His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  I don’t want to hang around, as I have in a carrier bag by the front door my Mulberry bag and the pieces of jewelry I reported as stolen.

  Fifty minutes later I’m in town again, stopping before I descend into the tube to phone the office, knowing that Lottie won’t be in yet. I leave a message saying I’m really sorry but I’m still ill. I’m off to the doctor’s today, though, and I’ll ring with a progress report later. I ask her to divert my phone to my mobile as soon as she gets in. That way if Pete calls, he’ll still get hold of me and no one will be any the wiser.

  I have far more important things to do today than go to work, and I’d be useless anyway. I can’t think about anything else but Pete and her. It’s occupying my thoughts every second of the day and has been since I found out. I hate her so much, I simply don’t have room in my head to think about anything else at all. I even dreamed about her last night, for God’s sake; as if it’s not enough that she’s polluting my life, she’s now even stealing my dreams.

  In between the fitful bursts of what could loosely be described as last night’s sleep, but was more like me closing my eyes for twenty minutes here, an hour and a half there, as the hand on the clock wound slowly round and round, I thought about how shifty and uncomfortable Pete had looked over dinner, how he seemed seriously unnerved to think there might be a side to Liz he hadn’t seen before.

  If he believes she’s becoming jealous, possessive, whiny, needy, tightening the reins…in fact all of the things I think every man hates…if it turns out that underneath that glossy exterior she’s a gun-slinging, ball-busting, bunny-boiling neurotic mess and that actually he really doesn’t know her AT ALL…will he still want to be with her? I’m certain he’ll get cold feet and walk away. I know he loves me, I know it. He wouldn’t still be here if he didn’t. He’ll walk away and then…then it will be just him and me again and we’ll have a chance to fix everything and get back to when it was good between us.

  I have a vague idea of what I’m going to do. I wouldn’t call it a plan as such, it’s not very sophisticated, but then neither is losing your boyfriend to a slut.

  My feet clatter down the steps to the tube barriers and soon I’m bouncing up and down in my seat as the train chunters through tunnels, weaving me underground toward Liz’s flat. As I stare at my reflection in the window, I realize I look tired. I should sort that out. I need to be looking good right now, making an effort, looking better than her.

  I actually wind up at my destination, the coffee shop opposite her flat, far too early, leaving me time to kill. At eleven a.m., three coffees, one tea and a Danish later (no wonder detectives wear stomach-concealing overcoats and macs), I see the door open and Liz walks out. The now familiar surge of hot acid in my stomach heaves as she strides purposefully toward the tube.

  Where’s she going? To meet my boyfriend? Or is he genuinely working today? I almost reach for my phone to call him, but I don’t, I’m too busy watching her. Today she is wearing soft caramel-colored boots with a denim micro-mini that looks suitably retro, rather than eighties throwback; a thin scarf and long strings of brightly colored beads around her neck. No hat today, and her long hair catches on the wind. She looks like an effortlessly elegant but slightly arty student; all legs and innocent doe eyes, like a foal. How does she do it? She’s a chameleon. A man walking past her turns and looks over his shoulder admiringly as she passes. Bitch.

  I wait another half an hour until I’m certain she’s not coming back. Getting up, I cross the busy street, bag in tow. Having rung the bell, I wait for Debs to answer, but there is nothing. I ring again and again. Still nothing.

  Fucking hell, Debs, you stupid cow! Where are you? I was banking on her being in. She’s an actress, for God’s sake. I thought they were supposed to be all nocturnal if they’re in a show. Come on! It’s me, Lottie, here for a second look at the flat…I walk back round the front and peer up at the window above the shop. No signs of life. Then a movement catches my eye and I see in the crockery shop a man beckoning to me.

  Cautiously, I open the door and walk in. He’s smiling and holding up a key.

  “You must be here to look at the flat,” he says. “Lizzie said someone was coming this morning.”

  I look at him blankly.

  “Well, go on then,” he says, holding out the key. “Just bring it down when you’re done. They’ve got another girl coming after you, so if you want it…” He taps the side of his nose and nods tellingly.

  Seriously? I just get handed a key on a plate? It’s that easy? Someone up there must love me a little bit after all. I’m still too skeptical to reach forward and take it, though, so we lapse into silence. Before long he feels compelled to fill it. “I’ll miss them, I really will. They’re great girls. Always say hello to me. Today’s my last day, you see.” He points to the closing-down sale sign. “No market really round here any more. Not enough for a living, anyway. It’s all the big chains on the industrial estates.”

  I nod sympathetically, not really taking in what he’s saying, and he leans on his desk, settling in for a chat. “So you an actress too?”

  I smile apologetically. “Look, I ought to get on and—”

  He holds up a hand and says “Quite right, off you go.” He throws the key and it arcs through the air, catching the light as it twists and turns before landing heavily in my palm. “Just drop it back down when you’re done. Nice to meet you. Hope you get the flat, love.”

  I nod dumbly, unsure quite what to do with this unexpected gift. Holding it tightly, I smile good-bye and close the shop door behind me, before wandering round to the flat to nervously let myself in. As I’m slowly and silently clicking the front door shut behind me, I think about how very, very stupid Liz and Debs are. Fancy leaving a key with some bloke downstairs. Who lets a perfect stranger into their house when they’re not there? They’re just asking for trouble. I tiptoe up the stairs, almost expecting someone to jump out, to catch me in the act. I move so slowly the steps creak under my feet, echoing in the stillness.

  There is a rustle and a small movement upstairs that makes me stop dead in my tracks. Oh my Christ. Is someone there? “Hello?” I stammer. What the hell am I going to say? I should have thought this through!

  But no one answers. Uncertainly, I creep to the top of the stairs and find myself staring down at the thin, straggly, hairy face and watery eyes of her repellent dog. It is utterly silent and totally still. Not so brave without Debs around. No yipping today.

  “Hello, Pixie,” I say softly and crouch down. I don’t want it to suddenly go for my ankles, although I doubt it even has teeth—it’s probably just fed liquidized truffles and champagne. The dog just stares at me, its name tag twisting and catching the light. Reaching my fingers out I start to coo: “Come on, Pixie, come here. Good girl!” I deliberately make my voice a little higher. The rat looks at me and doubtfully moves closer. I let her sniff my hand but she rubs the side of her face on my wrist like I’m no better than a rag, leaving a trail of eye goo behind.

  Feeling utterly revolted, I stand up and look in disgust at my arm, then stride into the kitchen to rinse the eye snot off in the sink. Pixie trots after me and just stands there, watching as I scrub myself and dry off on a tea towel.

  “Oh go away!” I hiss at her, and after staring malevolently at me for a second, she turns tail (although she barely has one) and flashes me her disgusting puckered arse before trotting boredly off.

  Reaching for a glass on the draining board, I fill it with a little water and sip slowly—my mouth feels dry. Then it occurs to me I might be drinking from something that has touched her lips. I spit the water out quickly and put the glass back where I found it.

  I go back into the sitting room. It all looks just as it did before, except the balloons are not as perky. I look more closely at some of the pictures. Liz stares glassily back at me, sultry smile fixed on her face. Her eyes are hypnotic, like a snake. Some of the pictures look like studio shots—she’s posing heavily; the win
d machine is going, she has smoky, smudged half-closed eyes and appears to be laughing.

  The phone rings shrilly, shattering my concentration and making me leap about ten feet into the air. I freeze as it echoes around the flat.

  A girl’s voice fills the room, I think it’s Debs but it’s hard to tell. “This is the voicemail for Elizabeth Andersen and Deborah Wills. We can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message after the tone.” There’s a bleep, then the breathy voice of someone walking and talking cuts in.

  “Debs? Honey? Pick up if you are…No? Okay, just me. Wondered if you might be popping home before you come in. If you are, can you bring in my patent slingbacks? I forgot them and I’m meeting Peter in between shows. Ta, bitch. Byyyyyyeee!” It clicks off and there is silence.

  I wobble slightly with the shock and horror, her picture staring back at me, laughing, and then jump violently as the phone begins to ring again.

  “This is the voicemail for Elizabeth Andersen and Deborah Wills. We can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message after the tone.”

  “Me again…forgot to say, if you do go home, I left my key like you said so that girl can view, so don’t leave yours as well otherwise we’re fucked later. Remember, hon—two weeks till rent day, so if you are there when she comes round, sell it to her! And can you chase up that dull friend of Marc’s, the one with the bad coat who bounced on my bed yesterday? Fuck…what’s her name…oh, can’t remember! Anyway. I’m totally past caring now who moves in—we just need someone! Okay, slag—see ya later at work. Love ya!”

  Her eyes in the picture seem to narrow and her laugh seems bigger as the click signaling the end of the message reverberates around the flat. Shaking slightly in my “bad coat,” it’s all I can do not to grab the photos and bring them crashing to the floor. Bitch…BITCH. Marching into her room, trying not to look at the picture of Pete, I throw open her wardrobe door. Right at the back of it, in a deep, dark, dusty corner, I shove my Mulberry and bits of jewelry out of sight, buried under some carrier bags. They are now utterly invisible. Straightening up, I look around the room and move sharply toward her chest of drawers. Opening the top one, a load of bras and knickers burst out. I hide a lacy pair of peach knickers in my own, old handbag. I choose them because they look nothing like anything I own. She’s meeting him later…she’s meeting him later.

  I’m so angry and fired up as I crash blindly around her room that I’m not quite sure at first what the piercing ringing is. Halting uncertainly, I listen again carefully and realize that someone is ringing the doorbell—and very persistently too. My heart starts to hammer…I should have been quicker.

  I stay rooted to the spot with no idea what to do. Pixie begins to yap and growl, making a surprising amount of noise for such a small bag rat.

  Shit, shit, shit! I hear the letter box open and someone call up, “Hello? I’ve come to look at the flat?”

  I have no choice but to answer it. Any second now, Mr. Nosy Git from the shop is going to hear her and come and investigate.

  Biting my lip, I go quickly to the door and swing it open. A small but sexy girl is standing there, chewing gum and wearing a tiny skirt that barely covers her bum. Her huge, fluffy coat, on the other hand, gives the disconcerting impression that she’s killed Big Bird’s little sister and is now wearing the result. She’s absurdly pretty and smiles disarmingly at me. “You must be Debs?” She sticks a hand out. “I heard about your ad? We spoke on the phone?”

  Everything she says goes up at the end. It’s very affected and I find myself not liking her very much already, despite her perkiness. Still, very helpful of her to let it slip that she has never met Debs and is clearly not a friend of hers. My tracks will at least be covered. Debs will think that she came and left without wanting the flat, and as for the prospective tenant in front of me…Well, she doesn’t get a new place to live today, that’s true, but she’s been useful, if annoying.

  “Oh!” I pretend to look gutted. “I’m so sorry! The flat went this morning! I should have phoned you…I’m really sorry!”

  She looks a little crestfallen for a moment and then forces a smile, shrugs and says, “Okay, well, let me know if anything changes.”

  “I’ve got your number,” I say firmly. As she’s saying, “Nice to meet y—” I’m already shutting the door. She is in and out of my life in less than two minutes. If only I could say the same for Liz.

  Having her ring the bell, though, has really unnerved me—and I don’t want to be here any more. If I got caught…Fear speeds me up. Closing the front door quietly behind me, I slip back out on to the street.

  Once I have dropped the key back to the crockery man, we have wished each other a fond farewell and he has assured me he will tell Debs that I said it was a lovely flat, but not quite right, I am whistling away on the tube.

  Back in the West End, I reach into my bag and pull out my mobile. I call our landline at home and it rings and rings. He’s out.

  So then I ring his mobile.

  “Pete? Hi, babe, it’s me. Are you working at home? You are? Oh thank goodness. I just had an awful thought—when I put the dog out this morning I forgot to lock the back door…I know, I know. But you’re at home so you can just nip down and lock it now, can’t you? Oh, and listen, I’m coming home early. I feel dreadful…What? No, just a really awful headache. Sort of sinus. Okay, I’ll be home in an hour.”

  Then I hang up. I hate it that he has just lied to me so smoothly about being at home and I hate it that I have just managed to outmaneuver him so easily. It makes him look a fool and doesn’t make me feel smart or clever—just very, very sad.

  The only good thing to come out of it is that he won’t now be able to see her today.

  I look at my watch—he must already have been on his way, but now he’ll be seriously worried about the house being unsecured and vulnerable, to say nothing of needing to beat me back home. He’ll have to turn back.

  Frustratingly, I miss a train by minutes and there isn’t another one for three-quarters of an hour. With such an unhealthy amount of adrenaline running around my system, I’m anxious and agitated, and although I pace around Jigsaw while I’m waiting, to try and take my mind off what I’ve just done, I don’t notice a single thing; I could be looking at hammers and keyrings. Lottie unnerves me horribly by ringing and I have to leave it, earning myself dirty looks from other shoppers who don’t understand why I’m not answering my own phone.

  So I step out into the crisp air of Trafalgar Square and the hum of the traffic. There is a female tourist who is actually letting the pigeons sit on her head, her hands and shoulders. They flap around her face as her boyfriend films it all in delight. She is squealing excitedly but nervously, her shoulders have gone rigid and she’s closing her eyes tightly. It makes me shudder to see them beating their wings so close to her that her hair is lifting. How can she? Suppose one shits on her head or scratches her hand? Has she never watched them hobbling around with one stub where a foot used to be, beady little eyes glinting and heads bobbing?

  Revolted, I pull my coat around me tightly and jump guiltily as my phone rings again. This time it’s Clare. I let it go to answer phone but she immediately starts to ring again. This is our code for “pick up—it’s urgent.”

  I don’t want to talk to her now, I’m too stressed out…but she’s ringing back to back…Shit. What if it’s an emergency to do with Mum? I have no choice but to pick up.

  “Ah. Bonjour!” she says delightedly.

  “What’s up?” I say quickly. “Urgh!” A pigeon flies too close to me and I have to duck out of the way, almost dropping the phone.

  “Where the hell are you?” she says instantly. “What just happened?”

  “A pigeon,” I say faintly. “Right in my face.”

  “That’s gross.” I can hear her shudder down the phone. “And I already feel sick. Amy’s grandparents got her a chocolate tool kit for her birthday and I’ve eaten the pliers and the screwdriv
er today, plus I drank so much vodka last night my face nearly fell off and now I think I’m going into renal failure.”

  I hear a laugh in the background and she says to someone else, “I am actually, Amy! What? No—I’m telling you—she was right next to the heater…sorry, Mi, I was halfway through telling Amy about this still-life class I did where this model had underarm hair so long you could plait it and the smell kicking out from her—”

  “Clare!” I interrupt. “I’m at work. Do you actually have something urgent to tell me or not?”

  “All right,” she says, needled. “Although since when did you have actual real-life pigeons in your office? Fine, I’ll be quick since you’re obviously up to something. I’ve been invited to go to Barcelona in a couple of weeks but I can’t go unless you lend me the money and everyone wants to book it today. This bloke Adam’s going. He’s a sexual being, Mi—I’m going to get him drunk on ouzo.”

  “That’s Greece,” I say automatically, checking my watch. I’m going to miss my second train if I’m not careful. I start walking.

  “What? Barcelona’s in Spain, you tit.”

  “No…” I close my eyes tiredly for a moment and discover I can’t be bothered. I want to get home. “Look…I’ll lend you the money.” Anything to get her off the phone, I don’t want to talk. I just need to get back.

  “Also,” she pauses dramatically, playing her trump card, “Jack and I are no more.”

  Immediately I feel dreadful for hurrying her. “Oh, Clare—I’m so sorry. He’s a stupid little twat to let you go. Are you okay?”

  “No—I’ve been sitting in my room listening to Daniel Bed-dingfield, crying and stroking a picture of him,” she scoffs. “Of course I am. I did it. I dumped him.”

  Oh.

  “The little shit has already got another girlfriend, which is just bloody rude.”

  How does she do it? How can she be so strong? So blasé?

  “Do you want him back then?” I say faintly; this is all too close to home. I can’t do this now.