by Jane Fallon
‘Well, I’m sorry I invaded your lovely drink. Of course, I know why you’re really upset.’
‘What are you talking about?’ he said, slamming out of the door and striding across the square. I hurried to keep up with him and slipped on the ice, almost hitting the ground.
‘Where’s the Uber?’
He didn’t even turn round. ‘There isn’t an Uber. We’ll flag a taxi on the road.’
‘Sorry that I wanted to meet the people you spend all day with. I thought you were keen for me to make more of an effort. Or was that before?’
‘Before what?’ he said. ‘No, don’t answer that.’ He flapped his arm at a cab and, thankfully, it stopped. We threw ourselves in the back. Sat there in furious silence, neither of us wanting to give the driver a show.
‘Did Lou go to Inverness with you?’ I say now, unable to stay quiet.
‘What? Is that what this is about? The answer’s no, but so what if she did? We work together.’
‘I don’t like her,’ I say, on the verge of tears. ‘She was laughing at me.’
‘Because you were making a fool of yourself,’ he snaps and the driver’s ears visibly perk up.
‘I know something’s going on.’
‘With me and Lou? I’m not going to have this conversation. You’re drunk.’
‘Just tell me, Nick,’ I sob, all pretence of dignity gone. Even as I’m talking I know I’m going to regret this in the morning. It’s clearly too much for the driver now because he turns up the radio and starts to hum along tunelessly to ‘Nessun Dorma’.
‘I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. What the fuck has got into you?’
‘I know,’ I say, but he’s leaning forward to point out the turning. ‘I know what’s been going on.’
CHAPTER 16
There’s that brief, blissful moment when I wake up before the hangover kicks in. Before it all comes flooding back. I turn over. Nick’s side of the bed is smooth and un-slept-in. Then I remember that he stomped off to the spare room as soon as we got back. I look at the clock. Ten past nine. He will have left for work already.
Next to the clock is a glass, standing on a piece of paper. There’s an arrow with the words ‘Drink this, it’ll help’ written on it in Nick’s scrawl. He must have crept in and left it for me, putting a coaster on top to stop Igor from drinking it. He can’t totally hate me then. As if on cue the dog appears in the doorway and then clambers on to the bed next to me. I know I need to get up and take him out but moving is out of the question. I knock back the concoction – Alka-Seltzer – and flop back on to the pillows.
Images come flooding back. Lou’s smirking face as I quizzed her. Siobhan’s look of amusement. Nick’s confusion, irritation, anger in rapid succession. Me slurring my goodbyes. Struggling to put my coat on. Did we start arguing in front of everyone? Or did we at least have enough dignity left to wait till we got outside? The shame is too much. I pull the covers over my head and attempt to sleep it off. I can’t deal with it yet.
I wake up I don’t know how much later because my phone is ringing. I do know that even if I were capable of making a dash for it I wouldn’t get there before it rang out, so I crawl out of bed slowly, heaving Igor off my legs as I go. He takes this as a sign that he might finally get to go outside and leaps up, asleep to hyper in 0.5 seconds. My head is no longer throbbing, but there’s a solid block of pain lodged behind my left eye. I unplug my phone in the hall and stagger on down to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on before I open the patio door and let the dog out into our tiny back garden. I stagger around finding a clean mug, spooning coffee into it, getting the milk out of the fridge, before I finally remember my missed call.
In fact, there are three. All from the same number. My publishers. It hits me like a bolt of lightning. I have a meeting there today at – I check the time – now. Actually, twenty-five minutes ago. Shit. Fuck. How could I have slept till nearly midday? I jab my fingers at my phone, play back my messages. It’s Kate, my editor’s assistant, wondering if I’m on my way, if I’ve forgotten, if I want to call and reschedule, in that order. I hit the button to call her back.
‘Kate! It’s Georgia Shepherd. I am so sorry. I’ve got food poisoning and I’ve been up all night. I finally fell asleep about half six this morning and I’ve only just woken up again,’ I jabber as soon as she answers.
‘Oh gosh, you poor thing,’ Kate says. She sounds as if she believes me, and why wouldn’t she? I’m sure I do sound awful and I have never let them down before. Never been flaky. ‘I’ll let Bibi and the rest of them know. Drink lots of water. Do you need anything?’
A reset button, I think. A do-over. Anything for last night not to have happened. ‘No. Thank you. I’ll be fine. And I’m so, so sorry again.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says. ‘We knew there must be a good reason. I’ll email you to rearrange for next week.’
I make a strong coffee and sit sipping it, looking at Igor bouncing round the garden. He can cover the whole thing in two strides, but that doesn’t stop him. Totally caught up in the moment. No existential angst for him. He sees me watching and comes bounding towards the glass door. I manage to open it just in time and he flings himself in, followed by a blast of icy air. I know I need to confront last night head on. Force myself to remember what I can. It’s too painful though. Too shaming.
My phone beeps. Lydia. This often happens. One of us randomly reaches out to the other just when it turns out they need them most. We’ve laughed about it over the years, our almost telepathic connection. I read the message.
How was last night?
Bit shit. Too much to drink and then me and Nick had a fight.
Oh no!! What about?
Maybe I should just tell her. Make up some story about where my suspicions came from. God knows I could do with her advice. I don’t want to tell her another whole raft of lies though. Patricia is bad enough.
I don’t even remember. Nothing probably. But he’s pissed off with me for showing him up in front of his workmates. And then I overslept and missed a meeting.
Oh no!!!! What did you do?
God knows! I’m just not used to drinking that much! His whole department was there. They must think I’m awful. I can’t even remember what I said!
You poor thing!!! I’m sure it’s nowhere near as bad as you think. I’m here if you want to call me!!
Too hung-over to talk, I write. I’ll try you tomorrow. Love you x.
Love you too!!!
And then fifteen seconds later: Drink water!!!!
I sit and stare into space. Every image that pops into my mind is too raw, too painful. The idea that I’m a laughing stock. The subject of whispered gossip behind Nick’s back. Or maybe even to his face. Maybe Lou or Siobhan or even Camilla, whoever the fuck she is, is sharing her feelings about what an embarrassment I am with him over a cosy coffee. Maybe he’s agreeing. And then I wonder if that’s why Lyds texted when she did, because her friend Emma had heard what a fool I’d made of myself and taken it upon herself to share the news.
I need Patricia. It’s like picking at a scab. You want it to heal, to go away, but you need to face up to how bad the pain is first.
I open up her Twitter account, like a few random things while I compose a message in my head. Lydia has posted a photo of a new batch of cards featuring a woodland wedding between a warty troll and a faerie princess. They’re stunning, Patricia tells her as she retweets the picture. Hashtag: MyFavouriteArtist. She can’t just go straight in with talk about me, it would look suspicious, so when she moves to DMs, her first is anodyne.
Those new cards! Goodness, how beautiful. How are you today?
If Lydia wonders why Patricia hasn’t ordered anything yet she’s too polite to say. I can’t figure out a way to do it without setting up a whole fake identity with PayPal and an address for them to be sent to and that feels like a step too far, however desperate I am.
I wish I could buy something but I�
�m still horribly overdrawn since Christmas! To be honest, Lydia, I’ve struggled a bit financially since Steven left. I’ve never told anyone that. I’m not very good at confiding in people, but I find you so easy to talk to.
I don’t think she’ll care. I think they – Patricia and Lydia – are way beyond that now. They’re no longer artist and potential customer. They’re friends. I force myself to go and have a quick shower while I wait for a response. Knowing Lydia, it could be hours. Part of me wonders whether I should phone Nick. Or send him a text: Are we OK? Except that I know we’re not, whatever he says. Last night I more or less accused him of having an affair with Lou. He denied it, of course, played indignant that I would ever think he’d do something like that again, but now he knows I know. OK, so I might have got the details wrong. It might not be Lou – although I think the smart money would be on her or Siobhan – it might be one of the others, but he stands accused. And now it’s up to him to decide whether to seize this moment to tell me, to confess all, and then we can deal with the fallout, or whether to dig his heels in and keep lying.
By the time I come back down, feeling better for at least smelling fresh, and clutching a bundle of washing in my arms, Lydia has already replied.
Oh Patricia you poor thing!! You can always confide in me. It’s hard making ends meet on one income, isn’t it? I’m very bored at work today, so doing some sneaky drawing at my desk!!!
I know I need to make polite conversation but the urge to ask her if she’s heard anything is almost overwhelming.
I feel your pain! The shop is deserted today and it’s all I can do not to shut up and go home.
Well, this will give you something else to think about!!! My poor friend surprised her husband at his work drinks last night and basically got rather tipsy and made a bit of a fool of herself. I feel so awful for her. I tried to stop her going but short of saying ‘You might catch him with his mistress’ there wasn’t really anything I could say!! I hope you don’t think I’m gossiping telling you this btw! You’re the only person I can talk to.
I blush to the roots of my hair. No, not blush. Blush is a delicate word. I flush red, a wave of nausea making me double over. I can’t bear it. I stick my finger a bit deeper into the wound.
Oh poor woman! I feel so dreadful for her. Was she there? The other woman? She works with him, doesn’t she? As if that piece of information isn’t imprinted on my brain.
Yes. And yes!!! But, of course, Georgia had no idea!!!
I steady myself on the back of a chair. Sink into it. So I have met her. That means Camilla is off the list. It’s Lou or Siobhan. Possibly Jess. Maybe even Abigail. Jasmine. Sue. Elaine. I have my definitive list of suspects, Lou and Siobhan at the top in bold.
CHAPTER 17
‘I’m going to confront him.’ Anne Marie is over and we’ve left Nina and Igor staring lovingly at each other down in the kitchen and decamped to the living room. I tell her about the disastrous evening before. ‘I might as well now. Strike while the iron’s hot and all that.’
She furrows her brow. ‘What if he just denies it?’
I shrug. ‘What else can I do? I’ve basically accused him anyway. I can’t believe he’d be that cruel not to put me out of my misery.’
She thinks about this for a second, runs her finger round and round the rim of her mug. ‘God knows. You just have to be happy that once you open that box you can’t close it.’
‘I know. But I don’t think I have any alternative. Well, live in ignorance and just let him get on with it, but that’s never going to happen. I do have some pride.’
She tells me – unprompted – that now she’s told Jez they need to cool things down, that she’s not in the market for an affair, she’s beyond relieved that she ended it when she did. It was like being under a weird spell, she says, a look of confusion on her face. And as soon as it was broken no trace of it was left. ‘Nick will probably feel the same once he comes to his senses.’
‘Was he OK? Jez.’ It’s not that I give a fuck about Jez but I want to make sure he’s not some kind of vengeful maniac who’s going to make life difficult for her and Harry.
‘Yeah … I mean, upset. It’s going to be awkward …’
‘And you don’t think anyone else has picked up on it? None of your colleagues? He didn’t tell anyone?’
She shakes her head emphatically. ‘God, no. Definitely not.’
‘Then it’s over. You can forget about it. Don’t feel bad.’
She hugs me as she leaves. ‘Good luck. I’m here if you need me.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ I promise, planting a kiss on the top of Nina’s dark head.
The house smells stale, fusty. Despite the cold I open a few windows, clean up the kitchen and make the bed. Then I have another shower and wash my hair. I want to give Nick the impression that I’m together. That I wasn’t so wasted last night that I’m still feeling the effects (even though I am. My mouth is fuzzy no matter how many times I brush my teeth and I still haven’t been able to face eating more than a slice of toast). I want him to take what I’m saying seriously, not put it down to the ramblings of an insecure drunk.
Usually when we fight it blows over before it’s really begun. A bit of alone time in different rooms, a sheepish sorry from the instigator and an immediate forgiveness by the other. We’ve evolved a routine over the years and we both know the steps. Since … well, since … we’ve both shied away from full-blown confrontation, as if we’re scared to rock the foundations too deeply. We worked so hard to rebuild them that we can’t risk a stray jibe shattering them again. We negotiate. We reason. This time is different, though. This time the issue hasn’t just gone away, splintered to dust by being aired out loud. If anything it’s grown stronger.
I have no idea what mood Nick will be in when he gets home. All I can control is myself, so I rehearse what I want to say in my head: I’m sorry for embarrassing you in front of your colleagues, but I need you to tell me the truth. You owe me that at least. Calm. Reasonable.
By half past six I’m sitting at the kitchen table, ready. I assume he’s coming straight home after work but I have no way of knowing, short of calling or texting him, and I worry that would make him think I’m spoiling for a fight or checking up on him. I play with Igor’s silky, half-up half-down ears absentmindedly while I wait. Force myself to breathe in and out slowly, trying to calm my rising anger. Why hasn’t he contacted me? When I check the time on my phone I automatically click on to Twitter and Patricia’s account before I really think what I’m doing. There’s a new message. Do I really want to read this now? Of course, now I know it’s there there’s no way I can ignore it.
My friend just texted me again. Apparently the woman Georgia’s husband is seeing is now telling everyone about their affair! It must be because of whatever happened last night!!! Maybe she thinks Georgia suspects anyway, so what the hell!
I sit there with my blood boiling. The embarrassment, the humiliation, the shame. More than anything, more than what Nick is actually doing, that is what stings the worst. I rush to the toilet and throw up. How the fuck dare he put me through this? I lean a hand on the wall to steady myself, shaking with anger.
And it’s at this exact moment that Nick arrives home.
I’m on him before he can get his coat off. I’ll never know if he was hoping that all would be forgotten and forgiven, put down to alcohol and insecurity, because I don’t give him the chance to get a word in.
‘Hi,’ he says warily. I think of all the times we’ve laughed about WAGs whose husbands have been caught doing something terrible and next thing the wife is wearing a huge new diamond and all seems to be forgiven, and I’m irrationally angry that Nick hasn’t brought home so much as a bunch of flowers. I mean, I would have thrown them in his face, but even so.
‘Tell me the truth,’ I say. Igor clearly hasn’t got the memo and he’s bounding around happily at the sight of his dad. It’s hard to conduct an argument over sixty-five kilos of boun
cy dog but I’m going to give it a good go.
‘What? Oh, come on, George. Not this again. I thought you might have calmed down by now.’
‘Calmed down? You’re shagging some woman you work with and you think I should have calmed down?’
He places his keys on the hall table. ‘What is up with you? I came home ready to just forget about last night and move on. Even though I’ve had people making smart-arse comments all day about—’
I don’t let him finish. ‘You came home ready to forget about it? That’s very big of you.’
He stomps up the stairs towards the bedroom. ‘You know what? I’m going to have a shower.’
‘No!’ I shout. ‘You don’t get to just walk off. Just tell me the fucking truth. I know what’s going on, don’t you understand? I know about you and Lou. Or Siobhan. Or whichever fucking one it is.’
He turns back, hovering halfway up. ‘Ah, so you one hundred per cent know I’m having an affair but you don’t know who with?’
‘Why are you being like this? Why can’t you just admit it?’
‘Admit what? There’s nothing to admit. I would never …’
‘Again,’ I snap. ‘Never again, isn’t that what you mean?’ I hadn’t meant to bring up his history. Felicity. Hadn’t meant to drag this argument back into the past. I made a rule for myself when I decided to stay that I had to forgive him 100 per cent. Had to believe he was as penitent, as regretful as he claimed. Otherwise what was the point?
His face drops. ‘Exactly. I would never do something like that again. I thought you knew that.’
‘Well, it’s not as if it’s impossible to imagine …’
‘So that’s what this is about? I did it once so I must be guilty again? I’ve spent six years trying to make it up to you …’
I can feel the tears coming. I try to hold them back but it’s impossible. ‘I just want to know the truth. You have no idea what it’s like feeling as if you’re being lied to and laughed at.’