by Jane Fallon
There’s only one response I want to write:
What?
What have you found out?
For God’s sake tell me.
Delete. Delete. Delete.
I don’t have it in me to write an anodyne Patricia response but I know that if I don’t find out what Lydia is alluding to I’ll never sleep. I have to tread carefully, though. Eventually I manage a reply.
That’s an awful position to be put in. Poor you. I hope it’s nothing serious.
While I wait I check my texts. One from Lyds about fifteen minutes ago, confirming that she’s home in one piece. I send a kiss in return. Back on Twitter there’s a message. I jab at the envelope icon.
If it’s true, it’s the worst. Hopefully it’s not though. Thanks for listening, Patricia. I really shouldn’t be burdening you with all this! Night night.
Shit. Of course she’s not going to tell Patricia the details. She barely knows her. I don’t know what to do. My heart is racing. I think about waking Nick up and showing him the messages, asking what he thinks Lyds knows that is so awful. But he’d never get past the whole ‘So, I set up a fake profile pretending to be someone called Patricia’ issue. And what if it’s something about him? I read her message again:
If it’s true, it’s the worst …
I need to find out what that means.
CHAPTER 6
Sleep is impossible. I lie there, listening to Nick breathing, running through all the possibilities in my head. What would be the worst thing that could be happening to me? That my children were dying. Nick. Lydia herself. Me. This clearly doesn’t come under the heading ‘gossip’. And why would Lydia ever know before me, except about herself, and then she would be certain. What else? That my publishers are going to drop me? Lyds works in publishing so she might have tapped into the grapevine. I consider it on the devastation scale. Of course it would be traumatizing but Wilbur’s success would surely mean that someone else would step in and make me an offer. And if they didn’t, I’d survive. I force myself to run through a list of children’s book publishers in my head, consider each one and whether they might take me on. It’s as much a calming exercise as a practical one. The career equivalent of counting sheep. I start to feel heavy behind the eyes. Finally I’m drifting off. I try not to jinx it by acknowledging it. Focus on breathing slowly, four counts in, hold, eight counts out. Infidelity! The voice in my head is back with a vengeance and I jolt awake. Gambling? Drugs? I look over in Nick’s direction but it’s too dark to see anything except the vaguest outline of the duvet. The familiar comfort of him. Could that be it? It’s almost impossible to imagine.
Almost.
But could there be unfounded gossip about him? Maybe. That could happen to anyone. It doesn’t mean he did anything to deserve it. I roll over, drape an arm over his waist. He mutters in his sleep, takes hold of my hand on autopilot.
That must be it. Whatever it is is just rumour. Unsubstantiated. Lydia has blown it up in her head to be something it isn’t. I wish she wasn’t talking about it to complete strangers over the internet – even ones who don’t exist – but apart from that there’s nothing to worry about. I fall asleep, almost convinced.
Lydia and I are in Selfridges, browsing the candles and interiors floor, our favourite. I suggested it. I wanted to see her face to face and try to edge her into telling me whatever it is she is afraid to tell me. Alcohol would have helped but she’s out tonight on the unprecedented fourth date with Vince, so sober daytime will have to do. I know she wants to protect me from anything bad, and I love her for it, but not knowing what it is is eating me up. You can’t fight an enemy you can’t see. (Another one from my mum’s lexicon of useful sayings.)
I’m in the middle of telling a long – and entirely made-up – story about someone I know who is struggling to keep a secret she’s been burdened with. Hardly subtle, but I didn’t say I was good at this.
‘I mean, it’s not fair, is it? Telling someone something huge and then asking them not to do anything about it …’
Lydia shrugs. Turns over a small wooden bowl in her hand. ‘Everyone does it all the time. How many times have we told each other something and said “Don’t tell anyone”?’
‘It’s not the same though, is it? I’m talking about …’ What am I talking about? I need to be careful not to be too specific here or I’ll give myself away. ‘I think if someone told me a bit of bad news about a person I loved and said don’t tell them I’d still have to. I mean, I’d want to know if it were me, wouldn’t you?’
‘Depends what it was, I suppose.’ She doesn’t look flustered by my question, although she’s not catching my eye. ‘Is it bad? The thing your friend’s been told?’
‘What? Oh … Well, I think so. That was the implication.’
‘Better to stay out of it, I think.’
I can’t let it go. ‘But if you cared about the person the story was about more than the person who told you it …?’
Lydia considers. Puts down the bowl and picks up another, slightly larger one. Surely that’s got through to her. ‘I think I’d ask them not to tell me whatever it was in the first place, if that was the case.’
‘What if they don’t give you the choice?’
She laughs, showing her tiny white teeth. She did a whitening treatment recently and ate nothing but cottage cheese, yoghurt, white rice and chicken for ten days. Now they glow in the dark. ‘So someone just runs up to you and says, “Your brother-in-law’s a paedophile, don’t tell your sister,” out of the blue and then expects you to keep it to yourself?’
I force myself to laugh along. ‘Maybe not quite like that.’
‘No good ever came from inserting yourself into the lives of others. Isn’t that what your mum used to say?’
‘Well, yes, but she also told me that if you eat apple cores a tree grows inside you, so she couldn’t always be relied on.’
‘I miss your mum,’ Lydia says.
‘Me too.’ Mum moved to the south of Spain four years ago with her boyfriend Frank – technically now my stepdad since they got married out of the blue one day. I have no idea what he does for a living, but if you told me he was a bank robber I would believe you without a moment of surprise. He has a huge bouffant of white hair, pockets stuffed with cash, an arm full of gold bracelets and a bunch of expat friends who look like a showroom of outdated mahogany furniture. Mum seems blissfully happy, but I always make excuses not to go and stay with them. I’m worried I’d be carted off in a dawn raid for starters. Gunned down in a revenge hit. If I’m being honest, the truth is that I find it awkward. Acquiring a step-parent in your forties means that every time you visit there’s a virtual stranger in the house. One who doesn’t love you unconditionally and who might be pointing out all your faults to your doting mother the minute you leave again. It’s impossible to relax. ‘I’d want someone to tell me if they heard something awful about me, wouldn’t you?’
She waves the bowl at me. ‘I’m getting this. Not necessarily. Definitely not some random bit of gossip. It would just make you completely paranoid.’
There’s no point pushing it. I don’t want to make her start wondering why I’m suddenly so obsessed with what people are saying about me.
Later, once we’ve said goodbye, both laden down with decorative tat we don’t need, I invoke Patricia from the privacy of the bathroom. Nick is cooking – the heady aroma of garlic wafts up from the basement – and I know he’ll have a glass of red on the go, alternately taking a swig and sloshing some into whatever it is he’s making. He’s a better chef in his head than in reality, but I don’t care. I’m just happy he’s doing it and I don’t have to. I can’t help it, I’ve been watching him for the past couple of days, ever since Patricia’s conversation with Lydia about the big secret. Trying to spot any signs that something is wrong. The problem is that once you start doing that everyone’s smallest move looks suspicious. Why did he offer to nip out to the greengrocer’s for ginger? Was it because it’s ne
xt door to the betting shop? (Or just because we needed ginger?) Why do his pupils look dilated? (Because the overhead lights are off, and it’s dark in here?) Why did he turn away when he read that message on his phone? (Because he just did? Sometimes people just turn around.) I’m in danger of sending myself mad.
Patricia hasn’t messaged Lydia since. I couldn’t trust myself. And besides, I thought working on her in person might prove more fruitful than hoping she’d confide in a stranger. Clearly not.
Hope you’re feeling a bit better now.
I don’t want to refer to the big secret directly, not having badgered her about it in person all afternoon. But I’m at a loss. If she won’t tell me, Georgia, then I have to find a way for her to tell the other me, Patricia.
I wait. Nothing. Clearly she’s not on Twitter right now. Hardly a surprise. There’s a limit to how long I can sit in the bath and hope to hear from her. And then I remember it’s singalong Sound of Music night. Lydia will be busy getting into her nun outfit. At least, I’m guessing she’s going for that and not full-on Nazi. I wonder what poor Vince has been steamrollered into wearing. A dress made out of curtains probably. I’m not likely to get a reply for hours. I plaster on a happy face, ready to be thankful for the meal Nick has cooked me.
By bedtime there’s still no response. I check her Instagram page, more for something to do than because I think I’ll find any insight there. A new picture has been posted. The wooden bowl, now filled with shiny cherries and placed on the striated walnut of Lydia’s kitchen counter, a fat glass of rich red wine beside it. A paperback – Living Your Best Life: The Power of Positivity – lies face down and open, the spine carefully cracked, the reader halfway through. Treats! says the post and then about fifteen hashtags including #LiveYourBestLife, #BeYou and #LoveYourself. I like the photo (me and thirty-eight others) and restrain myself from leaving a comment: ‘Those cherries and that wine will stain your teeth, you know,’ or even ‘I have no idea how I can be friends with someone who posts this kind of nonsense.’ It’s not that I don’t think they would make her laugh, it’s that I know she’d rather I didn’t put things like that up there for other people to see. It would ruin the conceit. Instead, I send her a text: Did you just buy that bowl so you could Insta that picture??
I resist the temptation to plug my phone in by the bed instead of downstairs as usual. Manage a fitful sleep. In the morning there’s still nothing so I send Lydia a text: How was last night? She replies almost immediately, even though it’s only about 8 a.m. and I’m assuming she had a late night: Fun. Well, I enjoyed it anyway. Vince was bored stiff and showed it! So, no date number 5!
Not really? You’re dumping him??
Really!!! I ended up going for a drink with a bunch of women on a hen night who were sitting next to us and he went home in a huff!
Honestly, she’s her own worst enemy where love is concerned. But you like him, don’t you?
Liked!!! That extra letter should tell you everything!
When the kids went to uni Nick and I joked that we should get a dog to fill the void. At least, I think we thought we were joking. But now here we are at the Mayhew on a Sunday morning, meeting Igor, a huge, sad-eyed hound whose picture we both fell in love with when we were idly browsing their website one night. Just window shopping, we told ourselves and each other, but somehow we’ve made an appointment to take a look at him in person and I think we both know how this is going to end.
Igor is enormous. Black, brown and white with half-sticky-up ears and big brown eyes. He’s four years old and has been through two homes already. ‘He’s a bit clumsy. You’d need to bear that in mind,’ Fay, the friendly girl who has done the introduction, tells us. He plonks his paw heavily on Nick’s shoulder when Nick crouches down to say hello and hefts his enormous rudder of a tail back and forth a couple of times when I rub the top of his head. We walk him round on a lead for a while and he sits when I tell him to and I feel as if my heart is going to burst. I’m gripped by a sudden panic that they might not let us take him. You can’t just waltz into a rehoming centre and flounce out with a pet on your arm these days. There are procedures. They need to make sure we’re the best match. That we’ll treat him right. There’s a home visit. And so there should be. I know that. I just want to swoop him up and take him with me now.
‘What if someone comes in tomorrow and says they want him too?’ I ask nervously once Nick and I have agreed he’s the one.
‘We can reserve him for you till the checks are done,’ Fay says. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘Don’t let anyone take him,’ Nick says. ‘Please, I mean …’
She laughs. I imagine they get this a lot. ‘I won’t. It gives you time to make certain you’re doing the right thing too. He’s a big boy. A lot of responsibility. His size has been a problem in the past …’
‘We are,’ I say. ‘But, yes, of course …’
We take photos, WhatsApp Joe and then Edie to show them their new brother. Does he get a share in the will?? Joe writes and I reply, He’s getting all of it. I cry in the car on the way home in case it doesn’t work out. I hadn’t realized I was so desperate to fill my empty nest. I was full of bravado when the kids left, telling anyone who’d listen that I was thrilled to get them off my hands and have more time for me. Nonsense, it turns out.
We stop at Pets at Home and buy a dog bed so big we could sleep in it ourselves if we wanted. A couple of toys the size of large babies. I stop short of stocking up on food. I don’t want to jinx anything. We’re as excited as a couple of kids on Christmas Eve, breaking down in a fit of giggles as we try to fold the bed into the boot of the car, and it keeps springing out as if it has a life of its own. I’m overwhelmed by endorphins. A wave of love for my husband. Everything is going to be OK. Whatever Lydia has heard, we can get through it together.
I hardly even realize what I’m doing when I sneak a look at Patricia’s Twitter in the car. I’m feeling defiant. Bring it on. Give me your worst.
I’m still laughing at something Nick’s said when I read the message.
CHAPTER 7
Patricia, can I tell you something? There’s no one else I can talk to who doesn’t know Georgia too. Obviously it’s top top secret! But I need some advice. If you found out your best friend’s husband was having an affair, what would you do? Would you tell her?
I stare at the words, tuning out whatever it is Nick is telling me. I’m sure he must be able to feel the change in atmosphere. My heart is pounding so hard my temples must be visibly throbbing. I feel my face flush red and a wave of nausea overwhelms me. I can’t look at him. All I want to do is confront him. Demand to know if it’s true. If we’re talking about playing happy families with a giant dog while all the time he’s screwing someone behind my back. I close my eyes, trying to calm myself down. So Lydia has heard a rumour. So what? Ninety-nine per cent of rumours aren’t true. They’re vicious, mean gossip and nothing more. People love to bring other people down, to imagine their lives are flawed, because it makes them feel better about themselves.
‘Are you OK?’ We’re stopped at the lights and Nick is looking at me, concern etched on his face.
‘I feel a bit sick.’
‘Shit, I’ll pull over. Shall I pull over?’
I shake my head. ‘Let’s just get home.’
‘You don’t think you’re allergic to dogs, do you?’
‘No,’ I snap. ‘Of course not.’
The car behind us beeps. ‘Go,’ I say. I stay silent for the rest of the journey, the joyful atmosphere deflating around us. I daren’t even respond to Lydia. I need to be on my own, think straight, work out what to do. I can’t confront Nick yet. What would I say? So, Lydia heard a rumour about you. She told it to a woman who doesn’t exist because she’s actually me. I need to find out exactly what Lydia has heard. Work out if it can possibly be true. And I need to give Nick the benefit of the doubt until I’ve done that.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I just suddenly feel really rough. It m
ust be a stomach bug, I think. I need to lie down for a bit.’
He reaches over and puts a hand on my knee. I feel myself stiffen. I don’t even want to look at him at the moment. ‘You poor thing,’ he says. ‘We’ll be home in five minutes. I’ll bring you peppermint tea in bed.’
‘I just want to sleep. I’ll be OK.’ The last thing I want is him fussing over me.
Safely shut in the bedroom, I pull up Patricia’s profile and try to decide what to say. Lydia is probably already regretting saying anything and I don’t want to scare her off completely. After a few false starts I come up with something I’m happy with. Hold my breath and press send.
Oh no, that’s awful. Is that what it is? The secret? Do you definitely know it’s true though?
I take my jumper off and get under the covers, just in case Nick looks in on me. The response comes almost immediately.
I’m pretty sure. I don’t think the person who told me would make it up.
I blink back tears. Maybe they believe it but they’ve got it wrong. Or whoever told them has. People do like to exaggerate gossip.
I know. That’s the main reason I haven’t said anything to Georgia yet. But they were pretty adamant. I feel really disloyal even telling you. You won’t ever tell anyone, will you?
Of course not. Who would I tell anyway? But I’m happy to be here as a sounding board if you want to offload.
Tell me! I want to write. Tell me who told you and exactly what they said.
Thank you! Really appreciate it. I’ll try and not bore you stupid with it though! Talk to you soon.
She’s obviously not going to divulge any more yet. I sign off, telling her to look after herself, and then I pull the covers over my head and sob. Nick is cheating on me? We’re the ones everyone always cites whenever there’s a conversation about whether marriage can last these days. Look at Nick and Georgia. Look at how happy you can be.
In a second I go from sorrow to anger. Who is she? How the fuck can he do this to me? To us. I want to storm downstairs and throw things. Tell him he might think he’s sneaking around and getting away with it but I know. My phone buzzes and I see it’s Lydia. I can’t face talking to her. I wouldn’t be able to pretend everything was OK. I turn it face down and ignore it. I need time to think.