His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  “I doubt it,” I said. “I’ll probably get the usual. A DVD of a film I’ve already seen, a CD he quite liked the look of and an item of clothing that doesn’t fit and I don’t really like…but hey, it could be worse. Remember the year he got his mum to buy my present?”

  “Ah,” said Louise, “the duvet set and the bowl of hyacinth bulbs.”

  “She totally did that on purpose,” I said. “Old witch.”

  “What do you hope he’ll get you this year then?” yawned Louise. “Sorry, I’m so bloody tired at the moment.”

  “Ben still not sleeping?” said Amanda.

  “He is—just not at night when everyone else would like to. I think I’ve given birth to a hamster.”

  Amanda blinked uncomprehendingly.

  “Hamsters are nocturnal,” Louise explained patiently.

  “Oh, I see. I was going to say…bit harsh to refer to your newborn as a rodent.”

  “Is that my phone?” Louise leaned over and peered anxiously into her bag. “No, it’s not. Just thought it might have been my mum—she’s babysitting—but it’s not. We’re fine. Oh, sorry—that was me.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “Did you just fart?” she laughed.

  “Yes,” Louise said apologetically. “I’m like a small set of bagpipes at the moment and that’s the least of my worries. Don’t ever have children, either of you…Sorry, Mia—you were saying?”

  “What I would really like for my birthday is a weekend away. A Cathy and Heathcliff-style cottage…wild, wintry walks on deserted sandy beaches, then just as your ears start to hurt and your noses are going red you go back to the cottage for hot chocolate by the roaring fire. Still—never mind.”

  “A dirty weekend,” Amanda said wistfully. “God, I’d love Nick to take me away and give me a good seeing to. Although the chances of us both being in the same country at the same time and still knowing what bits go where are almost nonexistent.”

  “You can borrow Tim if you like.” Louise took an enormous gulp of her wine. “He’s desperate for a shag.”

  Amanda’s jaw dropped. “God, Lou, it’s been four months since you had Ben. You’re not still sore, are you?”

  “What?” Louise looked at her, confused, and then shook her head. “No, of course not! I’m just so knackered at the moment, most of the time I can see three of Tim and they all want to have sex with me…it’s off-putting to say the least.”

  At that point an attractive, very young couple had walked into the bar, looking a little out of place, as if they were playing at being grown-ups. She was dressed up for dinner, holding her bag nervously. He had a protective palm in the small of her back and the other worriedly on his wallet. As they waited uncertainly by the bar he suddenly stole a look at her, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck, and with all of the uninhibited innocence of being about nineteen, just bent and kissed her in full view of everyone. Not a snog that meant sex, or a brief brush of lips, but an old-fashioned, romantic kiss.

  “Ohhhhh!” we all went in unison, like sad old women let out of the care home for the evening. Louise—baby hormones running riot—practically misted over and even Amanda said, “How cute!” I had looked at the couple and thought back with a warm, rosy glow to when I first kissed Pete.

  Oh God.

  I halt in the dark kitchen, a mug in my hand and the saucepan already on the hob, the milk beginning to give off an unpleasantly sickly-sweet stench. Suppose we never kiss like that again? What if that’s it? Suppose my plan doesn’t work, suppose…Oh I do not want to stay stuck in this nightmare that feels like someone else’s life and not mine! I want to go to sleep, wake up and find it was all a bad dream.

  I set the mug down and lean both hands on the work surface to steady myself. I have to get a grip. I have very good reasons for not telling him that it was me who annihilated our house yesterday. And I certainly don’t want to discuss why I did it.

  Just breathe. Breathe. Think happy thoughts. I take myself back in my mind to the actual morning of my birthday. Pete has just told me he is taking me away for the weekend and I am delighted. I can see the smile on my face. It’s a smile that suspects—wrongly as it happens—that Amanda had something to do with him suggesting we have a much-needed night away together. I will focus just on the fact that I am smiling.

  I exhale and feel calmer. This is better, this is definitely better. I force my eyes shut and picture myself tottering around our very sleek hotel suite with wet hair, looking for the dryer, getting ready to go out for dinner.

  It was a room that I had felt slightly too fat for—all crisp lighting, clean lines and dark walnut furniture. I just didn’t have the legs for such a swish boudoir. Happily, though, I had been feeling too blissfully relaxed to care that much. When we’d arrived at the hotel, Pete had confessed at reception to having booked me a massage.

  That had been unexpected. I had been so flabbergasted that I wanted to call Clare then and there and tell her not to give up, the good guys were still out there and did really exist—and what was more her very own sister had bagged one!

  “Just enjoy it,” Pete had said sheepishly as I put my arms round his neck and pulled him toward me, planting an ecstatic kiss on his lips as the receptionists smiled indulgently.

  “You are a very lovely man,” I’d whispered. “I’ll see if I can pick up any tips for later.”

  He’d decided to go for a workout in the hotel gym while I had my treatment, and finally arrived back, looking unattractively sweaty, just as I was switching the dryer off. I instinctively leaned away in case he tried to kiss me and ruined my makeup. He laughed, flicked me a V sign and said, “Wasn’t going to anyway!” before walking purposefully into the bathroom. Seconds later the shower began.

  I wandered in to look for my tweezers and glanced in the mirror to see him scrubbing himself vigorously. He looked up, smiled and then, pretending to be lofty, said, “Do you mind? I’d like to shower without being perved on.” With that he stuck his nose in the air, winked at me and then pulled the curtain across.

  I laughed and moved into the bedroom to get dressed, but standing in front of the mirror as I did up my bra, I’d felt the sudden but familiar twinge of stomach cramps.

  I’d closed my eyes briefly and sent a curse to the god of crap timing. Why this weekend? Why couldn’t I just be late for once? I decided not to tell Pete. It would only put the dampener on his evening, which no doubt he had planned would culminate in rampant hotel sex. Then I realized I had a bigger problem. I had nothing with me…

  Which was how, two hours later, I was trotting downstairs with half a bog roll balanced in my g-string, praying it wouldn’t fall out in the hotel lobby. Pete observed, quite correctly, that I was walking weirdly and asked if everything was okay. I assured him I was fine and concentrated on trying to move less like a geisha who had had her feet bound too tightly. Feeling very unglamorous I sat heavily down in the back of a taxi and we whizzed off into the evening London traffic.

  The restaurant that he’d chosen was absolutely lovely: elegant and calming as we stepped into the warm interior from the chilly, busy street. Sadly, though, it was too upmarket for tampons in the loos. The only offering was—horror of horrors—a pantyliner delivered in a vile cardboard tray in exchange for a daylight robbery £4. I was convinced that everyone could hear me rustling back to the table, which probably accounted for my slightly distracted air over the starters.

  However I started to relax and really enjoy myself during the main course. I was remembering just how much I loved chatting with Pete—he was such good fun when he was relaxed and not going on about work—when he looked at his watch, swore and said we had to get going or we’d miss the start of the show he’d booked.

  I slowed us down—the pantyliner had readjusted during the meal and trapped a pube, making me walk like I had a hernia. Pete had rolled his eyes when I’d said I needed to pop to the loo and told me to hurry up, he’d wait outside. I had just enough time to sort it out and look in the
mirror to discover the beginning of a big spot in the middle of my forehead. I artfully arranged a bit of hair over it (no time for cover-up) before dashing back and flinging myself into the back of our second cab of the night.

  Having screeched up to the theater with none of our earlier sense of calm, we galloped to our seats, making it just as the house lights went down. It turned out to be a musical we were watching. The men all had curiously long hair (for reasons I didn’t quite understand) and the girls, slinking around like predatory cats, were wearing barely anything. The girls all looked gorgeous, if unhealthily thin.

  Pete seemed to enjoy the show immensely which slightly surprised, but delighted, me. I made a vow to do this sort of thing more often with him as I watched him poring over the program in the interval, and I felt a proud little glow when he got thrown a rose by a dancer at the end.

  In the last cab of the evening, on the way back to the hotel, I snuggled up to him and rested my head on his shoulder. We stayed like that in comfortable silence until he asked if I’d had a nice time. I truthfully replied it had been a very nice night. “Good,” he said. “I’m pleased. You deserve it.”

  Back in our room, I went to go and take my makeup off and heard his phone bleep. He was laughing as I came back into the room and said that he’d just had a puppy update from his mother—who was dog-sitting Gloria for the night—and that all was well. He switched it off and we fell into a hug. Everything was as it should be.

  Almost. As we snuggled down into bed I apologetically explained the situation and said that we still could if he wanted to…while hoping that he would say he didn’t want to as I had really bad tummy cramps. Luckily he was very sweet about it and said it didn’t matter at all and he was just glad I’d enjoyed the evening so much. He looked at me, stroked a stray bit of hair from my face and said, “I’m very lucky to have you. You looked beautiful tonight.”

  I smiled, kissed him gratefully and murmured, “Love you.” He said, “You too,” and softly placed a gentle kiss on the end of my nose.

  “Do you know heartbeats synchronize when they’re this close…” I whispered.

  He opened his eyes slightly and then frowned, a little puzzled. “What? I don’t think they do actually. That wouldn’t take into account people’s fitness, sex, weight and height. It’s just not physically possible. Where d’you read that?”

  I’d laughed good-naturedly, said, “Never mind,” and then we’d both happily gone to sleep.

  I’d still been on a high the following Monday at work. “It was a perfect weekend,” I’d boasted to Lottie, as we’d walked to get our lunch from the café round the corner. It had been so cold that we’d both squeaked into the biting wind as we turned on to the high street.

  As we’d burst in through the café door and the heat from the kitchen hit us, our noses had started to run. The air was thick with the comforting smell of fry-ups and coffee, a blend of grease and steam clinging to the windows, forming little rivulets that coursed down the corners of the glass. The radio was blaring and a couple of blokes in paint-flicked jeans and Timberlands were idly thumbing through the newspapers while waiting for their orders.

  Lottie had looked at the rows of sandwich fillings. “Yuck. I don’t think salmon is supposed to be that color. So you really wouldn’t have changed anything at all? Wow. Pete did well…”

  Obviously she had meant would I have picked the same hotel as him, chosen a different place to have dinner?

  In retrospect, I think now, as I pour the frothing hot milk into the cup—wondering how I am going to stomach it—I would change several things. We would have been able to make love, he would have remembered the significance of what I’d said about our heartbeats and we would have not gone to see that show. Not in a million fucking years.

  FOUR

  There are other things I would change, too. Mostly, I would also like to go back to Sunday. That was only thirty-three hours ago…and everything was normal then. In fact, Sunday had started brilliantly.

  Over breakfast, Pete had said he wanted to see an exhibition up in town that he had read about. Did I want to go?

  Of course I did! It certainly beat sitting around at home.

  But it was while he was getting ready and I was messing around with Gloria in our bedroom that the day took a really unexpectedly lovely turn. Gloria had started yipping and growling under our bed. As I dragged her out, she brought the edge of a glossy bag with her. Reaching confusedly into it, a large, very beautiful, soft caramel Mulberry bag had slid out of its wrapping and into my hands. The rich smell of buttery leather had filled the room.

  Gasping, as I knew how much it cost, my hand flew to my mouth in amazement. I saw the edge of a card poking out of the front pocket and snatched it out.

  Because I know how much you’ll love it. The best is yet to come, you’ll see! P xxx

  I was so excited that, clutching it, I had dashed to the bathroom door, knocked and squeaked, “Pete, I love it!”

  He opened the door in a towel and a blast of blokey-smelling steam, all shower gel and deodorant. Even though he was wet, water droplets running down his chest, I threw my arms round him and covered his face in kisses.

  “You are just the perfect boyfriend—it must have cost a fortune!”

  “Eh?” he had laughed. “What’s this in aid of?”

  “I found the bag under the bed. Don’t be cross! I know I’ve ruined your surprise, but I love it!” I slipped the bag over my shoulder and did a little twirl. “I’ll take it to the gallery with me today! Oh God, I love it!” I stroked it incredulously and then grinned up at Pete, who was scratching his ear and frowning a little.

  “Well, I’m just glad you like it,” he said eventually. “It was supposed to be here in time for your birthday but it was late so…” he looked a little sheepish, “I was going to hang on to it for you until Christmas.”

  “Oh. Sorry!” I laughed, not sorry at all. “Well, you’ll have to get me something else for Christmas because I can’t possibly put this back under the bed and pretend it’s not there until then. I’m going to put all my stuff in it now,” I finished quickly, and then legged it downstairs in case he insisted I hand it back.

  A few hours later I was delightedly parading my new bag around the exhibition with a false nonchalance, as if I spent every Sunday being terribly cultured and sophisticated.

  Of the pieces on show, I especially liked a cushion covered in glass that had been artfully shattered to coincide with the paisley print of the material. Pete admired a big pink blob that managed to look like a giant squid and a human bottom at the same time. It came as no surprise to me that he liked it: it looked like his mother.

  Halfway round the exhibition we wandered into a small room that appeared to hold only a blank screen. We sat down and tinny music started, softly at first, a sort of slow, grinding gramophone winding up eerily before gathering pace and morphing into a jolly 1920s number. A picture of a woman dancing flickered on to the screen. She was dressed in a flapper dress and the style of film was a silent-movie pastiche. She looked pretty, but sad, like a small, breakable doll who would rather not be played with.

  Her skin was very pale with huge, luminous, almost dead eyes and a big ink blob of full pouty lips. The crystals on her dress caught the light as she twisted mournfully, horribly out of place with the merry tune. It was a little creepy at first, but then I just became rather bored. Nothing much seemed to happen apart from her dancing and just as I was getting really impatient and wasn’t sure I understood the point of it all, she suddenly jerked to a stop, pulled down the front of her demure sparkly dress and just stood there half naked. Traced over her tiny breasts was a copy of the very recognizable David Beckham “Brooklyn” tattoo. Her mouth curled into an unpleasant leer and she started to laugh—only I couldn’t hear her, just the music bashing away. She was definitely supposed to be laughing at me though.

  Then the picture flickered off and the music stopped. Everyone else started to file out but Pe
te stayed.

  “I’m just going to watch it again,” he whispered, trying to look earnest and arty.

  I rolled my eyes and giggled—what, just to see them again? Why bother? But the music had already started. I’d wandered slowly outside and read the gumph about the artist. The piece was apparently intended to highlight the “banality of the fascination with celebrity, who lack substance and real beauty and who are themselves being manipulated…Just who is being exploited?”

  Hmm. Not just an excuse to get a young girl to take her top off then? The model was an E. Andersen. Were Mr. and Mrs. Andersen proud, I wondered? Then I got fed up of being pious and thought whoever she was, she was more than capable of looking after herself, and if she was stupid enough to get her kit off to further her career that was her problem.

  Once Pete re-emerged, he quickly developed gallery fatigue and it wasn’t long before we were back out on the street. I switched my phone on again and it immediately buzzed with a new voicemail.

  It was Clare. Her breathless voice tumbled through the message; she was obviously hurrying somewhere when she left it.

  “Hi! I forgot to tell you that Mum’s gone on a two-week cruise to Miami. I was supposed to let you know. She’s gone bunty hunting with Auntie Joan. I tried to get her to take me but she wasn’t having a bar of it. I could do with a bit of fun at sea at the moment too, she’s such a selfish old cow. Except it would be all old men in banana hammocks. How sick is that? Anyway, sorry I forgot to tell you about Mum and that she forgot to tell you herself in the first place. She thought she had if that makes you feel any better. See you, chick.”

  I hung up. “My mum’s gone to Miami,” I said to Pete. “Bit random.”