mess. There were plates, cups and glasses scattered over every surface, a bumper pack of diapers spewing out its contents in a corner, and the open washing machine spewing its contents out in another.
‘Sorry about the state of the place,’ she said wearily. ‘It’s all gone to pot since Matt left to go back to China. He could only stay for three days so now I’m flying solo again. Honestly, it’s all I can do to get in the shower some days. Most days, actually. I think I just about managed to get wet in there yesterday before His Highness started yelling his head off for a feed.’
‘Oh, bless him!’ I said. ‘He’s so little still. He misses his mommy.’
‘He does, of course. It’s just – well, he needs me all. The. Time.’ She flopped down on the couch and gestured for me to sit next to her. ‘He feeds and feeds, so my nipples are shredded – don’t worry, I won’t show you, it’s too gross – and he won’t sleep unless I’m holding him. And my midwife says my C-section scar is infected so that’s a right state too, and I’m taking antibiotics to clear it up, but they make me sick as a dog.’
The baby squeaked and stirred, and Megan sat upright, then gave a little gasp of pain.
‘Let me get him, and then I’ll stick the kettle on.’ I peered down at the little scrunched-up face and whispered, ‘It’s okay. He’s still sleeping. Why don’t you grab a quick shower? If he cries I’ll bring him to you. In the meantime I’ll clear up a bit. And would you like something to eat?’
Megan stood up, which looked like it took some doing. ‘I’ll be five minutes.’
‘Take your time. Seriously, I’ve got this.’
As soon as I heard water running in the bathroom, I sprang into action. I rounded up all the dirty crockery and loaded the dishwasher. I opened the door to the garden to let in some fresh air. I transferred the tangle of damp laundry – mostly baby clothes; it didn’t look like Megs had got as far as washing any of her own stuff – to the dryer and switched it on. I made a pot of tea and six slices of toast, found butter, jam and Marmite, and put it all on the coffee table.
And maybe it was that that woke the baby. He made a couple of little bleating sounds, and then opened his wide, ink-blue eyes and started to bawl properly. The shower was still running and the bathroom door closed, so I guessed she hadn’t heard. I knew next to nothing about small babies, but I reckoned waiting five minutes for his lunch wouldn’t do him any harm, so I scooped him up, held him close to my chest – Oh God, if I drop him she’ll never, ever forgive me – and took him out into the warm, sunny garden, shushing and jiggling him in the way I’d seen mothers do. And, to my amazement, he settled down in my arms, gazing up at the sunlight falling through the leaves of the cherry tree with unfocused fascination.
I stared down at him, equally fascinated. He was so tiny, but he looked almost old, like all the secrets of the universe
were held right there in his downy head. His skin was rose-petal perfect, so soft and new I worried that even a kiss would leave a mark on it. The weight of him in my arms was unfamiliar, yet it felt as if they’d been waiting, empty, for this moment for the longest time.
‘Sloane?’ I heard a high note of fear in Megan’s voice and hurried back inside.
‘Here we are,’ I said. ‘We’re all good. I think he’s hungry, but he was fine. He only cried for a minute.’
‘Sorry.’ She sat back down on the couch and held out her arms for her baby, who was starting to yell in earnest now. He might have been the most adorable thing ever, but his volume control was seriously lacking. ‘It’s like, when I can’t see him – the anxiety’s off the fucking scale. My midwife says it’s normal, but Jesus, it’s hard. I worry about him so much, all the time.’
She opened her robe – a clean one now – and Ethan snuffled his way to her breast and started sucking enthusiastically.
Megan bit hard on her lower lip. ‘God, that hurts. No one tells you how fucking much it hurts. It’s okay after the first couple of minutes – well, okay-ish – but at the beginning…’
‘You poor thing,’ I said. ‘It must be tough, having to do it all on your own.’
‘I don’t know if it would be any less tough if Matt was around.’ There was a flash of her old spirit in her voice. ‘At least, by the time his secondment finishes, I should have got the hang of things a bit more. We’ll be okay. At least I think we will. When it gets too brutal, I tell myself we’re just taking it one day at a time – or hour, or minute, depending on how much I feel like taking him back to the hospital and asking about their refund policy. And then other times I look at him and I just want to claw my own heart out because loving him hurts so much. Isn’t that right, you greedy little monkey?’
She caressed the back of her son’s head, and for a second the scene was what I’d hoped I would find – the orderly room; the serene, doting new mother; the quiet, contented infant. And Megan seemed confident that she’d be able to manage, that it would all be okay.
I felt confident, too, on her behalf – after all, this was a woman who’d built up and managed a successful business from nothing, who’d run four marathons, who could work a twelve-hour day, then do an hour of hot yoga before showering and partying until late, and still be at her desk the next morning at eight, having already sent fifteen emails on the train on her way in.
She would cope, I was pretty sure about that. Just, right now, it clearly didn’t feel that way to her.
I watched her nursing her baby and noticed her eyes closing. Maybe she was nodding off – maybe she’d get a decent bit of shut-eye, right there, while Ethan enjoyed his brunch, or whatever meal babies had at eleven in the morning. Maybe I shouldn’t let her, though; I was pretty sure I’d read on one of the parenting websites I hung out in sometimes that falling asleep with a baby like that was dangerous.
So I said, ‘Megs, you could get someone in to help, you know. There are, like, night nannies and stuff. The agency could pay for it. Even though you’re on maternity leave, you’re still our founder, right? Your health matters. You matter, just as much as that little bundle you’ve got there. And I’m his godmother, right? Which means I’ve got a special interest in looking after him – and that means looking after you, too.’
She gave me a watery smile. ‘Thanks, Sloane. But I’ll cope. I’ll get through it, somehow.’
I passed her the plate of toast – I’d spread butter and Marmite thickly on a couple of slices – and she took one, folded it in half and ate like a starving woman, apparently not noticing or caring that crumbs were dropping down onto the baby’s head. I bet he got bathed right on schedule, though, unlike his mother.
‘Sure you will. But for now, you need a bit of support. What can I do? How about if I come and sleep in your spare room a couple of nights a week? Just so you can get some rest?’
‘It won’t help. It’s my boobs he wants. All the bloody time, apparently. Don’t you?’ And the look of tenderness was back on her face as she kissed the tiny hand that was gripping her thumb tight as a vice. ‘Honestly, just having a shower has been amazing. Just talking to another adult. I know I need to get out to baby-signing classes or breastfeeding support groups or coffee mornings or whatever, but seriously? I can’t even get my shit together enough to file my nails.’
I couldn’t help glancing at her hands. Her nails, which had always been perfect, glossy squovals, were bitten and ragged. I mean, they were only nails. Nothing in the grand scheme of things – nothing compared to having brought an actual new life into the world. But it made me think, what would I be like as a mother? What would Myles be like as a dad? This looked like hard, hard work, and although those few precious minutes when I’d cradled Ethan in my arms in the garden had filled me with intense longing to hold my own baby, I also felt something that was maybe fear and maybe awe. How did people do this? Do it multiple times, as if it was the most normal thing in the world?
‘I bite his nails, too,’ Megan was saying. ‘I have to. He won’t let me near them with an emery board and he scratches his face to pieces while he’s asleep if they get too long. But, like I said, I’m feeling practically human again now you’re here, I’ve had tea and some food and I don’t ming to high heaven. It’s so good to see you. The best thing you could do is just pop in, when you can, for a chat. Remind me there’s life outside these four walls.’
‘Of course,’ I promised. ‘And there are going to be all sorts of things I need your advice on. Seriously. Everything’s going fine, but you know – it’s like you say, you need to bounce ideas around.’
And so, even though everything actually was running perfectly smoothly, I told her how stuff was going at the agency. I told her how Gemma Grey, one of the first clients I’d signed who’d gone on to hit the big time, had been booked to go on the cover of Cosmopolitan. I told her that Rosie, who we’d originally employed two years before as an office assistant and had gone on to become our right-hand woman, had received an offer from a rival agency and I’d upped her salary significantly so we could keep her. I told her about the new ramen bar that had opened down the road where the smoothie place used to be.
As I chatted away, I saw Megs relaxing, engaging, starting to look more like her old self and less like the exhausted, frazzled shadow of it she’d been when I arrived.
‘Shit, that reminds me,’ she said, rummaging in the pocket of her robe – carefully so as not to disturb the baby, whose eyes were beginning to droop in a milk-drunk way that made my ovaries twang – and getting out her phone. ‘I’ve had a couple of calls on my personal number. Well, I’ve had loads, obviously, but a couple of them are actually work. And I know you made me promise I wouldn’t do any work at all for at least the first two months…’
‘I did. And I’m holding you to it. Hand over the phone before I get the Feds to take it off you by force.’
She hooted with genuine laughter. ‘God, I’m so happy you’re here. So, Ruby-Grace Miller’s freaking out. You know she auditioned for Love Island but didn’t get on? Well, now she’s throwing a total diva strop and saying her career’s over and it’s somehow all our fault. I didn’t even get to the end of her message because this one started bellowing at me, but she’s really upset. Could you get her in for a face-to-face, maybe? Calm her down a bit, come up with some ideas for what she can do next?’
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I know how high-maintenance she is. I’ll give her a call and sort something out. Manage her expectations, if nothing else.’
She reached over and gave my hand a squeeze, carefully checking that the small movement wasn’t disturbing the now deeply asleep Ethan.
‘And then there’s Vivienne Sterling. First client I ever signed, ten years ago. I thought I’d hit the big time with her, but how wrong was I? Anyway, Sloane, I’m really sorry, but you need to go and see her.’
‘Of course. No problem at all.’
The look on m
y friend, partner and former boss’s face was all I needed to tell me that it was going to be a very big problem indeed.
Five
I worked from home the morning I was due to go and meet Vivienne. Normally, of course, our clients came to us. Not for nothing had Megan invested heavily in a swanky Soho address and chic interior design: it was our shopfront, our way of creating the impression of Ripple Effect as a far bigger hitter than it actually was. In reality, the agency was just Megs, me, Rosie and a rotating cast of freelancers and unpaid interns, but if you looked at our website or walked into our office you’d think we were a seriously big deal.
And we weren’t going to squander that investment – not to mention our time – by going to see our clients in their homes. Well, the important ones we did, of course – the YouTuber Glen Renton even had a freelancer permanently at his beck and call, doing everything from watering his houseplants to ironing his shirts, as well as managing his diary, writing his blog and Instagram posts and dealing with his regular, epic strops.
I’d offered Gemma Grey – initially a rising star in the YouTube world and now well established, with five million followers and three book deals under her belt – the same, but she’d looked at me with her enormous Bambi eyes and said, ‘Don’t be daft, Sloane! I can do all that myself. It’s not like I’m Meghan Markle or someone.’
Anyway, the fact that Megan had told me I’d have to go to Vivienne Sterling’s home in suburban south-east London for our meeting had been a hint in itself that she was something of a special case. Now, I was perched at the tiny table in our second bedroom, which also held the microwave, kettle, coffee machine and toaster, conducting some last-minute research into her background.
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 4
