Worst Idea Ever

by Jane Fallon

  ‘I don’t want to hijack your evening. I’m only staying for a second. Nick can fill you in on the whole story later if you want to know but … just before I came down last time, someone I trusted had told me that he was sleeping with one of the women here …’

  That gets their attention. Theirs and the three people at the next table. I try to ignore them.

  ‘She had details. Proof, supposedly. Just no name. That’s why I was so … why I acted so badly …’ I glance at Lou and she gives me an encouraging half-smile. ‘And then, of course, I had about six vodkas because I was so nervous.’

  ‘Understandable,’ nice Abigail butts in, but I’m on a roll with my speech and I don’t want to be distracted.

  ‘I was rude. I know I acted appallingly, but in my defence I thought my life was falling apart and I had absolutely no reason to doubt what this person was telling me. Even though it was hard to believe and I should have known better. But she was my closest friend. My sister practically. She went out of her way to convince me. It’s a long story. But the bottom line is I apologize to you all … That’s it.’

  There’s a hiatus where, I assume, they wait to see if I’ve finished.

  ‘Good on you,’ Elaine says. ‘That took a lot of courage.’

  I smile at her weakly. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll leave you to it. Thanks for hearing me out …’

  ‘Why would someone do that to you?’ Jasmine says, just as Siobhan screws up her face and says, ‘That’s awful.’ The questions come at me from all sides: Who was it? Why? How did I work out she was lying?

  ‘Nick’ll fill you in,’ I say. ‘I’m not staying. I don’t want to hijack your evening.’

  ‘No way,’ Elaine says, pulling out a stool. ‘You can’t leave us hanging like that.’

  I glance at Nick. He’s smiling at me. ‘They’re all basically nice people,’ he’d said when I told him I was planning to say my piece. ‘If you give them a chance.’ I look round to see if any of them are looking at me as if they’d rather I just left but every one of them is hanging on my last word.

  ‘OK. Just one though. Really. If I try to order a second someone punch me.’

  When we leave half an hour later I know I’ve done the right thing. To a person they were sympathetic. Even Jess. The general consensus seems to be that I have been a victim of a great wrong and that any of them would have acted as I did under the circumstances. Not one of them makes me feel awkward. In fact, they’re practically offering to form a militia to take out Lydia on my behalf. It’s tempting.

  ‘I owe you a bigger apology than anyone else,’ I say to Lou as we get ready to leave.

  ‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘There’s only one baddie in this scenario.’

  ‘That seemed to go well,’ I say to Nick as we cross the square, hand in hand.

  ‘They love you.’

  ‘That might be a bit of an exaggeration, but thank God. I feel better.’

  I ignore the four heartfelt texts from Lydia when I look at my mobile in the cab. I can’t trust myself not to get sucked back in if I let myself. I’ve spent half my life in tune with her feelings, worrying about whether or not she’s happy. Not any more. I block her number.

  ‘New start,’ I say to Nick, shakily. He leans over and pulls me towards him. Kisses my forehead.

  ‘New start.’

  CHAPTER 42

  This was never part of the plan. She’d been playing a long game. At least, that had been the intention. Maybe she made her move too soon. She curses herself for that moment of weakness, for laying her hand over Nick’s, giving herself away. But how could she ever have anticipated that he and Georgia would reconcile? That somehow they would get together and compare stories?

  This was the worst of all possible scenarios. And now Georgia has ghosted her. Which is ridiculous because Lydia knows where she lives, obviously, so it isn’t as if she can hide forever. Not that she’s intending to stalk her. That would be too sad. Too desperate. She just wants one last chance to explain herself.

  Mostly what she feels is hard done by. Sometimes she thinks that the universe is against her. That she’s powerless to do anything about it. She’s talented, she’s gorgeous (if she says so herself, ha!), she keeps herself in amazing shape, she’s smart, she’s funny, but none of this seems to be enough. You can be dealt all the best cards but still not have a winning hand, it seems.

  She tries on a couple of dresses. There’s a new one from Zara that she hasn’t worn yet but it’s actually looking a bit big on her now. Not so flattering. She does clever things with a bulldog clip, pulling it in at the back to show off her waist, checks her make-up. Puts her phone on timer and takes a photo. It takes eight more attempts to get it exactly right.

  She plays around with filters, adds it to her story. Another night out!! #Grateful #BeYou #LuckyGirl.

  She doesn’t really want to go. It’s Wes again – he of the truncated graffiti exhibition evening. He’s asked her if she fancied a rain check a couple of times (God, she hates that term. When did everyone start saying that?) and she’s ducked the question. But she needs something to occupy her mind, and sitting in the cinema with someone beats watching a film on your own. Just. She remembers to unclip the bulldog clip, not caring that the dress reverts to being a bit sacklike. It’s not as if Wes is really even going to see it. She’ll arrive at and leave the cinema in her coat, after all. And it’ll probably be freezing in there from overactive aircon even at this time of year, so she might well end up wearing it all evening. She’s already decided they’re not going on anywhere after. She’s heading home. On her own.

  She puts the coat on now, checks herself in the hallway mirror. Tells herself to fake it. Georgia’s mum once told her that if you fake a smile your body releases chemicals that actually do make you happy. Serotonin maybe. She tries it now. Tries not to think about what Georgia must have told her. That she probably hates Lydia for what she’s tried to do to her daughter. That she probably, in all likelihood, will never want to see Lydia again.

  When her parents were killed and Susan had gone back to America, Georgia and her mother – Auntie Irene, she had insisted Lydia called her, although the Auntie had always jarred a little – had saved her; she had no doubt about it. She was twenty-one, an adult, but barely. Not old enough to be all alone in the world (Susan didn’t count. She was kind but self-absorbed. Fragile. Needy. And besides, she was thousands of miles away across the Atlantic). Too young to spend Christmasses all alone. Irene had made it clear that she was always welcome, any time. With or without Georgia. And she had taken her up on it too. When she’d needed an escape and a bit of home comfort. It wasn’t home, it never would be, and in a way it had almost made her feel worse, reminding her of what she was missing. But knowing that the offer was there had made all the difference. She was no longer unmoored. She was anchored.

  She can’t bear to think that that safety blanket has been taken away.

  She thinks about how lucky Georgia is. She still has her mum. Not that she bothers to see her very often. Her fabulous career. Her beautiful twins. And now Nick is back and her nest isn’t even empty any more because they have the dog. Their big dopey surrogate baby. It’s like a fucking Richard Curtis film. She doesn’t wish her any harm, she really doesn’t. It’s just so unfair. Life is passing Lydia by and she has none of the pieces in place. She doesn’t even own her own flat.

  All she has is a date with a man she has no interest in.

  She closes her eyes briefly. Tries the smile again.

  Leaves the house, head held high.

  CHAPTER 43

  Edie gives me a make-up tutorial via FaceTime. Halfway through I look as if I’ve joined the SAS but she assures me that contouring is the key.

  ‘You need to take time getting the base right.’ Big sigh. ‘I could come home on the day and do it for you if you want.’

  ‘No. Don’t be silly. So, what do I do next?’

  ‘Blend it in,’ she says. ‘Blend, blend blend.’r />
  I do what I’m told. Now I look as if a toddler has gone to town on my face with a brown wax crayon. ‘Can’t I just put two lines of blusher under my cheekbones like we used to?’

  Edie rolls her eyes. ‘Do you want to look hot or not?’

  ‘I think hot is too much of an ask. Lukewarm. Tepid.’

  ‘And you need to get some baking powder …’

  I stop blending, brush in the air. ‘I don’t think I have time to make a cake.’

  She screws up her face. ‘It’s make-up …’

  ‘I know. I was joking. I’m not a complete idiot.’

  ‘If you say so. We’ll do eyes tomorrow. Keep practising this.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Nick walks into the bedroom just as we’re saying goodbye. Double takes. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘This is my look for the awards. Good, huh?’

  ‘Nice. You might want to add a bit of green in there for full camo.’

  I scrub at my face with a wipe. Nick and I have got into a routine of walking Igor as soon as he gets home from work, weather permitting. I think he’s worried that I spend too much time home alone during the day, picking over the ashes of my failed friendship. And he’s probably right. I’m working though. Spurred on by Bibi’s faint words of almost-praise I have done more work in the last few days than I have in the past month. At the back of my head the words ‘Award Nominated Author’ run on a loop like a mantra. I may as well revel in it while I can.

  Still Lydia tries to get in touch. There’s a note through the door. ‘Please call me, George!! Please hear me out.’ I’m actually in when she posts it, having ignored the doorbell five times, watching her staring at the camera, knowing I’m probably there, Igor barking up a storm. I know I can’t hide forever but I’m going to try.

  ‘We’re going to have to move at this rate,’ I say to Nick now as we huff up the hill. It’s been raining for days. Nonstop. Relentless. Freezing.

  ‘We can have plastic surgery. Change our names,’ he says, trying to make me laugh.

  ‘It might come to that.’

  ‘She’ll give up,’ he says, stumbling as Igor spots a squirrel and jerks forward. ‘Don’t let her get in your head.’

  On the morning of the big day I open the front door and there’s a woman standing with the most beautiful bunch of sunflowers wrapped in brown paper and tied with bright red string. The first thought that pops into my head is where did she get sunflowers at this time of year? The second is that maybe they’re an attempt at a peace offering from Lydia. Either way they’re gorgeous.

  ‘Who are they from?’

  The woman smiles as if she’s handing me a lottery cheque. It strikes me that being a flower-delivery person would be a lovely job. Everyone is always pleased to see you. No one ever put a notice on their front door: ‘No Junk Mail. No Interflora’.

  ‘There’s a card.’

  I take them inside, root around and find it: ‘Congratulations from us all at Phoenix Publishing’. I can’t decide whether they know something I don’t (have I won?) or they’re hedging their bets and sending these now before the inevitable bad news tonight. The latter seems more likely. I arrange them in a vase and put them on the kitchen table. Send Kate, Bibi’s assistant, a gushing email saying thanks.

  I have a list of things I’m supposed to do and in what order, courtesy of Edie: Wash hair. Face mask. Exfoliate. Moisturize. Fake tan. Paint nails. I was supposed to do the first five yesterday but I didn’t get round to any of them, so I’ve thrown everything out of whack already. Looking presentable is too much like hard work. I finally get round to washing my hair – the only task that feels achievable – after lunch. I’m wrapping my head in a towel when I hear a key in the lock downstairs. Igor barks and I hear a high-pitched squeal. When I get to the hall Edie is there pinned to the wall, Igor standing with two giant paws on her shoulders.

  ‘Ede!’

  ‘Mum! I wanted to surprise you! Call him off.’

  ‘Igor, sit. He’s just checking you out.’ He gives her face a big slurp before he obeys my request. ‘See, he likes you. What on earth are you doing here?’

  I gather her in a hug. Even on first glance I can tell she’s well. She exudes happiness. I take her all in. Her long hair dyed a lilac grey, silver nose stud, earrings snaking up the side of her left ear. ‘You look gorgeous.’

  ‘I came to help you out. Why have you only just washed your hair now?’

  ‘I didn’t get round to it yesterday. Come down for a cup of tea. How long are you staying? Maybe I could get you a ticket …’

  ‘Stop changing the subject. My train back is at half eight. I’ve got a tutorial first thing so I can’t stay. What did I tell you about freshly washed hair? It’s too silky to do anything with. We’ll have to dirty it down …’

  She allows me to make her a drink and then she takes charge, every now and then chastising me for having failed to follow her programme. I’m so happy being ordered about by her I could cry. By four o’clock my hair is blow dried in artfully messy waves and I’m the colour of a sun-kissed beach babe.

  ‘I smell funny.’

  ‘That’s why you should have done it yesterday, so you could have showered this morning and got rid of the smell. Too late now. Just rub some more moisturizer over the top. Something that smells nice.’

  She chatters away while she paints my nails a vivid purple, having dug the bottle out of her own dressing-table drawer because the orange I bought is ‘Too matchy matchy’ with my dress. ‘It’s so uncool to coordinate everything like that.’

  ‘I need to tell Dad you’re here, so he can make sure he gets back in time to see you.’

  She looks me straight in the eye, her cornflower-blue eyes wide. ‘You’re definitely OK, right? You’re not just trying to fob me and Joe off?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Now that Nick is no longer the villain I tell her the whole story. She’s going to wonder why Lydia is suddenly absent from our lives if I don’t.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mum. Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘I am. I will be. She’s been my best friend since I was your age pretty much …’

  ‘I’m never going to speak to her again.’

  I reach out a hand to stroke her hair and she flinches back, shouting, ‘Nails!’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. Listen, if you want to keep in touch with her that’s up to you. I would never tell you not to …’ Edie and Lydia have always been close. As godmothers go, Lydia’s always been a good one. Involved. She has been there for all the big events of the twins’ lives: the school plays and sports days, their christening and their eighteenth birthday party. I’m sure she’s been a confidante for one or both of them more than once. I wonder if she considered them when she made a play for Nick. It occurs to me suddenly that she must really be in love with him to be prepared to detonate a bomb under her life like this. Either that or the bonds were never as strong as I thought.

  ‘No way. God,’ she says, screwing her face up. ‘She’d better not try and get in touch with me.’

  I send Nick a message. Get one straight back. Leaving now!!! I hold it up to show her.

  She smiles. ‘Is there food there or are you going to eat before you go?’

  ‘Oh. I don’t know.’

  She rolls her eyes indulgently. ‘Didn’t you always ask me that question whenever I went anywhere?’

  ‘Well, yes. But annoying questions are my prerogative as a mother.’

  The doorbell rings. Edie jumps up. ‘I’ll get it. Don’t touch anything.’

  Thirty seconds later she reappears. ‘Look what I found on the doorstep …’ She stands aside and Joe peers round from behind her.

  ‘Joe!’ I throw myself at him as Edie shouts, ‘Nails! Careful!’

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I say to her. My twin babies in one place. I couldn’t be happier.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘I feel like I want to cancel this evening and spend it with you tw
o …’

  ‘Which would entirely defeat the object of us coming home in the first place,’ Edie says.

  ‘I’m just here for moral support,’ Joe says. ‘She’s in charge.’

  By the time Nick gets home they have me in an eye-brightening mask, reclining on the kitchen sofa. ‘You look good,’ he says. ‘Should I wear a matching one?’ Both kids throw themselves at him and I see the relief in his face that they obviously believe in his innocence. They’re both huggers but they’re not usually this demonstrative. I bat away a pang of guilt. It wasn’t my fault, it was Lydia’s (Nick says this to me several times a day, like a cult leader trying to indoctrinate me). Igor, not one to be left out, throws himself into the mix. I grab up my phone and take a picture.

  I want to savour this moment.

  CHAPTER 44

  By the time Anne Marie and Harry arrive, promptly at a quarter to seven, I’m looking – if I say so myself – probably the best I ever have. Edie has done an amazing job, especially on my eyes, which glitter with gold around the smokey-brown edges. My dress is perfect. Burnt orange. Slimly fitted on the waist. Cap sleeves. Short but not too short. My fake tan is glowing, even if I smell like a packet of Hobnobs. I feel like a goddess. Possibly a bit OTT for warm Prosecco in a church hall but who cares?

  ‘Blimey,’ Harry says when he sees me. ‘You look incredible.’

  ‘You really do,’ Anne Marie – looking resplendent herself in black cigarette trousers and a red halterneck top. ‘We definitely made the right choice with that dress.’

  ‘Not too much?’

  She beams at me. ‘Definitely not too much. Joe! Edie!’ she shouts when she sees them. I leave them all hugging and go upstairs to get my bag and coat. Nick is running a comb through his hair. He’s elegant in a dark suit with an open-necked pale grey shirt.

  ‘Excited?’ he says when he sees me.

  ‘I wish we could spend the evening with the kids.’ I give myself a final check-over in the mirror.