She scowled, looked at her feet.
‘Truth is,’ I said, ‘she went, thought about things, regretted it, and came back. That’s all. Now, if she’d left me for another man, fair enough, it would hurt but it would be done. At least it’s a level playing field. There’s no disgrace in that. But I just want to move on. I don’t want my life to be a fight. And I don’t want people laughing behind my back any more. I won.’
‘I never laughed.’
‘No, but you get what was in her head. You get this whole failing-at-life-so-I’ll-copy-someone-else’s thing.’
She blinked at me.
‘Failing at life?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘You think I’m failing at life.’
It was hard to find the right words. I’d messed up. Around her, the Korean tourists were back, talking loudly and pointing up at Nelson’s Column. I noticed Pia was wearing a little flag badge. It made her look child-like, in need of protection, but I had to be strong.
‘Look – I just think you and Hayley and for a while me found solace and comfort in relinquishing control.’
‘How many times have you rehearsed that sentence? And I have not failed at life.’
‘Your marriage broke up. You took it hard.’
She stopped in her tracks, the shock clear in her eyes.
‘Who told you?’ she said. ‘Who told you about—’
‘Doesn’t matter who told me. And I’m sorry, for the record. But you need to pick yourself up. Stop fucking about.’
‘I’m not doing that,’ she said, a tear forming in the corner of one eye. ‘What do you mean? I’m embracing life. That’s what I’ve been telling you. CC is a vehicle. And yes, people will think it’s weird, of course they will, but “failing at life” is a bit fucking harsh, Tom.’
I went to interject but she hadn’t finished.
‘You want to talk about failing at life? Failing at life is where you come in. It’s hiding away. Quiet as a mouse. Dead inside. Path of least resistance. What’s the point of living like that? That’s wasting your life. Because some people would give anything to have what you’ve got, Tom.’
‘I’ve got nothing.’
‘You’ve got everything. You can do whatever you like. But what do you do instead? What do you do with your life?’
‘Pia, you need to—’
And then I saw.
Her hand was shaking and she leaned against a lamppost to steady herself. She was going to cry now.
‘You’re so fucking lucky, Tom, and you can’t even see it. That’s all I was trying to do.’
‘Pia—’
‘But apparently that’s failing.’
She started to walk away.
‘So let me go and fail somewhere else.’
She turned, one last time, tears streaming down her face.
‘But you should leave her, Tom. You should turn around and you should run. You will be very sorry if you don’t because it will happen again. It always does.’
She pushed through the cloud of South Koreans and disappeared.
twenty-seven
‘God, London is exciting,’ she said, holding my hand down by the South Bank. ‘You forget, don’t you? You need to be away from it to fall in love with it again.’
She looked up at me. Those big eyes, the river behind her.
‘I guess so,’ I said.
‘What shall we do tonight?’
It had been a week. I hadn’t heard from Pia. I hadn’t tried to contact her. What was the point? She’d taken things too far. It couldn’t have lasted. We’d been friends, intense friends, but only because I’d needed someone. It was time to grow up. Crack on. Deal with things.
‘There’s this amazing Thai place on Percy Street,’ she said. ‘We could grab a drink, a bite to eat, then, I dunno …’
‘Chinawhite?’
She laughed this off. I hadn’t meant to say it bitterly, it had been supposed to sound like a joke, but something in me couldn’t stop saying stuff like this. She was constantly unsure of my mood, unable to find the right angle with me.
‘Rupert got back in touch with me, by the way,’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Rupert?’
‘Rupert Bryant. My old boss? Says there’s something coming up at Zara. Says I should go for it.’
‘Zara in …’
‘Well, Sloane Square. Flagship branch. Deputy manager again, with a view to managing the launch of a smaller one the following year. Be quite a step up. Be like I’ve landed on my feet. Like all this was for something.’
I’d noticed she’d stopped talking about Bristol around the time I’d started letting her hold my hand.
We shared a bed now, too. Nothing had happened. Nothing needed to. But she had me back where she wanted me.
A jogger whizzed past.
A few seconds later, so did another.
I watched them go, wondered where they were headed. Felt a strange pang of jealousy.
‘So do you fancy it, then?’ she said. ‘Thai food?’
‘How did you hear about it?’ I said.
She rolled her eyes.
‘Not this again.’
‘I’m just interested.’
‘I went there for Katya’s birthday, okay? Is that acceptable? I told you – that was a phase. A stupid phase where I didn’t know what the hell I was doing but now I do. So tell you what – to prove it – you choose.’
The Oxo Tower. The terrace.
Evening was giving way to night. The sky finding its way to black through purple. St Paul’s all lit up, the boats on the Thames chugging by, the odd tiny flash of a cameraphone in the distance.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘The view.’
‘You’ve never been up here?’ I said.
How sad it was I couldn’t be sure of things like this any more.
‘Once,’ she said. ‘Yeah, once. You? Have you been here?’
I made a face.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘With her?’
She looked out over the city. This was like a first date, like we were doing everything for the first time again.
‘I never liked her, you know,’ she said, almost wistfully.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘You say that quite a lot.’
‘She’s so … outside. Do you know what I mean by that? Like she’s judging.’
Hayley had brought up Pia a couple of times already this week. It was uncomfortable. Like she wanted me to do her down; join in. As if that would be a victory for her – she’d got me back.
‘Maybe she just observes and people mistake it for judging,’ I said. ‘Maybe she’s just interested.’
‘She’s weird, though.’
‘She’s different. But that’s not a bad thing. People want to be different. You wanted to be different. I think she’s different but that maybe she doesn’t want to be.’
My hackles were up. I tried to stay calm, took a sip of my water. There was a pill in my pocket, I knew that. The last of another pack. There was a fresh box at home. I’d thought of little else tonight.
‘She tried to break us up, Tom,’ she said. ‘But you like defending her.’
‘That implies you were attacking her.’
‘No, I’m … look, Tom, sooner or later you have to let this go. This anger.’
‘You’ve been back about a week, Pia.’
She stared at me.
‘What?’ I said. ‘What now?’
A pause.
‘My name is Hayley.’
My phone vibrated on the table. Thank Christ.
A text.
I didn’t recognise the number.
Seven words.
I really need to talk to you.
‘Hi, this is Tom Adoyo – who’s this?’
I stood in the hallway, near the toilets. I could hear my echo from the sleek white floors, and the squeal of the doors as men pushed through them.
‘Tom – hello,’ said a man. ‘Thank you for phoning back, I ver
y much appreciate it.’
Familiar voice. Cultured. Mannered.
‘It’s Matthew Channing.’
‘Oh,’ I said, moving away, signalling through the window to Hayley I’d be just one minute. She sipped at her drink, pissed off with me.
‘Look, can we meet?’
In the upstairs bar of the Randolph – lights low, eyes everywhere – Matthew was already three negroni in, tie loose, slight slur.
‘There’s trouble brewing,’ he said, after I’d ordered and we were alone again. ‘I’ve been a naughty boy.’
‘I see,’ I said, lying.
He swirled his drink, took the stirrer out, tapped it.
‘A momentary lapse in judgment. Maybe a negroni too far.’
The flash of an insincere smile.
Downstairs, Old Man Stokey was on the piano again. A whoop from an eager drinker as he segued into ‘Let It Be’.
‘So … what did you do?’
‘You remember the last time we were here?’ he said, eyes on his drink. ‘I was going to dinner?’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t go to dinner.’
‘Oh.’
Eyes on me, now.
‘You remember also that there was a girl here?’
‘Pia?’
‘Who?’
‘The girl I was with.’
‘Oh,’ – he laughed – ‘yes, no, not her. How is she? She was very unusual.’
‘Fine,’ I said, not wanting to go down that path.
‘Well, it was another girl.’
I strained to remember.
‘Alice,’ he said.
Black skirt. Tumbler of Twiglets. The penny dropped.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘So …’
‘People are sniffing around. Looking for evidence. The Sun have it.’
This sounded pretty bad for him. Question was, why was he telling me?
‘Well, just make sure there aren’t any photos of you together, I guess.’
‘But there are. She was standing right next to us when I had you in a headlock that night. She was laughing, she put her hand on my shoulder. Guided me to my car. And that wasn’t the first time.’
‘So where is she?’ I said, looking around. ‘Aren’t you worried about bumping into her?’
‘She’s in Ibiza for a bit,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a place. It’s just … I’m also in a relationship.’
‘I see.’
‘You’ve probably read about it,’
‘Uh huh,’ I lied, again.
‘And that relationship, as you may know, is soon to welcome its first child.’
His face fell. Hands up, mea culpa. I couldn’t tell if he was acting, but he looked sheepish, ashamed. I still didn’t know why I was here.
‘Look, I need a friendly face,’ he said. ‘My PRs are panicking, my management think this could distract from and perhaps impact certain projects in the States. No one wants a troublemaker. They only want likeable in the States. Likeable, likeable, likeable. Apparently this isn’t particularly likeable.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘Well, I’m told I need to take control. Admit my mistakes. They’ve drawn up a list of names, before the tabs run with it. But I look at these names, and I know what they’ll do with it. It’ll become emotive. They’ll want pictures of me holding my head and crying and making remorseful faces and it’s just so bloody undignified. Tom, I want you to interview me in a straight and matter-of-fact way and put it out on your show and that will be my statement. Keep things British. After that the work can speak for itself. I don’t want a big song and dance. Just an interview, get the facts out there, say sorry, and carry on as normal.’
Carry on as normal.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you seem … straight. Down-the-line. I think I can trust you.’
He paused.
‘We’re going to try and suppress it. We’re pulling out all the stops. But if it happens, if it’s next week, or next month … will you do this?’
Of course I bloody would. This was a world exclusive. He was making waves in the States. He was on the verge of household name here. And my name would be all over this story. Cass would be thrilled, Bron would go crazy.
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘But maybe,’ he said, eyes shifty now, ‘things are a little unequal.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, I trust you, okay? But tell me something. Something no one knows about you. It sounds silly, okay, but I just need something here. I’m putting all my faith in you. Give me a token gesture of solidarity.’
I thought about what to tell him. Did I have to tell him anything? But this was good – gaining each other’s trust. So what dark secret to convey? What would be a decent swap? How to convince him of my gratitude while saving my place on the ship?
My girlfriend disappeared one night and even though she has proved herself the worst girlfriend possible I still don’t feel that I’m in control now she’s back.
I think that’s too much.
The one person who’s been looking out for me I have lost because I’m not a strong enough man to make the right decision.
Nah.
Oh, hang on.
‘You know that monkey that escaped from London Zoo?’ I said, and he leaned forwards, a smile now playing on his face.
In the downstairs bar, Hayley was in the middle of a small group of strangers, talking to a guy.
Flirting?
Her hand on his shoulder for a second longer than it should have been. Where did she get that drink?
‘Tom!’ she said, beckoning me over. ‘This is Trevor.’
Trevor was wearing a stupid little hat.
‘And Jay – and Rob? – and Anna.’
I smiled at them all, said hi. It was loud here. Fuzzy. The light played with your eyes. The mahogany, the brass. It was like drinking on a galleon.
‘Shall we go?’ I said.
‘Trevor is a musician, isn’t that cool? His band’s called … what’s it called?’
‘Disused Disco,’ said Trevor.
‘Great,’ I said, and the girl, Anna – all biker jacket and jeans – whooped as Old Man Stokey finished another tune.
‘I love your jacket,’ said Hayley, feeling the collar as Anna pulled away. ‘Is it Stella McCartney? It’s Stella McCartney, isn’t it?’
Waiters in black brought drinks to tables while wide-irised men eyed up girls who pretended they didn’t notice.
‘So hey, look – I need to be up early, so …’
‘Let’s have a cocktail. One more. Can’t hurt you. What is this?’
She held her drink up to the light. She seemed drunk, now. Like she’d come to life in here.
‘We’re off to Gerry’s Bar,’ said Trevor, but to Hayley, not to me. ‘You’re welcome to follow.’
She looked at me, hopefully.
‘Shall we follow?’
‘I really need to go,’ I said.
‘So what did the great Matthew Channing want?’ she said, looping her arm in mine. ‘You read so much about him. How long have you known him? He’s married to that actress, the one from that show. Is she nice?’
I’ve literally no idea.
‘I can’t really say too much about it all,’ I said. ‘You know. It’s work stuff.’
She nudged me.
‘You used to tell me everything.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s not really mine to tell.’
‘God, his life must be exciting. Can I meet him?’
‘No.’
‘I wish I’d been an actress. Maybe it’s not too late. Maybe I could train. Maybe that’s what’s next for me.’
‘Yes,’ I said, barely listening, trying to find a cab.
‘Acting. Being someone else.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘Hey, how funny would it be if we got a rickshaw home?’ she said, eyes bright, as some glamorous-looking people, bottle of wine in hand, and Trevor in his stup
id little hat, pushed their way onto one.
twenty-eight
One week bled into the next. May even have bled into the one after that.
Talk London was fine. The routine was back on. Early to bed, early to rise.
At home, Hayley and I allowed ourselves to get used to each other some more. It was amazing how quickly you can reach a level of comfort again, just by being near each other.
I’d stopped asking her questions. She’d stopped having to think of answers. I’d stopped the digs. I’d stopped digging. I’d even made her laugh once – properly laugh – and the shock of it, seeing her face light up like that, a glimpse of the old Hayley sitting with the old me, was enough momentarily to make me forget, for the clouds to be punctured, for some joy to escape the barriers and rise on through …
But the dog.
Ah, the dog.
The dog had been at the door, but now he’d set himself a place at the table.
Monday. Or Tuesday.
Standard show so far. The Blackwall Tunnel was closed. Delays at the Ted Danson Interchange. Did you know there was a Ted Danson Interchange? There’s a Ted Danson Interchange. Well, it’s the Danson Interchange. Sometimes the traffic guys call it the Ted Danson Interchange. You have to find the fun where you can.
Work Experience Paul plonked a tray of hot-tap coffees on the table. The colour had slowly been draining from his face these last few weeks.
I stared out the window. I’d have to give the weather soon. How did it look out there?
Cloudy.
I’ll just say cloudy. I’ll just say highs of nineteen.
Cass had raced through the show this morning. It was a good one. Had it all: politics, entertainment, the ‘quirky, sideways glance’ at the news Bron was always on about. She got that comedian with the glasses, Matty Collins, in for Paper View, he’d made some off-colour jokes about women’s thighs, and she’d segued beautifully out of it. Things were going well for Cass. She had a shoot with ES Magazine straight after the show. BBC3 were interested in her hosting Young Voters’ Question Time this year. Bron seemed very keen on her too, though perhaps for less professional reasons.
But that’s just idle gossip, and as you know, I don’t deal in that.
Maybe I need to get myself sorted out. Start again. Commit to Talk London properly. Commit to this life of getting up at God knows when to read out loud to strangers. Accept my lot.
Who is Tom Ditto? Page 22