About Last Night

by Adele Parks

  It still hurt Pip to remember that, following her break-up from Dylan, a number of her friends and family told her that they’d never liked him anyway and they’d always been at a loss as to what she saw in him in the first place. Pip knew that they were trying to offer consolation but in fact their comments just made her feel silly and mistrustful. Why hadn’t they said something at the time, if they felt so strongly? Were they the sort of friends who simply told her what they thought she wanted to hear and, if so, how could she trust what they had to say now? Others said he’d made passes at them at her house parties and some admitted he owed them money. Her tremulous memories were slashed, her beliefs detonated.

  Some friends stopped calling altogether. It seemed that many couples were reluctant to mix with single mums. Pip couldn’t decide if her old pals were envious or terrified of her unexpected freedom. Did they think divorce was contagious? Did they think she was going to lunge over the table and make a pass at their dull and plump husbands now that she was single? Did they think that she was a failure because she couldn’t hold her marriage together? And therefore, simply, that she was no longer ‘their sort’. It wasn’t clear. All Pip did know was that the invites to dinner and lunch parties dried up. If it hadn’t been for Steph, how would she have made it through those endless Sundays?

  None of these thoughts helped. Pip sighed for Steph. And for herself. No wonder Steph had always said that she’d prefer Julian to drop dead than face a divorce. She was a woman who depended on approval.

  ‘Such a waste, such a waste, so much time,’ wept Steph. She had wrapped her arms around her body and was rocking backwards and forwards, a little like an old crazy in a horror movie. The analogy was disturbing. Pip felt as unnerved and fearful as Chloe. This behaviour was so unlike Steph. Unprecedented. That said, the situation was unprecedented. How could she judge what would be an acceptable amount of grief and fury?

  Pip knew Chloe would not settle unless she went to give her a kiss, and tucked Mrs Scamper (her stuffed toy mouse) into bed. She didn’t want to leave her friend in this terrible state, not even for a moment, and for the first time Pip understood how it must have been for Steph on those countless occasions when she had sent out an emotional SOS and Steph had had to answer the signal. That was probably why Steph had always suggested she come over to her home; once you have kids it’s tricky to administer on tap TLC to your devastated best friend. Bouts of sympathy, however sincerely felt, had to come between overseeing homework, music practice, teeth-brushing and mealtimes.

  ‘Will you be OK while I tuck in Chloe?’

  ‘You don’t have to hide the sharp knives if that’s what you are thinking,’ muttered Steph darkly.

  It hadn’t been what Pip was thinking, not exactly, and the scale of the macabre comment distressed her. Fuck. This was big. What should she say? What could she do? Pip felt helpless and under-qualified.

  ‘I’ll just be a couple of minutes, OK?’ she said tenderly. Pip put her arms around Steph and tried to pull her into a huge hug but Steph would not, or could not, yield to her touch. She remained flint-like, rigid and isolated. Pip wondered what, if anything, she could do to comfort her friend. ‘Here, drink your champagne,’ she mumbled, holding out the glass.

  Steph nodded obediently, although she thought that the frivolous drink had never been less appealing.

  15

  Stephanie’s eyes stung as she’d cried such a lot today. Over and over again, heavy, ugly sobs had erupted, sometimes they’d faded into silent leaking and then re-erupted into raw anguish once again. It wouldn’t do, she thought to herself. She’d had to wear sunglasses at the school gate and she’d told the boys that her allergies had kicked in early this year. Of course they’d believed her. Not for a moment did they imagine their mummy was upset. Their mummy didn’t do upset. A lifetime of impeccable behaviour had strengthened her alibi. But still it wouldn’t do. Steph slid her stinging eyes around Pip’s small kitchen. The flat was very modest and the shortage of space was accentuated because the place was always strewn with life’s stuff: magazines, books, Chloe’s hair ribbons and brushes, comics, notes from school, party invitations, crayons, stray Lego, dice and toys, cartons of milk, boxes of tea bags, and the piles of washing that needed to be ironed but probably never would be (chances were that Pip and Chloe would pull on the crumpled clothes when they had nothing left in their wardrobes to wear).

  The cat’s litter tray needed emptying, it smelt and looked terrible. Normally Steph would oblige but this evening she couldn’t summon the energy. Steph had never before really noticed how tight on space Pip’s home was, of course she knew it was modest but today she felt distinctly claustrophobic. Usually, she only saw Chloe’s delightful pictures pinned to the cupboard doors, today she noticed that the hinges were broken on two of the cupboards and that the cheap veneer cover was battered and peeling in the corners. The floor felt sticky due to countless spills that Pip hadn’t bothered to mop up, and instead of admiring Pip’s devil-may-care attitude to housework, the mess and chaos irritated her. People should take more care, she thought.

  Stephanie looked around the kitchen and was swamped with a deep, murky feeling of despair. She could practically touch the sensation, it was so solid and real. She was sure she would be able to taste it. Tentatively, she poked out her tongue. Yes, the air tasted bitter and regretful. Why was she sitting here? Was she hoping that Pip could dig up some answers or offer up some consolation? Better yet that she could wave a magic wand and make the whole filthy mess go away? What would she give for the opportunity to rewrite her history? Anything. She would give anything, with the exception of her children. But the cold fact was, Pip couldn’t do any of those things. She could not give her an opportunity to do things differently, to change the outcome and avoid the catastrophe. She probably wouldn’t even be able to find the right words of consolation.

  But maybe someone could.

  Subhash.

  An image of his warm, welcoming face filled Steph’s head. For months now she’d told herself that Subhash was not real. Or, more accurately, what she felt for him was not real. She was a very sensible woman and thought the chances were that he was simply a diversion, a fantasy, nothing more than the result of her being a housewife of a certain age, stuck in a certain routine, with nothing other than certainties ahead of her (she’d been wrong about that as it happened, nothing ahead of her was certain). Now, she considered the possibility that what she’d felt all these months was real. Now, she could talk to him. Now, she could go to him. Julian had taken away everything. Everything but that. Unknowingly, but quite definitely, he’d given her that licence.

  So far they’d shared four lunches, a couple of walks, seven phone calls, an afternoon visit to the theatre and he’d given her two gifts (a small box of pistachio and almond barfis and a book). She couldn’t kid herself that this compared to fifteen years of marriage and three sons. But it was all she had to grasp at right now.

  She had shared the pistachio and almond barfis with him as they watched the matinee performance. It was a good play, an Ayckbourn, but Steph hadn’t been able to concentrate properly. She’d been aware of Subhash’s elbow on the armrest next to hers and she’d found the proximity to said elbow ridiculously distracting. Besides, she’d been horribly aware of the inevitable sexual references in the play and the recurring theme of adultery. It had been excruciating. She hoped Subhash hadn’t read too much into her choice of play and that he didn’t think she was somehow condoning the shenanigans on stage. She hadn’t actually given the choice of play much thought at all. They’d simply ended up watching an Ayckbourn (with inevitable sexual references and the theme of adultery!) because Subhash had asked her what she liked to do with her spare time and she’d been a bit stuck.

  Truthfully, her free time was sucked up into the vortex of childcare. There was her book group, of course, she met those women once every six weeks and they always had a lovely chat, sometimes even about the book they’d read, but she’
d wanted to sound a little more interesting, a little more dynamic. She had been to the local theatre a few times. Usually when one of the more proactive mums from school organised an evening out, she always enjoyed those trips immensely. She had only once been to Riverford’s theatre with Julian. He’d been bored and during the interval he’d sent emails to work from his BlackBerry. When there was no champagne to be bought at the bar he’d rolled his eyes and pronounced the place provincial. Steph had defended the play, pointing out it was going to run in the West End the following month. He muttered that he’d have preferred to wait and to pay more rather than be cheek by jowl with the blue-rinse brigade. In London, vibrant young leftwing students made up some of the audience and Julian liked that. In Riverford the theatre was full of women on HRT with hairs on their chins. He did at least agree to join the entire family every Boxing Day for the pantomime (although she had heard him mutter to Harry that panto wasn’t theatre, theatre demanded Hollywood celebrities or at least RADA-trained actors, not C list soap stars in purple wigs). Still, it was the nearest Steph had to a hobby, so when Subhash had asked her what she liked to do in her free time, she’d replied that she liked to go to the theatre.

  Of course, he’d been as enthusiastic and interested as he always was about anything to do with her life. He’d said he’d like to visit the theatre that brought her so much pleasure. That was perhaps overstating the case, but she couldn’t very well admit that, so she’d booked tickets for a matinee.

  The book he had given her was a slim edition of poems by Tagore. She kept it in her bedside drawer, secreted away underneath another novel and her notebook. The notebook was where she jotted her nighttime thoughts. 1) Book dentist appointment for boys. 2) Collect dry-cleaning. 3) Buy Harry new shin pads. That sort of thing.

  Subhash had written an inscription in the front of the poetry book, his writing was florid and fluid, the words danced across the page. ‘To Stephanie, who I honour.’ He had not signed his name, people in their position didn’t write their names on gifts. She knew why he’d chosen to write honour, it was just a question of semantics. Honour was very close to love. Its bedfellow, if you like. Just think about the traditional wedding vows, love, honour and obey. Subhash spoke about things like honour, respect and fidelity. He said he understood why she could not be his while she was married and while he was. He did not push as other men might. Not for sex, at least. But he pushed for her. He talked about their souls needing one another. It was very flattering. He made it sound simple. And now, now maybe it was. She was finally free to go to him, without any guilt. Wasn’t she? Or at least it was justifiable. Understandable.

  Stephanie gasped as she realised that in amongst all the pain and heartbreak and the disbelief and shock, there was a tiny, almost imperceptible, sliver of relief.

  16

  Chloe was not lying in bed as Pip had expected but sitting by the side of it, sorting through her button badges. She could spend hours subdividing her collection into categories of size, colour or subject. This evening she was grouping them by subject. She’d laid them out before her, like jewels, various small piles of colourful badges. Badges with slogans, fairy badges, animal badges, badges featuring hearts, High School Musical and Hannah Montana badges (really, the last two piles were subclasses, as she only had two Hannah badges and just two didn’t justify an entire class) and finally miscellaneous badges (a couple of charity freebies and some from old birthday cards). Pip often sat with Chloe pawing through the badges, discussing their origin or the graphics, pinning them on a cushion or simply enjoying the jingly sound they made as they were dropped into a shoe box, but tonight Pip didn’t have the time.

  ‘Have you cleaned your teeth?’

  ‘No.’ Chloe jumped up. Her skinny legs poked out of her pyjamas which were too short. Pip made a mental note that she should cut them off at the thigh and add a lace trim and then they’d see Chloe through for a few more months. Chloe’s spindly legs caused a lump of profound affection to catch in Pip’s chest, something between pleasure and awe and tender concern. Her daughter was so indescribably beautiful to her. Pip ached with the thought that, one day, Chloe might sit in a friend’s kitchen sobbing because of her faithless husband. Panic and rage flooded through Pip’s body. She wanted to build an enormous wall around her daughter in an effort to protect her. From what? From life? That wasn’t possible, that wasn’t right and what was happening in Pip’s kitchen right now was life. As sad as that was to acknowledge.

  Pip listened to her daughter’s difficult-to-understand light chatter which was spluttered out as she brushed her teeth, causing her to spray small flecks of toothpaste around the room. Pip effectively masked her mounting impatience as she waited until Chloe had put away her badges, found Mrs Scamper and rearranged her other soft toys.

  Then Pip said, ‘Come on, sweetie. In bed, lights out.’

  ‘Will you read me a story?’

  ‘Not tonight, my love.’

  Chloe pouted and attempted to look crestfallen but her mother knew her well enough to be able to distinguish between genuine disappointment and tactics to delay bedtime and was therefore unmoved. Pip leaned in to kiss her daughter’s soft cheek. As she did so she took a deep breath and inhaled the beautiful and unique smell of her skin, fresh from being dunked in bubble bath and her hair that smelt of strawberry shampoo.

  ‘Can I read to myself?’

  Pip was torn, she hated curbing her child’s enthusiasm for books but this request was undoubtedly nothing more than an attempt to mastermind a later curfew.

  ‘OK. Ten minutes and then lights off. I’m going to trust you to time yourself and turn out your own light. Agreed?’ Pip really wanted to get back to Steph. Poor Steph. This was a nightmare.

  ‘Yes.’

  Chloe scrambled out of bed again and took a Jurassic age to choose a book to read. Pip waited to tuck her in for a second time and gave her yet another kiss before rushing back to the kitchen.

  ‘OK, I’m all yours,’ said Pip.

  But the kitchen was empty, never more so. Steph had gone. Pip knew instantly that Steph must have dashed off for some sort of ill-advised confrontation.

  ‘Crap,’ cursed Pip. ‘Crap, crap, crap. You should have waited, Steph. You should have waited.’

  17

  Kirsten had made an extra special effort today, well, she always did for Jules. Frankly, if she’d had a straightforward choice in the matter, she would never have bothered with Mark, or Brian or Alan in the first place. She would have concentrated all her efforts on Jules from day one. But she didn’t have a straightforward choice; she had to keep her options open. She wasn’t as naive as to think getting a married man to leave his family was a simple thing to achieve, it took a lot of work and immaculate planning and even then things could still go very wrong; no matter what Mummy thought about her lack of common sense, Kirsten understood that much. People were always under estimating her, writing her off as silly and lazy and immature. But they were wrong and one day she’d show them. Maybe today.

  Kirsten was feeling a little more buoyant than yesterday because it had occurred to her that she could probably have been a hedge fund manager, if she’d wanted to be. It wasn’t such a tricky a job, after all. Last night, she found herself sitting in her grungy flat, all alone. One of her flatmates was a health freak and spent most of the evening running around Victoria Park and her other flatmate had gone to the movies and, while she had been invited, Kirsten had turned the offer down, explaining she had more glam plans but as Brian suddenly turned into such an arse, she found out she didn’t have any plans – glam or otherwise. Brian spent yesterday afternoon storming around the building, in a massive OTT temper tantrum, and Kirsten had been unnerved by it, to be honest. She’d decided she needed to be a bit more informed about what exactly she was supposed to be doing in the bank. It wasn’t that she suddenly wanted to be one of those boringly serious career types but she just felt it might be important to understand her job description and (going the
extra mile) the job description of her bosses, what with all this silly talk of Brian having her sacked! So, Kirsten had used the alone time to look up a definition of fund managers on Wikipedia. OK, she hadn’t understood all the technical stuff but she had understood enough to get that what Brian, Jules and the others did was invest and trade other people’s money. What was so special about that? That’s what she did! She took her boyfriends’ money and invested it in classic handbags or traded it for a few drinks at a happening nightclub. No biggy. Brian didn’t need to be so bloody up himself!

  At least this morning Brian was no longer threatening to sack her, but then, he was not speaking to her at all. She didn’t feel quite so secure in her position as when he’d been munching on her muff and therefore eating out of her hand. There hadn’t been any cheeky emails or texts from him at all today. Or any of the others, come to that.

  Sod Brian, thought Kirsten indignantly. The situation was a bit frustrating but not the end of the world. True, up until yesterday she had thought that Brian was her most likely candidate as an actual husband. He was always going on about how he only stayed with his wife for the kids, which was promising. Jules never said that and Mark didn’t have a wife, just a string of women whom he treated in more or less the same way as he treated her. Kirsten was disappointed that Brian had, so suddenly and definitively, turned. She had enough sense to know this wasn’t some insignificant lover’s tiff, it was over. All because of some stupid note-taking in some stupid meeting! She’d been in the meeting – it had been deathly boring. She couldn’t think that there was anything so vital to report that she and Brian should have to fall out over it.