by Jane Fallon
‘Yes. Absolutely. Everything’s fine.’
‘I’m happy for you about the dog …’
‘Don’t mention what I said when you see Nick –’
‘Of course I won’t,’ she interrupts. ‘But I’m here if you want to chat.’
‘The Mayhew did their home visit yesterday,’ I say to Nick at breakfast. Last night, when he got in at a quarter past ten, I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. I could tell he was a bit pissed. He made a lot of noise in an attempt to be quiet, fighting with one of his socks in the effort to take it off for far longer than a sober person would have.
‘You’re kidding? How did it go?’
‘Good, I think.’ I busy myself making more coffee. I’ve been biting my tongue all morning, desperate to ask him how his evening was. Who was there. ‘Oh my God. And you’re only just telling me now?’
‘You weren’t here,’ I snap and Nick’s expression drops.
‘I was kidding,’ he says. ‘What is up with you at the moment?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, picking up my coffee and stalking up the stairs. He can pour his own.
‘Did we pass?’ he calls up after me. ‘Can we have him?’
I pretend I haven’t heard.
I hide in the bathroom till I hear him shout that he’s leaving, calling out a half-hearted ‘See you later’ in response. I resist the temptation to crawl back into bed. I just want it all to go away. Instead, I make more coffee and sit at the kitchen table with my mobile clutched in my hand. If Nick’s up to something I need to know. I need to work out how I possibly could have found out – so I don’t get Lyds in the shit – and confront him. When I get up the courage to look, there’s another private message on Patricia’s Twitter.
So it’s definitely true! The person who told me has heard it from the horse’s mouth. Hers not his. Oh God! I can’t tell Georgia!!!
I put my head in my hands. What do I do now?
CHAPTER 9
I swallow the lump in my throat. Lydia’s message was only sent ten minutes ago. She’s probably still on the bus on her way to work, hopefully browsing through her phone.
Who is it? I type and then I remember I need to be more subtle. More Patricia.
Oh no! Your poor friend. Is it someone she knows? That’s what happened to me. It makes it even worse.
Her reply comes back straightaway. Oh, I’m so glad you’re there!! I’ve been awake all night worrying about what to do!! It’s so awful! Poor Georgia!
Shit. I feel terrible for Lyds. It must be a horrible position to be put in, and I love her for agonizing so much about me, but I just need her to tell me what she knows. There are only so many times Patricia can ask for the details and get away with it.
So what did your friend tell you exactly? Maybe I can help you work out what to say.
Please, Lydia. Please just tell me. An image of Nick thrashing around on a bed with another woman flashes into my head. It’s unthinkable. Unbearable. Does Nick have a type? I have never seen Felicity. The woman from all those years ago. But I made him describe her to me over and over, and then my imagination added 20 per cent to how attractive he made her sound. He made her out to be ordinary, nothing special. I don’t know if that made it better or worse. He had a few girlfriends before me and I’ve seen the odd photo but nothing stands out. And even if it did, tastes change over the years. Maybe after all this time with me he yearns for diminutive. That would almost feel like the worst betrayal, that he had been powerless to resist someone of five foot nothing. I feel a visceral, physical need to know who it is. What she looks like.
She swore me to secrecy – that’s the thing. And I can’t land her in it!
So it’s a woman. The passer-on of gossip. I rack my brains for who Lydia might know who knows Nick. I’m sure she’s never mentioned anyone, or if she did I wasn’t paying attention. That should be easy enough to find out.
How does your friend know Nick? What I mean is, is she actually in a position to know if it’s true or not?
Definitely. She works at the same company.
Ah. So does that mean the woman he’s seeing does too? It would make sense. It’s not as if he’s out every night meeting random new females.
You wouldn’t have to tell Georgia how you knew.
Oh my God, she’d get it out of me! You don’t know her!
I groan in frustration.
Yes, you do need to tread carefully. You don’t want to get your friend or yourself in trouble. Did she tell you who Nick was seeing? Maybe you can find another way to let Georgia know?
I wait.
Come on.
Tell me.
I stare at my phone, willing it into life. My heart is pounding so loud I can feel it in my ears.
A new message pops up. I drop my mobile in my eagerness to read it. Scrabble around and pick it up again, terrified I might somehow have deleted what she’s said.
This is my stop. Talk later!
Fuckssake.
How hard can it be to find out exactly who works in Nick’s office? Maybe I can work out a connection to Lydia? I know he’s in charge of about twelve people, but there are literally thousands of employees across the whole company. All I can do is start close to home and work outwards. I google Diamond Leisure. Their website promises ‘Feelgood family fun’ in ‘spacious homes away from home’. There’s a photo of a beautifully sunny and exceptionally quiet beach. The sea turquoisey blue and calm. The sand pristine. I wonder how many weeks they had to wait to get the perfect conditions. And on a day when it wasn’t crammed with a hundred families dropping litter and glowing crimson from lack of sunscreen. I click on the ‘About’ section but it’s just a potted history of the company and their ethos: ‘Affordable luxury for all budgets’, which seems like overkill. I click out and on to the ‘Company Info’ link. There’s a ‘Key Staff’ subsection but all that gives me is five photos and the phone numbers for the Managing Director, the Head of Sales, Human Resources Manager, Marketing Manager and Nick, the Events Manager. It’s like an identity parade of different versions of the same white middle-aged man. Nick looks positively bohemian next to the others, but they could all be members of the same extended family. Or the Ku Klux Klan. Clearly diversity is not a big priority at Diamond Leisure.
I try to remember what Nick has ever told me about the people who work with him. Precious little, it turns out, because he’s never been interested enough in his job to want to talk about it when he gets home. I know he has an assistant, Sue. It doesn’t sound like the world’s most glamorous name but I’m not sure I can rule her out on that basis. Not every mistress can be called Tiffany or Crystal. I google ‘Sue Diamond Leisure’ and get a million photos of women – presumably called Sue – in swimwear, eating barbeque, on a dance floor. A whole host of Sue Diamonds. So I add ‘Nick Shepherd’ and get a seemingly random selection of Sues and Nicks with diamond rings, in leisure centres, a couple of Alsatians and a man in Wales herding sheep. I only know Nick’s direct line so I look up the number for the main headquarters and jab it into my phone.
‘Diamond Leisure?’ It’s a question, not a statement, as everything seems to be these days. I try to imagine the face that goes with the voice. Twenty-five. Big hair. Fishy lips. Flappy eyelash extensions like a pair of marauding spiders. Is it her?
‘Oh. Hi. I wonder if you could help me …’ Get to the point, Georgia. Sound authoritative. ‘I’ve been dealing with Nick Shepherd’s assistant Sue about something and I’ve forgotten her surname …’
I wait for her to take the hint. Nothing.
‘… so I was wondering if you could give me it?’
‘Oh! Right. Of course.’ She has a silky Welsh lilt. ‘Brown. Sue Brown.’
Great. That’s going to narrow it down. I end the call and google it for the hell of it. There are over 500 million entries for Susan Browns. I’m not even kidding. Even if half of them are for the same mega-famous Susan Brown that I’ve somehow never heard of I’d be checking the res
t for the next ten years. I try it with the combinations I tried before and find a couple of references to what looks as if it might be the correct Sue but no obvious photos or links to social media.
I rack my tired brain. I think he mentioned a Janice once. Or was it Janet? I google both, along with Diamond Leisure. Nothing. I need something more concrete than vague recollections. I toy with the idea of calling Eyelashes back and asking for a staff list but I can’t think how to explain why I want it.
I need a distraction, so I walk up to the top of the hill, even though the wind is biting and the ground is slippery underfoot. There are only two other people who have braved the elements, and they both seem to be wishing they hadn’t. Heads down like charging bulls. There’s no way to enjoy the view even if it was visible through the cloud. My hands are going numb in my pockets.
‘God, I’d give anything to be an author,’ someone – actually many people over the years – said to me once. ‘Not having to go out to work. Sitting around waiting for the muse to strike.’ And they were right. It’s an amazing privilege to be able to do what I do. But it’s also lonely, stressful and paranoia-inducing. I would love to draw a book about something other than Wilbur, to show off my real talent, but would anyone be interested? Almost certainly not. And what if Wilbur goes out of fashion, or someone decides there are already enough stories about him to last a lifetime? What if a character called Kevin the Kangaroo comes along with better rhymes and more interesting shopping? As for waiting for the muse to appear, well, a deadline is a deadline and it doesn’t care whether you feel inspired or not. I’m always aware my career is not a given. Yes, we live in a lovely house in a smart area but we have a huge mortgage. What if we get divorced? What if Nick leaves to set up home with Janet or Janice or Sue? Or all three of them? I stomp down the hill and straight back up again, trying to drive away my demons. I have to believe Nick is innocent until proven guilty, although the evidence is stacking against him. To calm myself down I do what I always do in times of stress. I look around for inspiration for objects Wilbur might buy in the next book. Scarf? What does it rhyme with? Laugh? Barf? Forget it. Ooh! Giraffe! That might be good.
Anne Marie once asked me if Wilbur was a shoplifter, and it’s true that we have never seen him pay for anything. Never seen him with cash or a credit card. I love the way Anne Marie will take the piss out of my success. Most people – Lydia included – tread on eggshells around it. It’s as if they don’t know how to deal with that side of my life. Maybe they’re scared of sounding critical or envious. Of accidentally letting slip a judgement on my talent. Anne Marie just blunders straight in, making me laugh at the absurdity of the world I now live in. She’s the most straightforward person I know. Almost without filter, but never unkind. It occurs to me that I could confide in her about Nick. I could fudge the whole Twitter Patricia thing. I know that she would give me honest advice. But would it make things too awkward for the four of us? Worse, would she feel compelled to tell Harry? I’ve always thought that if someone tells me something and asks me not to breathe a word to anyone they’re accepting that Nick is the exception to that rule.
I do need to talk to someone though. Speculation is making me crazy. Absence of the facts is making me feel stupid. Laughed at. Poor old Georgia has no idea what’s going on behind her back. It takes me right back to the playground. Standing a head above all my classmates. Shoulders stooped to try and take up less space. The odd one out by virtue of my ungainly height and chronic shyness. Listening to the other girls whisper about me, hearing only the sibilance, none of the words, unless, of course, they wanted me to. Cruel sniggers when I knocked over my drink at lunch or tripped during netball, my overlong limbs seemingly out of control. My mum used to tell me that they’d all be jealous one of these days when they aspired to be supermodels but their lack of inches got in the way. And it turned out she was right. Those were a long few years to wait, though, and by then my insecurity was too ingrained to ever completely go away. I didn’t even end up outsized. Five foot eleven and a half. I just did most of my growing early on. And anything that makes you stand out when you’re young is a curse, even something that turns out to be enviable later on. Surviving adolescence is all about blending in. Not handing out ammunition to be used against you. The alpha bully – a neat Barbie lookalike with a mouth like Joan Rivers without the jokes – used to call me Bigfoot. And so they all started. It sounds harmless enough now, but when it was accompanied by mocking laughter and a distinct lack of invitations to parties it was like a long, slow death. These days I’ve truly embraced my stature. I stand with my back straight, head high. Limbs toned by yoga and Pilates. But one cruel remark and I crumple in on myself again like an armadillo. Hard shell protecting the soft inside.
A couple of years ago, right after Wilbur four, my breakthrough book, was published, Alpha Barbie – aka Heather Chambers – sent me a friend request on Facebook. Being friends with her was the last thing on my mind as I accepted. My little girl loves Wilbur! she sent the next day. She’s so impressed that we were at school together! I’d love to catch up and hear all your news x.
Heather, you made my teenage years a fucking misery, I sent back. Why you think I would want to have anything to do with you now is beyond me. I hope you’re bringing your daughter up to be nicer than you were.
And then I blocked her. That was a good day.
I slip-slide down the hill again and walk along Regent’s Park Road out into Chalk Farm. Anne Marie’s school is a ten-minute stroll towards Kentish Town and I know she’ll be coming out any time now, unless she has a rare after-hours lesson. I’m still not sure what to do but I decide to leave it to fate. If I bump into her it’s meant to be.
Everyone I pass looks tired and angry. The fun part of winter is gone and now it’s the long dreary slog to spring. Have you ever met anyone who said that January was their favourite month? No surprise there. I pick my way along Anne Marie’s most obvious route, but when I get to the school it’s too quiet for the kids to have already been set free, so I give up on fate and lean against the fencing. There are a few parents hovering about ready to embarrass their offspring by insisting on collecting them in front of their mates. Year sevens only, I imagine. Or maybe there’s some poor year-ten boy who still has to walk home holding hands with Mummy.
An ear-splitting bell rings out and within about a millisecond upwards of a thousand teenagers come piling out of a set of double doors. I hate crowds. Hate the knife-edge between good-humoured and full-on riot. When my two left school all I felt was relief that they’d got through it alive. Teenagers en masse are terrifying. I honestly don’t know how Anne Marie can cope with the sheer bravado of them. The desire to push the boundaries of their newly discovered strength. She loves them though. She finds them hilarious and stimulating but also sad and challenging, she told me once. I stand to one side of the gate, out of the direct path of the stampede. It passes almost as quickly as it arrived. A living, breathing organism with four thousand limbs.
In the calm after the storm I’m the only person left. An occasional adult – a teacher or support staff, I assume – comes out and either walks past me or heads for the tiny car park. I know I can’t have missed Anne Marie but I’m starting to wonder if she left early. I decide to give it up as a bad job. As I turn away from the main doors to walk back the way I came I catch sight of someone round the side, near the car park. I recognize the blue hair immediately and I’m about to call out when I realize she’s not alone. There’s only one car still there – not Anne Marie’s, she doesn’t drive – and leaning against it is a middle-aged man. By which I mean about the same age as me. He’s quite tall with thick hair swept back, a neat beard and dark features. Black square glasses. They’re laughing at something. I start to walk over towards them, but then there’s just the briefest second where they lean their foreheads together. Actually touching. It’s such an intimate gesture that I almost gasp. Turning on my heel I walk off as quickly as I can, not looking back.
CHAPTER 10
My mind is racing. What did I just see? I try to dissect the moment in my mind. Two people, friends, sharing a joke. So far so harmless. Then both of them leaned forward, wordlessly, like muscle memory. Because they’ve done this many times before. It’s not as if it was a kiss, I tell myself as I cross back over the main road. But this almost felt worse. More meaningful.
I’ve never seen the man before. I’ve met quite a few of Anne Marie’s colleagues over the years, at parties or concerts that her students have given. I assume he’s a fellow teacher. My heart aches for Harry. Does he suspect? Has he confided in Nick?
Shit, Nick. Nick is the person I burn to tell about Anne Marie and what I’ve just witnessed. But Nick isn’t Nick any more. Have I walked into some kind of parallel universe? Not only is my husband having an affair but now it looks as if one of my best friends is too. And not even with each other either. What are the odds? Maybe Harry has a bit on the side as well. Maybe they all compare notes behind my back. I think about Harry. Big, solid, kind Harry. There’s no chance.
Suddenly I realize I’m in exactly the position Lydia is in. Do I tell him? I can’t even begin to imagine the opener to that conversation, let alone how I’d feel if there were even a billionth of a chance that I’d got it all wrong. Of course he’d shoot the messenger. Who wouldn’t?
A cyclist shouts a tirade of abuse at me as I step out into the road without looking. I jump back, calling out my apologies and then, humiliatingly, I burst into tears. This is like one of those horror films where you don’t know who to trust. All the people you loved and relied on have been taken over by alien life forms. They’re no longer the people you thought you knew. I have to forget about Anne Marie, I decide, sighing with relief as I reach the steps to my front door. Just be thankful I didn’t confide in her. She would hardly have given me impartial advice. Finding out what is going on with Nick has to be my priority.