‘How did you get into what you’re doing now – the writing and speaking?’ I asked him, over coffees laced with liqueur.
‘I’ll tell you,’ he said, ‘if you stay open.’ I put out my little finger and he gripped it with his own. ‘OK,’ he continued. ‘One day I decided it was what I was going to do.’ I nodded and waited for more, but he sipped his coffee.
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘And then it all happened, but the decision was the making of it.’
‘You make it sound so simple,’ I said.
‘It is and it isn’t. They have a lovely terrace here. Would you like to have a nightcap?’ I didn’t say anything, but perhaps my face was giving take-me-anywhere vibes because he got up and held out his hand to help me. He left it resting lightly on my arm as he guided me up some stairs at the back of the room. I was anxious someone might think we were doing a bunk and stop us, but the staff all smiled politely and moved aside. Frank reminded me of a documentary Dylan and I watched on dog training. The host demonstrated how you had to convey, with your stance and energy, that you were the alpha dog. Frank moved in a way that told the world he was the leader of the pack.
The stairs opened to a balcony. A man out there alone on his phone left as we entered, his face an apologetic frown. We must have looked like people who desired privacy, a couple. I wonder if it was this, seeing us through the stranger’s eyes, that prompted Frank to kiss me. I resisted briefly, more because it felt unfamiliar than wrong, but then I was in it, like being trapped on a fairground ride, scared and excited and unable to get off until someone else stopped it. His head was bent but he still had to lift me to reach his mouth, and my feet had nearly cleared the ground. I thought to myself, I’m actually floating, and made myself laugh in his mouth. He placed me back to earth but kept his arms wrapped around me.
‘Not my best review,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. I shook my head and tried to regain my composure. ‘This is so … I don’t know what it is.’
‘It’s easy,’ he said. He was right. I hadn’t thought about homework or bills or Carter for an hour. ‘You know what the biggest lie is? That things worth having aren’t easy.’ I let my head fall in to him. I wanted to set up camp there. ‘Can we address this?’ I looked up at him. ‘How good I feel when you’re around.’ I put my head down and spoke into his shirt.
‘Must we?’
‘I think so,’ he said.
‘There’s nothing we can do. You’re married. I’m married.’
‘There’s things we can do. It’s deciding whether we want to.’ That wasn’t true. Doing whatever you wanted meant being like my brother or my mum. Someone always has to be unhappy in life, and I’d accepted that it would probably be me. I stepped away from him.
‘It’s time I went home,’ I said.
‘This weekend,’ he said back.
‘No, now.’
‘Give me this weekend. Two days, one night. I’m doing an event in Birmingham Saturday afternoon. Come with me.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Tell him you have work.’ It was the first time he had mentioned Dylan. He made him sound like a minor hurdle; I felt protective of him.
‘It’s not right.’ He opened his suit jacket and pulled a packet of cigarettes from the inside pocket.
‘You don’t know that yet,’ he said.
‘I’m going,’ I said, and walked towards the door, careful to leave plenty of space as I passed him. He didn’t stop me, and I heard him light his cigarette and inhale as I pulled at the heavy metal. I ran down the stairs, stumbling at the bottom and drawing the attention of several diners. The light was starting to dim and I couldn’t recall where the exit was. As I headed towards what I thought was the way out, the girl who had been serving us stopped me.
‘Your bill?’ she asked.
‘God, yeah.’ I could feel my cheeks burning. I rooted in my bag for my debit card. She took it from me before going to get the machine. When she returned, I tapped in the PIN without looking at the total.
‘Where’s the exit?’ I asked. She pointed behind me and explained the route. ‘Thanks,’ I said before walking away, although I had already forgotten what she had said. My mind was consumed with two words: ‘One night.’
I don’t know how I went home that evening, kissed Dylan and dismissed his questions about the meeting; ironed the girls’ uniforms and watched a film about two people waking up in each other’s bodies. Externally, I was the perfect wife, or if I wasn’t Dylan didn’t seem to notice. I even initiated sex, not out of guilt but because I didn’t want him to suspect anything was wrong.
‘What’s got into you?’ asked Dylan as we both lay staring at the ceiling, so perhaps I had tried too hard.
17
IT WAS ALARMING how wrong it didn’t feel, even though I forced myself to consider the irresponsibility of my actions at regular intervals. After having Chloe, the midwife advised me to exercise my battered pelvic floor whenever I went to the loo; I used the same system to try and strengthen my resolve. Whilst emptying my bladder I’d run through a list of horrifying potential outcomes – Dylan’s anger; the girls’ confusion; that Frank wouldn’t want me after a weekend; that he would. My plan was misguided because it made me think about Frank, and thinking about him unleashed a soap opera’s worth of emotions – anger at Dylan for not recognizing that I needed more, as well as frustration at myself for waiting so long to acknowledge that maybe I wanted it. Work, until now the bedrock of my anxiety, was a welcome distraction. Bettina had a date and wasn’t prepared to let me get anything done until we had analysed every aspect of the limited information she had on the man. He didn’t sound bad – he appeared to have both a legitimate profession and a full set of teeth. Generally, Bettina treated dating like a sport, possibly hunting, but she actually seemed nervous about this one – she was still living under the shadow of the one that came before.
‘Does he look honest?’ she asked, holding her phone towards me. It was a photo of him at the beach; he was holding a beer, and his face and arms were a worrying shade of pink.
‘Definitely. Only an honest person would put that picture online.’
‘He’s a teacher,’ she said.
‘That’s noble.’
‘Hmmmm.’ She examined the image again, her lips pursed in concentration. She looked especially beautiful when she was serious.
‘Has anyone ever cheated on you?’ I asked her. Bettina placed her phone next to her keyboard carefully.
‘Not that I know of,’ she said, ‘but then I make it very clear that if I find evidence of indiscretion, and trust me I look for it, I will cut out their spleen with a rusty screwdriver.’ I laughed and sounded like a faulty car horn.
‘That’s extreme.’
‘No, it’s the worst thing you can do to someone.’
‘It’s definitely up there. Where even is the spleen?’
‘I meant the cheating,’ clarified Bettina, as she clicked on her monitor.
‘Not the worst, surely?’ I noticed my right leg jiggling and crossed my left one over it. Bettina didn’t answer and stared above my head. I followed her gaze to Annie, standing behind me.
‘You have a visitor,’ she said. ‘In reception.’ She seemed perturbed and I experienced a rush of fear. Frank didn’t seem like the sort to spring an office-hours visit – too flashy and obvious – but he had made it clear that he wanted my attention. I paused in the hallway before walking down, gave myself a minute to steady my ragged breath. I’m ashamed to say it wasn’t my rapidly loosening morals that alarmed me – I was scared that if he saw me in the real world, my everyday self in a humdrum office environment, whatever spell I had managed to weave would be broken. The foyer was empty apart from the receptionist and a slender woman wearing a close-fitting coral suit, perched on one of the modernist sofas. I started towards the door, thinking maybe Frank had gone for a smoke, and the woman called my name.
‘Alison?’
‘Yes,’ I said. She approached, impressively quickly given the height of her spindly black heels, and extended a tanned hand. I took it, and a row of bangles on her arm jangled as we shook.
‘I’m Anoushka Shuldeshov-Rollinson, but feel free to call me Nush.’
‘Thanks. Great. I will.’ She looked so happy. I felt awkward, not knowing why I was the source of it.
‘Should we go in?’ she asked, gesturing towards the office doors behind me.
‘Sure,’ I said. She didn’t seem like a security risk. I led the way to a meeting room that no one ever booked because it was so near the toilets. She stood in the doorway, looking gleefully around the empty space.
‘So, this is where the magic happens,’ she said. She took a seat at the head of the table and pulled a compact out of her voluminous bag. ‘Ugh,’ she said, examining her face. ‘I’m disgustingly pale. I look like I’m dead.’ She was so bronzed her skin was in danger of clashing with her suit. If she was dead, I was decomposing. She closed her compact with a ready-for-action snap. For a few seconds she was still, her features a picture of contemplation. I took a seat as quietly as I could.
‘Do we have bubbles?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Champs?’ She looked at me, and I saw the confusion I felt reflected back at me. ‘Don’t we drink champagne? I thought you marketing people were all about the bubbles.’
‘I … I think you’re getting confused with Absolutely Fabulous.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A TV show from the nineties, with Jennifer Saunders.’ She frowned. ‘Forget it. I think we might have some fizzy water somewhere.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not thirsty. I’m on a juice cleanse, a whole-life detox actually. I’ve already had personal training this morning, and after that like a litre of green juice. My body is begging for mercy.’ She slipped off her heels and swung both legs over one arm of the chair. Her toenails were also coral, and I wondered whether she changed them every day to match her outfit. Nush made a come-hither motion with her arms. ‘Just throw me your ideas,’ she said, and closed her eyes. When I didn’t speak she opened them. Without warning, she laughed and clapped her hands together. ‘He didn’t tell you, did he?’
‘Tell me what? And who?’
‘Frank! He’s so cheeky. Let’s start again.’ She placed her feet back on the floor and her palms flat on the table.
‘I’m Nush. I’m pulling together an art show. The youngest, hippest artists from across Europe, basically my friends. I need to promote it and Frank said you’re the best in the business.’
‘He did, did he?’
‘He’s great, isn’t he?’ I examined her again. She appeared not to be wearing a top, or indeed underwear, under her jacket.
‘Yep, he’s certainly something. How do you guys know each other?’
‘From around. OK, my project. I was thinking “Shining Lights” or “Under the Lights” but you can work on that. Will ten grand do for a start?’ And with that, Anoushka Shuldeshov-Rollinson became my tropical-coloured saviour.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I believe that would be a great start.’
Nush was working more with feelings than concrete ideas. She had a stack of family money and a sense that, either because or in spite of it, she wasn’t taken seriously by those around her. I could tell from her demeanour and the way every conversation would spin off into a tale about a party, more often than not on a boat, that her lack of professional standing was not a consequence of her background. Basically, she was the high-end version of Henry. She wanted me to develop a brand for her event, but more than that she wanted me to rebrand her. I made some notes and told her that I would pull together a basic project outline. She looked weary but jubilant at the end of the meeting.
As I walked her out, Annie was loitering in reception. She thrust her hand towards Nush as we approached.
‘Hi, I’m Annie. I work with Alison,’ she said, without making eye contact with me.
‘Yes, Annie assists me on a lot of projects,’ I said. Nush let the hand hang between them and eventually Annie withdrew. Nush kissed my cheeks, leaving the scent of grapefruit in the air around me.
‘Thanks for your time. I’ll be in touch. Ciao,’ she said.
‘Rude,’ said Annie when Nush was at a safe distance. It was the first time I had seen her unsettled. I certainly wasn’t going to offer any reassurances.
‘She’s fine. Just particular.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Anoushka Shuldeshov-Rollinson,’ I said, unable to contain a contented sigh after I spoke.
‘Your confidential client? Carter told me she was foreign or something.’
‘Yeah. Sort of. She’s from here; her money isn’t.’ Annie’s mouth fell open. I wanted to tell her to watch out for flies.
‘Thanks for your notes from the Emerge meeting,’ I told her. ‘I have some thoughts for you. I’m not sure you’re working with the best lead time.’ I started back to my desk, without giving Annie the opportunity to fall in beside me. The staccato beat of her heels as she followed made my heart sing.
Of course, I had to get in touch to thank him. It would be rude not to. I was a liar and an adulterer but I wasn’t impolite. His email footer included a mobile number and I texted a brief, professional thank you. One that left no room for a developed response. He messaged back immediately, chastising me for paying for dinner and then again with a string of numbers. A third message explained that the numbers were a booking for a first-class train ticket to Birmingham on Saturday morning. He wrote that he would see me at the station at midday or he would not. I didn’t want to feel that because he had gifted me a new client I owed him, but I did owe him for something; for reconnecting me to a woman with a taste for excitement – the girl who backpacked through Asia and moved to the city with a single suitcase and an envelope stuffed with cash. I was grateful for that. That could have been enough. It should have been.
I stopped at a butcher’s on the way home. I wanted to make a pie. The man behind the counter seemed frustrated with my lack of meat-related vocabulary. Mum rarely cooked for us when we were growing up. She said it wasn’t an efficient use of her time; most of our meals were served on toast. We had a roast at my grandmother’s on a Sunday, and that made up our weekly quota of veg. I was unable to answer his queries about cuts and kilos. With a queue of tutting customers expanding behind me, I pointed at some steaks and gulped back my surprise when he told me the cost.
I had them seasoned and ready to go when Dylan came in from his lesson. He kissed me on the head, right on the crown, and sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs.
‘Perfect,’ he sighed. ‘What are we having with them, Nibs?’
‘Chips,’ I said.
‘Homemade?’
‘No.’
I cooked his meat how he liked it, so that juices flowed out with the first cut. He ate in silence. I didn’t feel hungry; my stomach had been replaced with a concrete slab. I shovelled in oven chips without tasting them.
‘I needed that,’ he said when he was done. That was how Dylan had always been; with his belly full he was usually content. However, he didn’t seem content, far from it.
‘What’s up?’ I asked, and waited to be underwhelmed by the response. Last time I had seen that look on his face, he had misplaced his headphones. I knew I shielded him from a lot of our problems, or perhaps he placed me in their path.
‘The college have stopped advertising me. They’ve got some corporate firm in now. It’s half my customers.’ It was silly – I should have been concerned for him, for us, but I was pleased. Dylan had inherited his business from an uncle who was retiring. Within a week of qualifying he was set up with a car and a string of new learners. Year after year he got referrals from the local college; that and word of mouth kept him afloat. He wasn’t a hustler – he was always telling me not to fix things that weren’t broken, but something doesn’t have to stop working to warrant an upgrad
e. I had set him up with a website. He feigned interest for a while, but when I tried to log on a year later, a stark white page informed me the site was available for purchase. I thought perhaps he could do with some jeopardy in his life.
‘Don’t you have any other connections?’ I asked. Although I was sure of the answer, I was being generous and giving him an opportunity to surprise me.
‘No,’ he said glumly.
‘And they didn’t give you any warning?’ I imagined there were signs or even overt indicators that he wilfully ignored. Dylan pushed his plate away and leaned back in the chair. I winced as the back legs creaked.
‘Maybe I’ll retrain,’ he said wistfully. ‘Do plumbing like we talked about.’ The only time I could recall us discussing that particular career path, we were at a wedding. It was my first outing after Ruby’s birth and I was breathless: from worry about leaving her with my mother, and from ill-fitting Spanx. Dylan was tipsy. I was sober – trying to keep my breast milk clean. I had humoured him. I didn’t consider that a talk.
‘You’ll work something out,’ I said, patting his shoulder. He looked doubtful. ‘I’ll help.’ I could tell this reassured him, and it irritated me. Of course I would be on hand to clean up the spill. ‘Why don’t you call Mickey and see if he wants to go for a pint?’
‘You don’t mind?’
‘No, I sort of don’t want to look at your face right now.’ He looked sad and I offered a parody of a laugh.
‘I’ll take a shower and then I’ll call him,’ Dylan said. He was always showering. I remembered reading that it was a sign of an affair, and for a week I’d tracked his hygiene habits for evidence of this. Finding no common thread, I sneaked a look at his phone one morning when he was helping Chloe to look for her PE kit – he had never had a PIN. There was no affair; just a man with a small house, two children and a very high score on Candy Crush.
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