Between You and Me

by Carol Mason

  ‘No,’ he says. ‘But I get it. The guy probably wanted to succeed on his own merit. I’d have probably kept it quiet too. In fact, I absolutely would have.’

  I nod. I could totally see Joe decrying any form of nepotism.

  ‘Like I said, Meredith is a bit of a contradiction. She can have so much integrity on the one hand – she’s devoted her career to fighting for the underdog, she sits on boards that champion women lawyers’ rights . . . All her career she’s taken a firm stand against the sexual misconduct that’s rampant in the legal profession, and then she goes and does the very thing herself.’

  ‘This is astonishing!’ And more than a little hypocritical. ‘Maybe she thought she was getting even on men . . . after being so badly let down by even her own father’s behaviour.’

  ‘Who knows . . . Meredith is always in battle. But I’ve often suspected her greatest fight is really with herself.’

  With all this new information, I can barely keep up. ‘So how did you find this out? Did she just admit this, too?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she had any intention of breathing a word. But there were rumours aplenty when she got denied Silk, and some of them found their way back to me . . .’ He tilts his head benignly. ‘So there it is. Everything you wanted to know about my ex-wife but felt it was pointless asking.’

  I study him, oddly grateful for this breakthrough. ‘You forgave her the first time for the sake of your kids. Why not the second?’

  He frowns. ‘Come on! Enough is enough.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  I’m on the platform at Victoria waiting for the train to East Croydon, and someone pops into my head.

  I pull up her number and type a text.

  Hi Mel. Just wanted to say hello. Still hoping to have coffee sometime – just been so busy with work and a few other things. How are things with you?

  She replies almost instantly.

  Hello Lauren. Hope all is well. Busy here too. OH away for a week on business so I’m holding the fort. In some ways it’s actually easier (!!!) but zero time to come up for air. Great to hear from you!

  I respond. Well, let’s definitely try to make coffee happen!

  She replies after a moment: Let’s stay in touch, see what opens up, time-wise, in the next week or so.

  Perfect! I say.

  On Saturday morning, Joe picks up Toby and Grace from their mother’s. I make pancakes, and then we take Toby to the lido and Grace goes off to meet a friend. I sit on a bench in the sunshine while Joe tries to teach Toby how to hold his breath under water for five to ten seconds, and coordinate the movement of his arms with his legs. I snap photos of their frivolity, Toby thrashing and splashing, Joe intermittently ducking and disappearing, then popping up and surprising him. In the afternoon Toby has a birthday party to go to, and his mother is going to take him, so Joe drops off Toby at Meredith’s and then takes Grace to the Apple store to sort out an issue with her new iPhone. Joe asks if I want to join them but a friend from my home town is in London for the day and I promised to meet her for drinks.

  On Sunday the weather could not be more beautiful again, so we take the kids to Hyde Park. Joe makes a reservation for brunch at The Ivy on High Street Kensington. Mealtimes are a big thing to my husband, I am learning. The food, yes. But also the act of four people sitting around a table, no matter how discordant. They might say success is the journey, not the destination, but Joe would not subscribe to this; Joe is all about destination.

  Grace sleeps in until after ten and only surfaces because her dad gives her very little option. Joe and I share a second espresso, then we pile into the Lexus and drive across town, where we park down a random back street in Mayfair. We cross the Park Lane underpass – Joe carrying Toby until we are on the other side – emerging at the entrance to Hyde Park, back into fresh air. We watch the horses on the bridle path and then wander down to the Serpentine. As we pass the cafe, Toby sees people walking out with ice creams, so, of course, Toby wants an ice cream.

  ‘After brunch, buddy, I told you that.’ Joe rumples his son’s hair.

  Toby is not fond of this idea of after lunch. ‘I want one now!’ he chants, over and over.

  ‘Lots of things we want we don’t get, little guy!’ Joe tries to take hold of his hand because Toby refuses to walk now, but he snaps them behind his back. ‘I said I want one now!’ He starts to wail. ‘Now, now, now, now, now!’

  When Joe says no again, Toby stamps his feet and starts to bawl. A family coming out of the cafe throw us a dirty look.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, this is driving me insane!’ Grace says. ‘Can’t you just get him one to shut him up?’

  ‘Grace!’ Joe looks stunned. ‘Will you watch your language, please!’

  ‘What about a really small one?’ I say. ‘It’s a pretty long walk. By the time we get there he’ll have more than worked up an appetite again.’

  ‘Lauren’s right!’ Grace sends me a look of support and despair. ‘Just let him have one. Please!’

  Joe ignores us. ‘Let’s go!’ He scoops Toby up and runs with him, scattering the pigeons and seagulls in his path. Toby squeals – something between a cry and a laugh. I’m exhausted just watching Joe, with his extraordinary patience and show of stamina that could rival those of a guy half his age. But there’s a moment where his point about not wanting to be doing all this when he’s approaching fifty rings true.

  ‘Toby, look at the swans!’ I point to the half-dozen circling the water in a choreographic arc. ‘Aren’t they beautiful?’

  But right now Toby couldn’t give a flying banana about the swans. ‘Ice cream. Ice cream. I want ice cream.’

  I dig in his bag and pull out Godfrey the Giraffe and try to do the ventriloquist act I was teaching him this morning, when he’d tried to copy my silliness and ended up in peals of laughter.

  He watches me clowning around and lets out a humungous scream.

  ‘Come on, buddy,’ Joe says, irritated now. He suddenly looks thoroughly worn out.

  ‘Look, can I just meet you guys at the restaurant?’ Grace gawks at her brother like he’s an alien life form. ‘I might duck into H&M. It’s right across the street.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that?’ I say, momentarily dreading the idea of her popping into a clothes shop. Although a week or two ago I caught myself entering her room and having a quick scan of her wardrobe to see if there were any suspicious new arrivals. There weren’t.

  ‘If I get to the restaurant first, I’ll see if I can get us a table in the gazebo.’ Grace smiles at me, then mouths, ‘Thank you.’

  Joe looks a little peeved. ‘Anyone else want to leave while we’re at it?’ My husband is clearly determined to make us an episode of The Waltons.

  Grace tuts, but before she strides off Joe says, ‘Here. If you’re going to a shop, take this.’

  He hands her three crisp twenty-pound notes.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, and off she goes. I watch her long slim legs in her denim mini skirt and gold Converse. Her confident, lengthy stride, her hair a sleek and shiny wave down her back.

  Toby eventually wears himself out. The walk ends up being slow but pleasant. We take a few diversions, pass the Princess Diana memorial, Round Pond, then exit on to Palace Gate. There’s some royal movement about to happen at the side of the palace, judging by the convoy of motorcycles and Range Rovers idling inside the gated grounds. ‘I wonder who’s coming out!’ I say. ‘Look, Toby . . . do you think Prince George might be going to church today?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Toby says. ‘But if he is, will he be going on a motorbike?’ He looks up at me, his green eyes huge from the magnification of his glasses.

  I laugh. ‘I don’t think so! I doubt he’ll be getting his licence for quite a few years!’

  Joe and I smile.

  ‘But if he’s royal can’t he go on a motorbike if he wants to?’

  ‘Life doesn’t quite work like that, buddy. Not even royal life.’ Joe’s face is full of fatherly adoratio
n.

  ‘I want to see Prince George now,’ he says, his attention on the cars, rapt.

  We stand and watch for a while. Joe holds Toby’s hand and I sneak glances at them. Father and son. Their interlocking grasps. Toby’s long slim fingers that look so much like his dad’s. Joe’s amazing hair. The Ray-Bans and worn black leather jacket; he looks effortlessly sexy.

  And then, quite out of the blue, Toby’s little hand reaches for mine. I stare at it, feel our palms pressing together, and I am overcome with the most disarming sense of togetherness. As the three of us stand here, I think, He could be mine. This could be my son, with Joe. A child we created.

  When I glance up, Joe is watching me, something charmed and introspective in his eyes. We smile again. And I can’t help but wonder if right this minute he might be thinking the same thing.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Grace is in the gazebo when we arrive. She looks up, grins.

  ‘What did you buy?’ I sit opposite her.

  ‘Just some white jeans and a mock-croc belt. I might go back later though. They had some really nice tank tops but I didn’t have time to try them and I’ve still got twenty quid left.’ Then, after a brief hesitation, she says, ‘Would you like to come with me? They’ve got some cool summer stuff in . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘That would be great.’

  Joe gives me a little cock of his eyebrow. I don’t know if he’s trying to say, That’s great you guys are getting along! Or, Thank God she clearly didn’t nick anything.

  Either way, it feels good.

  We peruse the menu. I order the salmon fishcake with the poached eggs and arugula, Toby and Grace want French toast and Joe orders a steak with eggs, and we mock him for his very American choice. Grace is chatty, and I notice that my attempts to join in aren’t met with her usual apathy or eye rolls. We order a bottle of Prosecco and Grace starts telling us about a concert she wants to go to in Reading.

  ‘Look, hang on. I’m going to find it.’ She picks up her phone and starts googling.

  The waiter brings over our drinks.

  ‘Urgh! I can’t believe this damned phone . . . It’s doing the same thing again!’ She glances up, drops her jaw in exasperation and looks at her dad.

  ‘What? I thought they fixed it!’ he says.

  ‘I thought so too! This is ridiculous!’ She tinkers on with it then finally throws it on the table. ‘Can I borrow yours?’

  I realise she means mine. ‘Of course.’ I enter my password and hand it over.

  I watch her long slim fingers with the blue-varnished nails, the thumbs flying over the keyboard. ‘My God, don’t you ever close your apps? There’s loads open! They really drain your battery. Look . . .’ She flashes the screen around so I can quickly see it, double-clicks the Home button, flicks her index finger upwards and a multitude of screens go by.

  ‘Yikes,’ I grimace. ‘That explains a lot of things.’

  ‘God, you’ve got millions . . .’

  I watch her messing about with my phone, oddly uncomfortable with how she’s suddenly taken possession of it. ‘Can I have it back now?’ I hold out my hand.

  ‘Just a second . . .’

  As I wait, I am aware of her index finger stilling, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on the screen.

  ‘Grace?’ I say.

  But she’s not listening. And then her brows knit and her face turns beetroot red.

  And then she glares at me and says, ‘Oh. My. God.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Biological Mother was never there?’ Meredith comes stalking down our hall towards me the instant I get the front door open. At first it’s so disorientating to see her here – in my home – that I cannot even drum up a reaction.

  ‘Telltale, troublemaker. Sullen, silent, ANGRY . . .’

  She moves in on me, her words hitting me like bullets. My eyes slide past her to Joe standing stiff as a board in the background.

  ‘Meredith . . .’ She is about two feet away and I hold up my hands. ‘Please stop. I can explain if you calm down and let me.’

  ‘How could you say all that?’ She comes within an inch or two of my face. ‘About the kids. About me!’

  I’m puzzled.

  ‘How do I know all this?’ She seems to mind-read. ‘Because I logged on to your forum with a fake account under a fake name. Any experience of that, Lauren?’ She glares at me with contempt. ‘I read everything that Miserable wrote and the replies of all your pathetic little cohorts . . . I mean, my God, I’m glad we all know how you feel. How arduous your plight has been. All – what? – five months of it!’ She throws up her hands, laughs.

  ‘Look.’ Joe finally speaks. ‘This is not helping. Can we all maybe sit down?’

  I am held prisoner by her gaze for a moment, then I manage to slip past her and walk into the living room. Grace is sitting on the sofa staring at the ground, cheeks blazing.

  Meredith stalks after me. ‘Don’t just walk away! I want an explanation.’

  I turn around. We are face to face again, in the middle of the room.

  ‘You go on a forum and tell the world you hate my children? Can you tell me what sort of person would do that? Oh, and what did you say about me? Wouldn’t want to be on her wrong side. Well, honey, I promise you you’re on it now!’

  She takes a long breath and lets it out slowly, like she’s trying to get a grip of herself – or reload.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ I say finally. I look from Meredith, to Joe, to Grace, who is still staring hard at the floor. ‘What you saw was personal. What you’ve done is a complete invasion of my privacy.’

  ‘Whose privacy? Your privacy?’ she mocks, then casts Joe an exasperated glance. ‘Do you believe this woman? You go online and assassinate me and my family and you think you’re the one whose privacy has been violated?’

  The ground seems to be moving and for a second I think it’s an earthquake, then I realise it’s me. I am shaking. My mind whips through the very little I know about the law, thinking of words like, defamation, slander . . . Have I done something legally wrong? Is she going to go after me?

  I head to the nearest chair and sit down. As I do, I feel Grace monitoring all this. We meet eyes, something breaking in the hardness of her gaze, giving way to utter bewilderment and betrayal.

  Then she jumps to her feet. ‘I’m sitting nowhere near her!’ She storms across the room, almost tripping over the dog, her voice breaking. ‘I’m going home. To my real home!’

  Joe calls after her, ‘Grace, darling!’

  But it’s too late. The door clashes behind her.

  There is an interlude where her departure settles on us, where the tension eases a fraction.

  ‘Do you know why I was never there when they were growing up, Lauren?’ Meredith turns those sad, soulful eyes back to me. Her voice is firm, but calmer. ‘Because I was working. Because I am a woman, and no one is cutting me any slack. Unlike my male counterparts, I am still expected to run a home and raise my children, and to do that while trying to rise to the top in a male-dominated world where not one of those males has the same expectations placed on him. Not one of them . . .’ She breaks off, a little breathless from indignation, looks me up and down witheringly. ‘My God, you’re an educated woman yourself. A doctor. Of all the people, I would have thought you would understand.’ She shakes her head, like I am some disappointing enigma to society at large. ‘Have you just gone through your entire life walking between raindrops? Can you really be that out of touch with the world?’

  I swallow hard. They are both waiting for me to speak, and yet I cannot find a response. Joe has relocated to the chair and is leaning forward, elbows on knees. Under his breath I hear him groan, ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I’m not out of touch,’ I say, when I think I can talk without breaking down. ‘You know nothing about me.’

  ‘Then tell me. Tell me what sort of person would go on to a forum and say all that horrible shit about someone else’s kids? The children
of someone you purport to love?’

  My heart pounds. The tears build, and I just think, Oh God, please don’t let me cry! She is staring at me hard, waiting for my answer.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I was feeling very, very down and there was literally no one I could talk to.’ I throw an accusatory glance at Joe, sitting there on the fence – his favourite perch. ‘No one,’ I repeat.

  ‘So you chose a bunch of sad strangers who are disillusioned with their lives. Because you’re a sad person yourself, Lauren.’

  Tears roll down my face. I quickly push them away, try to take a breath.

  ‘Are you going to say anything?’ she asks.

  ‘Are you going to say anything?’ I say to Joe. ‘Or are you just going to sit there, mute?’

  He frowns, seems bamboozled by this. After a spell he says, ‘What do you want me to say, Lauren? That all this was a great, admirable, mature way of dealing with the situation? That I approve?’

  And perhaps because of Joe’s inability to defend me on any level, even for appearance’s sake, to make this fractionally less terrible for me, I suddenly think, This bullshit ends here! I find my spine straightening. ‘Is Meredith going to leave right now, or am I?’ We hold eyes. ‘Because once I’m out of that door, believe me, I am not coming back.’

  He opens his mouth, but it’s Meredith who speaks. ‘You don’t have to leave,’ she says, less inflamed. ‘I’ve said all I intend to. I need to go home and be with my daughter.’ Her gaze coasts over my hot face and I am held there in her wake of her scorn. ‘I think, once you’ve calmed down, you might want to consider apologising to Grace.’ And then she adds, ‘And we can only hope my daughter will be a bigger person than you’ve been.’

  And with that, she leaves.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Miserable?’ He perches on the end of the bed, where I’m lying with my back to him in a foetal ball.

  ‘I’d like to be alone.’ I pull the duvet over my head and squeeze my eyes shut.

  ‘You said I’m in denial about her, that I never know who to believe, that your marriage was a mistake!’ I hear the pain and disenchantment in his voice. ‘You painted me as some sort of irrational, unreasonable monster! It doesn’t even seem like something you’d do – go online, on to a forum.’ And then he almost spits, ‘What’s wrong with you?’