by Jane Green
They walk up the hill, stopping every few minutes to watch Humphrey excitedly greet other dogs. Emily chats away to the owners, sharing Humphrey’s story, explaining how she went to the shelter with the intention of getting a cat but fell in love with Humphrey and ended up with him instead, while Alice watches the dogs with a smile, offering Humphrey treats when he comes running back to her.
“God, I envy you,” Alice says, as they pause on the top of the hill to watch the people flying their kites. “This is so wonderful, to be able to come here every weekend and do this.”
“You envy me?” Emily starts to laugh. “Look at you, Alice. You live in a fantastic fuck-off house in Belgravia while I’m in a tiny one-bedroom flat in Camden. You have a husband while I’m still miserably single and my only permanent Mr. Right is Humphrey. Not to mention the fact that you lead the most glamorous lifestyle of anyone I’ve ever met, whereas my idea of a glam night out is Marine bloody Ices on Chalk Farm Road. Plus you’ve actually been in Tatler, and the only time I’m in the paper is on the rare occasions when they bother to print my by-line. How can you envy me?”
“Because you have so much freedom. You can do the things you love, whenever you feel like it. You can come to Primrose Hill every day of the week if you feel like it, and walk Humphrey, and talk to people, and go wherever you want to.”
“And you can’t?”
“No. I can’t.” Alice shakes her head. “I can’t have a Humphrey because our lifestyle isn’t conducive to a dog, it wouldn’t be fair. We haven’t got a garden, we live in town, and we’re always out. Joe hates animals.”
“I remember. He hated Molly and Paolo, didn’t he?”
“God, did he hate them. My poor babies. He pretended to tolerate them until he proposed, and then it was the cats or him.” Alice sighs. “At least I found them a good home. I suppose I have to be grateful for small mercies.”
“Didn’t we always say never trust a man who doesn’t like animals?”
“Don’t remind me,” Alice sniffs. “But animals aside, Joe would never do something like this. He can’t see the point in walking for the sake of walking. Actually”—she laughs—“I think he’s completely allergic to nature.”
“God. And you were the girl who thought she’d end up living in a thatched cottage in the Cotswolds. Weren’t you supposed to have horses and chickens?”
“Yup. And weren’t you supposed to have married a millionaire?”
“Yup. Shit. How did you end up living my life and I end up living yours?”
“Good point. Wanna swap?” Alice smiles.
“Only if I can keep Harry.”
“Nope. If we swap you have to have Joe and I get to have Harry.”
“You’ve never met Harry, how do you know you’d even like him?”
“A man who trains dogs for a living? I’m in love with him already. How bad can he be?”
“So can I ask a question?” Emily pauses and stops to look at Alice. “Just why exactly did you marry Joe?”
It’s a question Alice has asked herself many times over the years. When he’s loving and kind, she thinks she knows why she married him, but when he’s distant and distracted, she has absolutely no idea.
Even when he’s being the perfect husband, Alice is forever questioning her life, because she knows that Emily is absolutely right, she has not ended up with the life she daydreamed about.
On a good day she is quite happy. Can find her lifestyle fun, amusing despite its superficiality (of which she is well aware). Can appreciate the trendy restaurants, the beautiful people, the endless round of cocktails and canapés. Looks at her husband and thinks he is the most wonderful man in the world, is happy just to be by his side.
On a good day she thinks that daydreams are just that: daydreams. That if they were ever to come true they wouldn’t be nearly as wonderful as the fantasy.
On a bad day she wants to run away. Wonders whether she could make it on her own, thanks God there are no children as yet (again, that is Joe’s doing, Joe wanting to have at least five years together to enjoy themselves as a couple, to be able to take off to Italy, or Spain, or France whenever they feel like it, without having to worry about the responsibility of children).
The five years is now up, and Alice is waiting for the right time to broach the subject of children, because thirty-five is already far older than she wanted to be as a first-time mother, and she knows that time is not on her side.
On a bad day Alice thinks about just upping and leaving, taking one suitcase with her, the barest essentials, and going to live in the country somewhere, getting as far away from this world as she possibly can.
She lies in bed those nights when Joe is absent, emotionally or physically, and dreams of divorce. She doesn’t cry, not anymore, just lies there thinking about another Alice, an Alice who isn’t a trophy wife.
When Joe first took her out, when he took her to the best restaurants, lavished her with presents, cuddled her in the mornings and told her she was cute, she felt as if she had stepped out of her rather dull life and into a movie.
Everything suddenly became so exciting that she left the old Alice behind without a second glance, didn’t think she needed the old Alice anymore, didn’t think she was the old Alice anymore.
“Joe loves me.” Alice turns to Emily, trying to justify her marriage. “And I love him.”
“Is that enough?”
“I don’t know. But I think right now it has to be.”
Sometimes Emily knows she just has to back off, and this, quite clearly, is one of those times. She swiftly changes the subject. “So I can’t believe you’re going to meet Harry! I’m so nervous! Where do you think we should go for dinner?”
“Would you come into town even though it’s on a Saturday night? Should we go somewhere special?”
“Of course we’d come into town, just as long as it’s not too expensive. Dog trainers aren’t investment bankers, you know.”
“I know, I know. Of course it won’t be expensive. Let me have a think and I’ll let you know.”
“Hi, darling.” Joe phones while Alice is crawling along Baker Street, sitting in the car at a standstill while throngs of shoppers rush from Selfridges to Marks & Spencer, intent on a bargain. “Where are you?”
“Nearly home. I’ve been with Emily and Humphrey.”
“That’s nice. I’m just phoning to say that tonight’s canceled. Eddie’s got flu. Do you want to go anyway? Just the two of us?”
“You know what I’d really like? I’d really like it if we stayed home tonight. I’ll make something lovely for dinner and we can have an early night.”
“Sounds perfect,” Joe smiles. “There’s nothing I like more than an early night with my wife. I’ll be home by eight. I love you.”
“I love you the most.”
“I love you the most.” Alice smiles.
“Okay.”
Joe laughs, and puts the phone down, turning to watch a pair of long legs cross the office floor. A tall woman, perhaps in her early thirties, glides in front of his desk, golden hair in a tight chignon, voluptuous curves squeezed into a fitted chocolate-brown suit. She has a mixture of sensuality and confidence, and absolute knowledge that every man on the floor is watching her, given away only by the fact that she refuses to take her eyes off the middle distance as she disappears out of the double doors to the lifts.
“Je-sus.” Joe swivels round in his chair and lets out a long, low whistle. “Now who was that?”
Dave looks up from the phone just in time to see the back of the blonde before the double doors swing shut. “That is the new office ball-breaker. Josie Mitchell. Used to run Risk Arb at Goldmans, is here to be COO of Equity Capital Markets.”
“That’s Josie Mitchell? Christ, I always pictured her as a frump. She’s not the new office ball-breaker, my friend. Did you see those legs? She’s the new office babe.”
Dave raises his eyes to the ceiling. “You mean Joe Chambers’s new office babe. C
areful, Joe. She’s not some bimbo. You want to be careful with this one. You know what the Goldmans bonuses were last year, so you know we must have paid a fortune to tempt her over here.”
“Maybe she heard there was a better class of man at Godfrey Hamilton Saltz.”
Dave snorts with laughter. “She’s not some bimbo you can screw and forget. That’s all I’m saying. Be careful.”
“Careful? It’s my middle name. Anyway, I have no intention of screwing her. I’m a reformed man, not to mention a married one. Which reminds me”—Joe checks his watch and picks up the phone again—“I have to call the travel agent before I leave.” He punches the number in and sits back on his chair.
“Jackie? Hello, darling, it’s Joe. Did you manage to get a room at the Lygon Arms? You did? Oh, that’s great, you’re an incredible woman, did anyone ever tell you that before?”
“What’s this?” Alice looks down at the white envelope Joe has just slid on to her pillow. They have feasted on minted lamb salad and tabbouleh, on succulent fresh raspberries and homemade vanilla ice cream. They have drunk a 1990 Bordeaux and two espressos each. They have undressed in the privacy of their dressing rooms and have met again in bed, where Joe has smiled his come-to-bed smile and reached out for her to come into his arms.
And now Joe is lying on his side of the bed reading the Financial Times, and Alice is lying on hers, reading the latest novel that everyone is talking about.
“Open it.” Joe puts the paper down and watches her with a smile.
Alice tears the envelope and pulls out a brochure for the Lygon Arms and a faxed piece of paper confirming a reservation for two in the Charles I suite for Friday, April 15, and Saturday, April 16. The coming weekend.
“What’s this for?” She’s smiling.
“For us to have a romantic weekend away. I thought you could do with a rest from our hectic London life, and I know how much you love the country so I thought I’d surprise you.”
“Oh, it is lovely.” Alice grins and rolls over to kiss him. “What a lovely, lovely surprise. I can’t wait. Oh no.” She groans, remembering that Saturday night is dinner with Emily and Harry. “What shall I do about Saturday? Emily and Harry.”
“Cancel them,” Joe says. “They won’t mind.”
“But I’m always canceling Emily,” Alice says, “and she’s so excited, and anyway, I want to meet Harry. Can we change our booking? Could we go the weekend after?”
“Absolutely not. I’ve already arranged everything and I’m not changing it.” Joe crosses his arms. “I’m telling you, Emily will understand.”
“No. She always understands and I promised her I wouldn’t do it again. We won’t be able to go.”
“Alice, you’re being completely irrational. If we canceled now we’d still have to pay for it, which is crazy. I’m not going to cancel it.”
“Okay. Then let’s bring them with.”
“And who’s going to pay for it?”
“You are. This will be my birthday present.”
“Your birthday isn’t until May.”
“I know. Consider it an early gift.”
“Alice, the point of this weekend is to have time together.”
“But you love Emily, and anyway, don’t we always have much more fun when we’re with friends?” This last isn’t strictly true in Alice’s case, but she knows that Joe is almost always happier in a crowd, and sure enough, Joe shrugs in agreement.
“Go on then,” he says, seeing how happy it makes her. “You can phone her tomorrow.”
“I hope they come,” Alice says happily. “They haven’t even had sex yet. It might be a bit awkward.”
“They haven’t had sex yet? Well, this will be a golden opportunity for them. She ought to be paying me, not the other way around.” Joe folds up the paper and stretches over to turn off his bedside light.
6
Joe pushes through the City boys crowding round the bar and manages to catch the attention of the bartender.
“Two Cosmopolitans, two single malts, no ice, and a pint of bitter,” he shouts slowly, enunciating carefully so as to be heard over the Friday night din.
As usual for six P.M. on a Friday, Corney & Barrow is packed. Jackets are slung over the backs of stools, ties are being loosened, and the men and women who keep the money pumping through the financial heart of the country are finally able to have a few drinks and relax.
They deserve it. Most are at their desks by six A.M. Monday to Friday, and many are lucky if they make it home before ten. Long hours are made bearable by the promise—not always fulfilled—of absurdly large January bonuses and the knowledge that working hard guarantees early retirement and the ability to play even harder.
Joe takes the drinks over to a noisy table in the corner. Dave drains his old pint glass to make way for the new, and the others follow suit, all except Josie, who didn’t want another Cosmopolitan, doesn’t really want to be here at all, but has to get to know her colleagues, can’t be seen as standoffish or distant, and knows the Friday night drink after work is the best possible place to prove she is one of the boys.
That Josie Mitchell is one of the boys is the very last thing on Joe’s mind. He’s been watching her for the last couple of days, looking up from his phone calls with interest as she passes his desk, more interested because she has not noticed him, has not even looked his way.
He had finally found himself in a meeting with her this afternoon, mustering all his charm to introduce himself, and had been surprised by her coolness and lack of interest, so that he was even more surprised when she agreed to join him and a few of the others for a drink.
Naturally Joe is inspired by her apparent lack of interest. He likes cool women, sees them as a challenge, and has maneuvered the seating so he is sitting next to her. Right now he is ignoring her, chatting with other colleagues, biding his time, for he is quite sure that his time will come later that evening, that he will manage to melt her icy exterior, discover whether she is as intriguing as she looks.
“Right, I’m off.” Dave drains his third pint and stands up, reaching for his jacket. “Need to get home to the wife,” he says. “You coming?” He looks at Joe, a hint of a smile, for he knows what Joe is up to.
Joe gestures to his full glass of single-malt whisky. “Not yet,” he says. “I still need a drink or two to relax.”
“I’d better get going too.” Sarah stands up, and within a few minutes the only people left at the table are Joe and Josie.
“I should leave,” Josie says, standing up and offering a smile to Joe for the first time that week.
“At least finish your drink.” Joe nods to her untouched Cosmopolitan. “Can’t let a decent Cosmopolitan go to waste.”
Josie checks her watch and sighs. She has nothing to rush home for, after all, just a stark empty flat in Chelsea, a chilled bottle of Chardonnay, and Patrick Kielty Almost Live. And it is quite nice sitting in this cozy corner in this busy bar on a Friday night, and it is only one Cosmopolitan, and she’s curious to see if Joe Chambers really does live up to his reputation.
Hell. It’s only a drink. What harm can it do?
Emily has refused point blank to let Joe pay for her and Harry to go to the Lygon Arms, particularly as she has a perfectly good cottage in the country that the four of them can go to. As she said to Alice, it’s not very grand and the food probably won’t be Lygon Arms quality—unless of course Alice decides to take over on that front—but it’s certainly cheaper and they’ll have just as much fun.
And so here they are, Emily and Harry, on a Friday afternoon, standing just inside the foyer of Alice’s house, on their way to driving down to the country, and Harry’s jaw is almost on the floor as he looks around, taking in the vast ceiling, the walls of glass, the sheer size of the place.
“Bloody hell!” he says.
Alice starts to laugh. “I know. Welcome to my museum.”
“It’s amazing,” Harry says, when he finally recovers the power of speech.
“I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“You get used to it after a while,” Emily says. “So now say hello to my best friend, Alice.”
“God, I’m sorry.” Harry grins as he extends a hand. “That was incredibly rude. It just took my breath away for a minute. I’m Harry. Hello, Alice.”
“Hello, Harry.” Alice likes him immediately. He has kind eyes, she thinks. Good teeth. A strong handshake. Yes. He’s good enough for Emily. “Would you like a coffee or something before we go?”
“Do you want to see the house?” Emily nudges Harry, who is again gazing around. “Alice will give you the guided tour if you want. The dogs will be okay outside for a few minutes.”
“We only charge five quid for the tour, or six if you include the coffee.”
Harry laughs. “I’ll do a deal with you. If you give the house tour I’ll do the driving.”
“You mean I should waive the five-pound fee?”
Harry looks indignant. “My chauffeur fees are usually twice that.”
“Okay. Done!” Alice smiles, walking up the stairs and beckoning for them both to follow.
“See?” Emily scoots up behind Alice and whispers in her ear. “I told you you’d like him.”
Alice is not what he expected. Emily has spoken of her glamorous best friend and shown him pictures of the two of them together. He has seen a pictorial history of Emily and Alice throughout their lives—the two of them as beaming little girls holding on to each end of a skipping rope, Emily and Alice sitting on a beach, clutching their knees and grinning, their eyes hidden behind huge sunglasses.
And then more recently Emily with the same wild hair, the same wide smile, but Alice looking completely different. “This is the same girl?” he’d asked in amazement, looking at pictures taken at Emily’s birthday dinner last year, staring at the glossy beautiful woman, immaculately made up, her smile for the camera doing a bad job of hiding the sadness in her eyes.