Worst Idea Ever

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Oh, Georgia.’ Anne Marie reaches out a hand to stroke my arm.

  ‘Don’t …’ I say. ‘If I start I’ll never stop.’

  To distract myself I tell them about Lydia’s drink with Nick. She had called me on her way home from the tube at about a quarter past eight – by which time I was tearing my hair out for news, pacing round the kitchen aimlessly, Igor following me back and forth, back and forth, his nails tapping on the wooden floor.

  ‘Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t get any reception before I got on the tube so then I had to wait till I got off.’ I could hear her clicking down the street. Lydia always wears heels to work. She believes that looking smart keeps your mind focused on the job. My home office uniform is sweatpants. Socks if I’m making an effort.

  ‘It’s OK. So …’

  She sighed. ‘I don’t know what to say, Georgia. I tried to persuade him to talk to you, but he was adamant there was no point …’

  ‘Did he admit it?’

  ‘Not in so many words … Hang on, I just have to find my key …’ I heard her rattling around and then some unidentifiable noises and the street hum was gone. ‘I’m back.’

  I could picture her walking up the stairs to her first-floor flat. Past the little table in the hall where the three residents of the house leave the mail. She’s lucked out with her neighbours. Two other single women, one in her fifties and Mrs Morgan on the ground floor who must be approaching seventy. Both quiet, both considerate. Lydia’s flat is bright and airy. A large bay window overlooking the street from her sunny living room. Kitchen and bedroom at the back, with a view of Mrs Morgan’s neat garden and the backs of the houses in the neighbouring road. She’s decorated in muted Farrow & Ball colours. White sofa because there’s no one to leave grubby marks all over it. It exudes Zen-like levels of calm, but I would miss the mess of family life. I like a home to feel lived in. Although, of course, mine is only lived in by me and the dog at the moment. All those times I counted down the moments till the kids left for school and Nick for work, revelling in the prospect of a few hours of blissful silence. But it was only blissful because I knew it was finite. Turns out unending hours of silence just means loneliness. What will we do with the house? I thought suddenly. If Nick was gone for good where would we both live?

  ‘He didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t deny it either.’

  My heart sank. ‘He didn’t?’

  ‘He just said there was no point talking to you. I told him all you wanted was the truth. I even said he could tell me if he’d rather, but he didn’t bite.’

  ‘So, do you think that’s it? He cares so little about me that he won’t even give me that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m so sorry, George. I wish I could have been more help.’

  I sank down in a chair. Rubbed at my eyes with the back of a hand. ‘Don’t be silly. I love you for trying.’

  ‘Are you going to be OK? Should I come over?’ I heard the cork pop out of a bottle of wine.

  ‘No! I mean yes. And no. I’ll be fine. You’ve done enough.’

  ‘I’m not giving up.’ She laughed ruefully. ‘I’m going to make him come clean with you.’

  ‘I don’t understand why he won’t,’ I said, not for the first time. ‘He’s clearly made his choice.’

  ‘Because he knows everyone will think he’s a shit,’ she said. ‘He can’t bear to lose his nice-guy image.’

  When I let myself into the house at about half ten, having shrugged off Harry’s offer to walk me home, I can feel that something’s different. The air has shifted. I know, even before I see the note, that someone has been here. If I were in any doubt Igor’s nose goes into overdrive and he snuffles round the hall as though he’s hunting for truffles. For a moment I think that Nick is home and, despite everything, I feel a crashing sense of relief. Then I see the sheet of paper. A4. Snatched out of the printer. Written on it in black Sharpie: ‘I came to pick up a few bits and pieces. N x’.

  That kiss. Probably added without even thinking. I try not to read too much into it. Had he been waiting for me to go out before he came home? Had Harry mentioned that I was going round to theirs? Given him an opportunity without realizing it? It seems like way too much of a coincidence otherwise. What a coward. Scared to face me in case I bullied him into the truth. I dig out my mobile to call him. Decide on a text instead. Really? You’re sneaking in when I’m out now?

  I wander down to the kitchen as I wait. Give Igor some kibble. And then there’s a reply.

  I thought you wouldn’t want to see me.

  So he did know that I wasn’t going to be there. What? You’re just going to avoid me forever??

  Tell me what you want me to do. I’m not being sarcastic. I mean it. Anything. I miss you.

  THEN TELL ME THE TRUTH!!! I respond, shouting on the screen.

  He responds immediately. For fuck’s sake! I am! I have!!! This is why I didn’t want to see you tonight. Forget it.

  I turn my phone off. Plug it in and stomp up the stairs.

  CHAPTER 24

  When I get up in the morning, dragging myself down to the basement to make a cup of tea and taking it straight back up to bed, there are no more messages. I haven’t looked at Patricia’s Twitter for a couple of days – it feels a bit pointless now that Lydia is talking to me about Nick’s affair in real life. But she’s still not telling me everything she knows. Not yet.

  There are two private messages. Both from the night before last. The night Lyds met up with Nick. I nestle into Igor’s broad back for warmth and open them up.

  Patricia, are you there?? Need a bit of your sage advice!!!!

  And then:

  Met up with Georgia’s husband tonight to try and prise the truth out of him!! Help!!!

  Shit. How could I have missed this? Nick obviously said far more to Lydia than she’s letting on to me. I type quickly. Force myself to read it through carefully before I hit send.

  I’m so sorry not to have been there in your hour of need! I went to the Cotswolds for a short break and no reception. What has happened? Can you tell me? I’m here now if you need me.

  It’s early. I’m not even sure Lydia will be up. She has her morning routine down to the absolute minimum length of time before she has to leave the house. She is not, and never has been, a morning person. Two sips of tea later there’s a response though.

  Oh Patricia! Thank goodness. How was your break?

  I don’t have time for niceties. Lovely, thank you. Just visiting my mother. Are you OK?

  I wish I’d never met up with him, to be honest. It’s as if he couldn’t care less about Georgia any more.

  I calm myself with a deep breath. I have to go through the motions. Patricia would ask the right questions even though I already know the answers. So he owned up?

  He did!!!

  Wait. What? She told me he didn’t. Really?

  Yes! But not even like he felt bad about it. I begged him to talk to her, but he said there was no point.

  And he’s still seeing the woman? What’s her name again? I figure Patricia’s allowed to be a bit nosey at this point.

  She doesn’t bite. That’s the impression I got.

  What did you tell Georgia in the end?

  Just that he was cagey. I couldn’t bring myself to elaborate. How can I tell my best friend that her husband couldn’t care less that their marriage is over?

  ‘Why is no one being truthful with me?’ I wail to Anne Marie on the phone. She’s on her way to school. I can hear car horns and angry raised voices. Just another rush hour in north London.

  ‘What don’t you think Lydia is telling you?’ I knew she would ask this and I’ve already decided I’m going to fill her in on everything. I’m going to go insane if I don’t confide in someone and Anne Marie won’t judge me for Patricia. She’ll understand the reasons behind why I did what I did.

  ‘It’s a long story. Can I pop over later? Before Harry gets home?’

  ‘Of course. Any time after f
our. He won’t be back till seven.’

  ‘Thanks. Brilliant. Apologies in advance that I’m just going to drone on about myself.’

  ‘Drone away,’ she says, and I can hear the unforced warmth in her voice.

  ‘Can I bring Igor?’ I’ve started to panic that Nick might go to the house when I’m out and decide that he wants to take the dog to live with him. Who knows what he’s capable of now?

  ‘Nina would never forgive you if you didn’t,’ she says.

  I go back to the beginning, taking great pains to stress that Patricia was a kind gesture, not some weird kind of catfishing con. We’re sitting in her kitchen. Nina is entertaining Igor in the lounge, having been banished from the bedroom she shares with Billie. Gino is at an after-school chess club. He loves chess. He has tried patiently to teach me many times but I’ve never got beyond learning how the pieces move. Sometimes I ask him annoying questions just to see if I can get a rise out of him. ‘Which way does the horse go again?’ I said once, and he’d very calmly explained that it was a knight. ‘The horse is symbolic, Georgia.’ Unlike the girls, he has never called me Auntie, just Georgia, as if I were the child and he the adult. Another time I asked if ‘the prawns’ could go backwards, and he gave me such a withering look I had to tell him I was joking before he wrote me off completely.

  ‘OK,’ she says a couple of times. ‘I mean, crazy, but OK.’

  I show her Patricia’s private exchanges with Lydia, sit there in silence while she reads them all through.

  ‘A haberdashery?’ she says at one point and we both snigger. Me more from nerves than anything. ‘God, you really have got into character.’

  I wait for her to finish reading. ‘Why didn’t she just tell me what he said? I mean, what was the point …?’

  ‘She’s just trying to protect you,’ Anne Marie says. ‘To be fair, it’s got to be hard for her—’

  ‘It’s just so frustrating,’ I interrupt. ‘She knows I’m going crazy not knowing. You won’t tell Harry, will you?’

  ‘Maybe you just need to give her time. It’s a shitty situation she’s in.’

  ‘I’ve started making plans in my head.’ I pick at a sliver of wood that has detached itself from the table. ‘How we’ll tell the kids. What’ll happen to the house. It’s as if I’ve accepted that my marriage is over without even sitting down and talking about it with Nick.’

  ‘It’s self-preservation,’ she says. ‘You need to know you’re going to be OK. Edie and Joe have no idea?’

  I shake my head. ‘We agreed not to say anything, but I don’t know how long we can keep that up for.’

  ‘Shit,’ she says. ‘Don’t risk them finding out any other way.’

  ‘I know,’ I say decisively. ‘I’m sending him a message.’ I pick up my phone and send a text. We need to talk about the kids.

  Anne Marie gets up to put the kettle on. I can hear music from Billie’s room. Something I recognize. Some band Edie likes too. My Chemical Romance maybe. My mobile beeps with a response.

  So, is that it? You’re giving up on me?

  I hold the phone out for her to see.

  I’m not the one who gave up, Nick, I reply.

  CHAPTER 25

  It’s only been a couple of days since Lydia met up with Nick but she feels as if she needs to make contact. Remind him that she’s here if he needs her. She sends him a text. How are you doing? Georgia called her, incandescent with rage, after she discovered he had been home while she was out to collect more stuff. Lydia couldn’t deny it, she was pleased that he’d listened to her, taken her advice. Maybe now he would confide in her more, use her as a shoulder to cry on. That would be enough for the time being. Until he’s ready.

  Patricia has also been in evidence, asking thinly disguised questions about what she knows. Hedging around the subject in a way that Georgia obviously thinks is subtle. Lydia is tempted to elaborate more in her replies, but she has to stay within the bounds of what Georgia might believe she would tell a stranger. Lydia has always made a virtue of her dismissal of gossip. It’s one of her best qualities and one she’s worked hard to cultivate. Not to mention the fact that she doesn’t want to tell Georgia anything she could fact check. So no real specifics. She’s pretty confident she’ll never be able to check there is no Emma at Diamond Leisure. Of course there is an Emma. There are probably twenty-five. But there is no Emma who is friends with Lydia. There is no Emma at Diamond Leisure that Lydia has ever met. She picked the name for its popularity among women their age. There were six in her year at school alone.

  It’s almost funny watching Patricia flounder. She can’t imagine how frustrating it is for Georgia not to be able to ask the question she really wants answered outright. Who is it that Nick is seeing? Lydia knows that Georgia has narrowed it down to two suspects – Lou and Siobhan – and that suits Lydia perfectly. She has no intention of steering her in the direction of one or the other.

  She works on the illustrations for her book – it’s for children but it’s dark, an underworld world. ‘It’s Game of Thrones for eight-year-olds,’ she imagines herself saying to prospective publishers, giving a little laugh. ‘But with gnomes. Game of Gnomes.’ Obviously there’s no gore, no murders, but it’s a cute description. They’ll remember it. Especially if she plays it like she’s just come up with it. An off-the-cuff remark. She hasn’t yet heard back from a few of the publishers she sent it to, so she still has hope. But deep down she’s scared. It’s all very well telling herself she could be as successful as Georgia if she tried; it’s another thing altogether to actually try and have that dream shattered.

  She loses herself in her task. It’s like therapy. The only time that her brain quietens. She’s scratching away at the roots of a tree, her magnifying glass propped up in front of her, when her mobile buzzes.

  Not too bad, Nick says. Have you talked to George lately?

  Yesterday. She’s still not budging I’m afraid x.

  OK. Thanks, is all he says. She doesn’t want to leave it like that. She needs to make the most of every opportunity.

  Well, I’m still here if you need someone to talk to xx.

  She waits.

  Thanks Lyds x.

  That diminutive, that kiss, will get her through the rest of the day.

  Later she needs to get ready. She has a date with Wes, a man she met at her yoga class of all things. Lydia only ever meets men IRL. She has never even looked at Tinder or Bumble or Hinge. Dates just seem to present themselves to her in the least likely of places. Maybe because she gives off an air of not caring. She’s a challenge.

  Wes seems nice. He’s flexible, she’ll give him that. And he wears long trousers to class, which is a bonus. No way would she date one of the tiny-short-wearing men who like to let it all hang out – literally – while they do their sun salutations. Power yoga seems to attract them. The excuse to strip down to next to nothing and stand at the front of the class watching themselves and their hairy legs sweating in the mirror. Leaving everyone behind not daring to look up when they’re in the downward dog for fear of what they might see. She and Wes have ended up at the same classes twice a week for a good few weeks now, while most of the clientele have changed around them. It was inevitable that they would get talking. Inevitable, it seems, that he would ask her for a drink one evening. As usual she’d explained the lack of any kind of potential for an actual relationship and, as usual, he’d smiled, thinking she was being cute. Portraying herself as a wild spirit, hard to pin down when, in fact, the truth was simply that she was in love with someone else.

  She can’t face it, really. It all seems so pointless except that she needs to get out of the house. She’d suggested to Wes that they do something other than just go to the pub. She doesn’t want to spend the evening listening to him talk about his family or his job (what is it he does again? Something hipstery. Runs a microbrewery or a plant-based cheese company). Not because she didn’t think it would be interesting, but what was the point? Getting-to-know-yo
u evenings were a necessary evil when you were thinking about starting a relationship with someone. You had to fill in the surface blanks before you could progress deeper. But she has no intention of ever progressing deeper.

  Thankfully he’d agreed, and they were going to see an exhibition of graffiti art at a gallery in Shoreditch. Every night was like opening night, apparently. Music. A bar. She’d been wanting to go since it opened a couple of weeks ago, but she hadn’t felt she could face trekking over there on her own. And what was an art exhibition if you had no one to talk over what you’d seen with?

  She could have asked Georgia, she thinks now. She’s at home alone every evening. Maybe she would have jumped at the chance to get out. Lydia puts her phone on hands-free while she makes up her face.

  ‘So who’s this one?’ Georgia asks, laughing. Lydia can tell the laugh is fake: Georgia’s attempt to make her think she’s doing OK.

  ‘Oh, forget about him,’ she says. ‘How are you doing?’ She knows it’s odd, this genuine concern for her friend’s wellbeing when she’s the cause of all her problems in the first place. She can’t really explain it, except to tell herself that she’s doing what she’s doing not to hurt Georgia but to give herself a future. It’s her turn.

  ‘Yeah. OK,’ Georgia says.

  ‘Anything from Nick? Did he contact you yet?’ She gives herself a second coat of mascara.

  Georgia sighs. ‘Nothing. We’re going to have to tell the kids something soon. I’m sure Joe’s getting suspicious.’

  ‘Well, definitely tell them before they find out some other way.’

  ‘It makes it so final though, doesn’t it?’ Lydia can hear Igor clicking about on the wooden floor in the background. She’s glad that Georgia got him when she did. Glad that she has company. Something that loves her and she can love back.

  ‘But, I suppose … I mean, I don’t want this to sound wrong, George … I suppose it kind of is final, isn’t it? If he won’t even discuss it with you and he’s still seeing whoever she is …’