‘That’s correct. We’d provide a stylist and hair and make-up artist, but of course we expect our interviewees to express their own signature look – we’re not prescriptive at all. And the story would include little nuggets that offer an insight into your personal life and career, as well as your top tips for keeping a garden thriving during those tricky autumn months.’
Autumn? My positive frame of mind was disturbed by an alarm bell. I knew how magazines worked – features were planned months ahead of publication. But over a year ahead? That would be unusual.
‘When you say autumn…’ I began tentatively.
‘Well, yes.’ Louisa spread out her hands in a ‘what can I say?’ gesture. ‘You know how it is in publishing. We had Petronella Dawson lined up for the October issue. The interview and shoot were all done, copy approval secured, the pages laid out, all exactly on schedule. And then that story appeared in the Telegraph – you know.’
I didn’t, but Vivienne came to my rescue.
‘About her affair with the MP? Too fascinating. I know one shouldn’t, but I do love a good scandal. Fancy him having a thing for cuddly toys in the bedroom. Honestly, the richness of human life!’
‘Quite,’ Louisa said. ‘All that we could have possibly overlooked, but the fact that he is a Labour Member of Parliament – well, we felt we had no option but to pull the story. And it’s left us in a bit of a hole.’
‘So just to be clear – you’ve got a gap in your October issue?’ I said, my head spinning. ‘October this year? And it’s the first of September tomorrow.’
‘Correct. We’re due to land on shelf two weeks from today. So in order to get the interview and shoot done, the pages laid out and passed through our internal checks, and go to press just a day or two behind schedule – well, let’s just say we need to get our skates on. We’d need the interview done in the next couple of days.’
I heard Vivienne give a little gasp, but Louisa carried on, undaunted. ‘Of course, I’m sure your garden is absolutely on point. But we’d be delighted to provide a small team to do any small jobs – the odd bit of pruning and so on – if you find it’s not quite as you’d like it to appear.’
I had no doubt at all that Vivienne’s garden was exactly as she’d like it to appear. But her house? That was another matter entirely. I imagined Louisa, her journalist, photographer, stylist and all the rest of them stepping through that front door, into that scene of chaos. I imagined the journalist telling a friend, and the friend telling her editor, and a story appearing in a tabloid, complete with some pictures sneakily shot by the photographer.
Actress’s hoarding shame, the headline might read. Or Former Oscar winner’s life of squalor. It would put the kibosh on my hopes of reviving Vivienne’s career and – more importantly – the personal humiliation for her would be awful. Next to me, I could feel her starting to tremble again.
‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it tomorrow that you’re off to France, Vivienne?’
‘To… Yes, that’s right.’ After a slight pause, Vivienne’s words came out in a rush. ‘To stay with my dear friend Marion in Cannes for a fortnight. Her pet parrot passed away recently and she’s devastated, poor lamb. I couldn’t possibly let her down.’
‘So you see, Louisa, on this occasion I’m afraid we won’t be able to help. But it does sound as if Vivienne would be such a brilliant fit for Gardens Today, I know you’ll consider her for future issues.’
The meeting limped to a close, and Louisa headed off, presumably to spend the rest of the day doing the rounds of other agencies, frantically trying to fill her last-minute celebrity gardener slot.
Vivienne didn’t get up to say goodbye – I’m not sure she could have done. She stayed in her chair, immobile apart from her shaking hands.
I poured her a fresh cup of tea, and although I knew she must be longing for something much stronger, drinking it seemed to comfort her a little.
‘Don’t worry, Vivienne,’ I said. ‘I know that wasn’t ideal, but there will be other opportunities. We’ll keep working our hardest to find them for you.’
‘Thank you, Sloane. Thank you for rescuing me.’
I shook my head and patted her hand. I hadn’t rescued her – I’d just come up with a half-plausible lie in a tricky situation. Rescuing Vivienne would mean doing far more than that, and I wasn’t sure I was capable of it. All I could do was be there for her – in a way I hadn’t been for my mother, all those years ago.
After I saw Mom that day in Starbucks, I fled back to school like a mouse into a hole. I knew I’d done something bad, something I’d regret, but I had no idea how to fix it. My anger and hurt had been so carefully concealed for so long – from Dad, from Erin the therapist, from Mrs Klingmann and my teachers and friends, even from myself – that the explosion of it terrified me.
The school corridors had been almost deserted that Saturday afternoon. Some girls were out seeing their parents or bowling together; others had joined an excursion to a new museum of indigenous Canadian art; and a rebellious handful had sneaked out to watch the nearby boys’ school’s hockey team play and go for beers afterwards.
My shared room was empty. I got onto the bed and sat there, rigid, my hands clenched between my knees. But the need to move, to do something, was too strong to resist. I got up and ran to the bank of payphones, dialling Dad’s cellphone number.
‘Honey? Are you okay?’
‘I saw Mom.’
‘Right. That’s good.’ His voice sounded uncertain over the crackly line. ‘How did it go?’
‘I told her I can’t forgive her and I don’t want to see her again.’
I heard Dad’s voice exhale in a long sigh.
‘Okay, honey. That’s your decision, and I respect it. I understand how you feel, and I’m sure your mother does, too. But if you ever change your mind, that’s fine, too. You just keep talking to me, hey? Because if you don’t, I can’t support you.’
That was Dad, through and through. A man so kind, so measured and reasonable, that he was a model parent in many ways. But he’d never parented a teenage girl before – or been one. He wasn’t to know that what I wanted – what I needed – him to do was to encourage me to change my mind, to point out that this was a decision I’d come to regret deeply.
Hell, I was already deeply regretting it.
But I never said that to Dad. He stayed in touch with Mom over the years – first to get their divorce finalised and make sure she had enough money to support herself, and, later, out of what I suppose was genuine concern for a woman he’d loved deeply, alongside a sense of guilt that he may have been partly responsible for her falling apart.
And even after he’d met and married sweet, motherly Maura, who wasn’t able to have kids of her own, he’d mention every now and then to me that he’d seen Mom.
I’d say, ‘I don’t want to hear about it.’
And he’d give that weary sigh and reply, ‘Okay, honey.’
Until one time he didn’t. I was at university in Toronto, in my second year, and by then I had a cellphone of my own. I was just coming out of an English Lit lecture when I heard Avril Lavigne’s Sk8er Boi trilling from my satchel. My friends and I were all broke – we SMSed one another rather than calling. A call meant something serious – and a call from Dad, when he knew I’d be in and out of classes and when we’d spoken just the previous evening, meant something definitely serious.
‘Dad? What’s up?’
‘Are you able to talk for a second, honey?’
I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t due in another lecture for an hour, but I’d promised to meet a friend for a coffee.
‘Sure,’ I said reluctantly.
‘It’s your mother, Sloane. I think you need to see her.’
‘Dad, you know how I feel. We’ve had this discussion.’
‘I know how you feel.’ Again, that sigh. ‘But this is different. She’s not well, honey. She’s dying. She wants to see you, and I think you ought to see her.’
Fifteen
‘Oh my God, Sloane, it’s so amazing to see you!’ Megs jumped up from the teal-coloured leather cocktail chair and hugged me. ‘I got us a bottle of prosecc— What’s happened? What’s the matter?’
It was three days since Myles had left for Qatar and a day since Megs had texted me in a state of high excitement to say that Matt was home and she was primed and ready to go ‘out out’.
He’s totally besotted with Ethan and he’s been amazing the whole past week, I’m so glad he’s home. He’s figured out how to make him take a bottle – total baby whisperer. And I’ve expressed shedloads of breastmilk and Matt says he’s really looking forward to spending a night on the sofa with Ethan bingeing box sets and eating pizza. So we are GO! Let’s get shitfaced and dance around our handbags! Let’s order a whole fishbowl full of cocktails!
I’d replied saying that sounded like a fabulous idea but maybe a slightly more sedate night was in order, and Megs had said,
Sheesh, I guess you’re right. Especially since as soon as I show you pics of Ethan on my phone my boobs will start leaking everywhere. But it will be amazing to see you.
We’d settled on a super-trendy new restaurant in Soho, just down the road from the Ripple Effect office, and Megs had called in a favour with the publicist to get us a table, and here we were. Or here Megs was, sitting underneath a blossoming cherry tree that I was pretty certain couldn’t be real, wearing a button-through chambray midi dress and nude leather sneakers, her hair so on fleek you’d swear she’d just spent hours in a salon rather than having had no time to do anything more than rake a comb through it, her skin managing to glow in spite of the smudges of tiredness under her eyes.
And here I was, having rushed from the office after spending half an hour at my desk with my hand mirror trying to make myself look like I hadn’t been dug up after being dead for a week. Since Myles’s departure, I hadn’t been able to face proper food, and my diet of cornflakes – eaten out of the box, flake by flake, nervously waiting to see which would be the rogue one that would send me dashing to the bathroom just in time to spew – with the occasional cinnamon Danish thrown in by way of a balanced diet, had taken its toll on my appearance.
My skin had broken out, my hair was frizzing so badly no amount of serum could tame it, and the new rust-coloured velvet bodysuit I’d ordered online was cutting into my crotch and had dark stains of perspiration under the arms.
I felt like shit, and I looked it, too. And Megs knew me well enough not to be fooled by all the slap I’d applied, or even my new eyelash extensions.
I flopped down into the chair opposite hers, feeling one of the poppers at my crotch ping adrift, as Megs splashed fizzy wine into a glass for me. She’d filed and painted her nails, I noticed, relieved that she’d been able to make some time for herself. She was getting to grips with this motherhood business, I thought with affection.
‘What’s up, Sloane?’ she asked. ‘Tell me. Is everything okay in the office? Are you okay? I feel so bad, leaving you holding it all together on your own.’
‘I’m not on my own. I’ve got Rosie, and Sam and Isla. It’s fine. We’re busy, but we’re all good. Ruby-Grace threatened to flounce but I’ve got Sam ready to hold her hand if she gets stressy again. I’ve put out some feelers for work for Vivienne. Everything’s under control, Megs – you really don’t need to worry.’
She looked at me astutely. ‘I wasn’t worried. I don’t have time to worry. I barely have time to drink a cup of tea, never mind worry. But I am now. Something’s up. I can tell.’
I took a big gulp of prosecco, the bubbles tickling my nose and reminding me of the ever-present threat of tears and the wide rim of the champagne coupe making some of it trickle down my chin.
Then I took a deep breath. I hadn’t spent all that time applying make-up only to cry it all off again. Besides, this was a public place. I knew full well how quickly news spread. I wasn’t anywhere close to being a celebrity, but would-be clients of ours hung out in places like this in the hope of being seen and wouldn’t hesitate to garner attention by sharing the fact that they’d seen Sloane Cassidy having a meltdown in Fifty-One Wardour all over social media. And, besides, it was Megan’s longed-for night out, and I didn’t want to ruin it for her.
I said, ‘Things with Myles are kind of weird. Kind of shit.’
‘Right. Go on.’
Megs topped up our glasses and leaned in close, and I edged my chair nearer to hers, and I told her everything that I’d seen, and read, and the horrible, bewildering conversations I’d had with my husband.
‘And now he says we need a break, and he’s making out like it’s all my fault, and he’s in the Middle East at a conference and I have no bloody idea what to do.’
‘He says you need a break?’
‘Yes! When five minutes ago we were talking about having a baby. I thought we were in a good place. Well, good-ish. Given everything. And now I’m stuck alone in a building site, I think my husband’s cheating on me, he’s fucked off abroad, and what the fuck do I do?’
We both drank more fizz. I could see Megan’s mind working at speed. In a similar situation, I knew I’d be just as conflicted. I mean, you come out and say what you really think (‘Kick the cheating bastard to the kerb, woman!’), and six months later you find they’ve patched things up and you’re persona non grata. Or you say, ‘Are you sure it wasn’t just a drunken mistake? Not worth ending an otherwise happy marriage over, surely?’ and then you find out things are actually terminal and you’ve had to watch your friend being torn apart for months when she could have been moving on.
Megs said, ‘Okay, we need to deal with this one issue at a time. First off, how do you know he’s cheating on you?’
‘I don’t know! I mean, I’m about as sure as I can be but I haven’t caught them in bed together or anything like that. I saw him and Bianca together at her house and they were – not canoodling, exactly. But she touched his leg.’
‘I’m not sure one touch on the leg is exactly the smoking gun, is it?’
‘Well, no. But then I saw those messages they sent each other on his phone and I was completely sure. But he says he was just asking her for advice because he’s not sure he wants to be with me any more. And I can’t remember exactly what the messages even said, but I think they could have meant that. I mean, they weren’t exactly, “You’re the most amazing fuck ever and I want to be with you.” But it was something about what they were doing being wrong. And how could Bianca even do that to me? She’s supposed to be my friend.’ My voice had risen to a trembling almost-wail.
‘Oh, Sloane. You poor love.’ Megs reached over and squeezed my hand. ‘I don’t know Bianca. I don’t know what she could’ve been thinking. But I know one thing: if they were sleeping together, he wouldn’t come out and admit it, would he? They never do.’
‘But why not? If it was me, I wouldn’t want someone to stay married to me because they thought I hadn’t been unfaithful when I had. That seems like the worst kind of false pretences.’
‘In my experience – which is thankfully limited – men in these situations want to see themselves as the good guy, the wronged party. And if they fess up and say their head was turned by someone else and they gave in to temptation, they can’t do that any more. It would present them with an image of themselves that they don’t want to see.’
‘That makes sense. I guess. But what do I do, though? Do I keep digging until I find proof? And if it turns out it’s true and they are shagging, what do I do then?’
Megan sighed and topped up our glasses. The bottle was almost empty. ‘I think you’re looking at this the wrong way round. Don’t go around playing Sloane Cassidy, Girl Detective. You’ll just cause yourself more grief and give him more ammo to paint you as a jealous, paranoid bunny boiler.’
‘But what if he’s not doing anything wrong? What if I am a jealous, paranoid bunny boiler?’
‘Honestly? I think that’s unlikely. I’ve known you
for a long time, Sloane, and you’re not an insecure person. You’re not a jealous wife and you’re not a fantasist. I reckon women whose partners are being unfaithful are far more likely to delude themselves into thinking everything’s okay, to not trust their gut, to hide from the truth until it’s literally staring them in the face, than to imagine there’s something going on when there isn’t.’
‘So you’re saying he is shagging her?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t possibly know for sure. But I think his reaction speaks volumes.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Let’s say he was fully committed to your marriage. Let’s say he’d never so much as looked at another woman, and suddenly you turned around and started flinging accusations at him. What would he do then?’
‘Deny them?’
‘Well, yes. But he’d show you his phone, wouldn’t he? He’d be like, “Here, read the full exchange between me and Bianca and you can see that it’s entirely innocent, and put your mind at rest.” And he didn’t do that, did he?’
‘No. He went ballistic at me for snooping.’
‘And then, two days later, he came up with the story about asking her for advice because he was thinking of checking out of your marriage?’
I nodded miserably.
‘That’s kind of significant. So he had a chance to have a good think, and he thought that if he came up with a plausible – or plausible-ish – explanation, he could do two things.’
‘Which are?’
Megan took another sip of wine and extended a finger.
‘One, he averts the initial suspicion. He’s given himself a cover story, basically. And two – and this is more significant to me – he makes you think you’re at fault. Not only are you imagining things that aren’t there, you’re also vulnerable because he’s not sure about your marriage. So you doubt yourself on both levels, you try desperately to patch things up, you become a pushover and he gets to crack on and do whatever he wants. It’s gaslighting, Sloane, and it’s not something I’d be happy to have done to me if I were you.’
No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy Page 14
