His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  I try to look interested but I’m thinking about how long I’ve been away and if he’ll have phoned her yet. I can’t leave it too much longer.

  “…It was really weird. I was at the station and she just walked up to me and said hi. I can’t remember the last time I saw her. Probably before you and her had your falling-out, I expect.”

  “Sorry.” My attention snaps back. “Who’s this?”

  “Katie,” he says, looking over my shoulder. “Do you want another drink while the bar’s quiet?”

  “No thanks, I’m okay,” I say quickly. “What did she have to say, anything interesting? What’s she up to these days?”

  Patrick looks at me curiously. “That’s a lot of sudden questions.”

  I shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “Just nosy, that’s all. How did she look?”

  He ponders for a moment. “A bit too thin, actually,” he says thoughtfully. “Sort of—angular. Not massively different, though. Older.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  He thinks again. “Not much, really…she’s going traveling.”

  I frown, glass on the way to my mouth. “Traveling? Where?”

  He shrugs. “I dunno, one of these save a disadvantaged yak programs somewhere. Did I tell you I saw Reuben too—d’you remember? That kid who set the science lab on fire? He’s running a division of JP’s now in—”

  “Did she say when she was going?” I cut in insistently. He looks surprised. “I didn’t ask. We didn’t speak for that long.”

  “Did she…did she mention me?” I say, and hate myself for asking.

  He looks awkward and shifts in his seat. “Honestly, it was like a five-second conversation and—”

  “So she didn’t?”

  “No. ’Fraid not.” He reaches out and pats my hand affectionately. “Sorry.”

  I don’t say anything, just shrug and try a smile.

  “But not being funny—why would she, and why would you care anyway? She was a total cow to you!”

  I hesitate. Was she? Or was she telling me the truth?

  “To risk a friendship over a bloke is bad enough once—but twice?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry to say, Mia, I don’t think she lost much sleep over it. Did you think she might still want to set things right?”

  “Maybe.” I don’t look at him directly.

  “But perhaps it isn’t unfinished business for her,” he says gently. “Perhaps it just is for you.”

  We go a bit quiet then.

  “Don’t take it to heart,” he says eventually. “You know what she’s like, she didn’t ask me anything about myself either—Katie is only interested in Katie.”

  I don’t say anything, as I know he will always be slightly biased on that front. Funny how a kiss at the age of fourteen will stay with you for years afterward.

  “All she did was gabble on about herself, say that we must meet up to catch up properly, gave me her mobile number and that was it.”

  My eyes widen. “She gave you her mobile number?”

  “Yes,” he says, exasperated, “but I’m not going to call because a) she’s totally self-absorbed, b) she was horrible to you, and c) she’s going traveling. The only thing more boring than listening to someone else’s travel plans is listening to their dreams. I dreamed I got married to Mel the other night. Remember her?” He shudders.

  “Well, they say that whatever you dream, the opposite comes true in real life.”

  Patrick frowns. “Well—while I hope that’s certainly true in the marrying Mel case, that sounds like total guff to me. I dreamed I was walking to work the other day—but last time I checked, I still can’t actually fly.”

  “You dreamed you were walking to work?” I look at him perplexed. “How crap are your dreams? And since when is flying the opposite of walking, you daft sod? I mean things like if you dream you die, you’re going to have a long and happy life.”

  “D’you think you and Pete will get married?” Patrick says suddenly.

  I manage to smile, then shrug and squint up at him. “Hope so. He hasn’t asked me.”

  “He will.” Patrick takes a swig of beer. “He’d be crazy not to.” He glances to his left as a short fat bloke punches the air with his fist and goes, “Yesssss!” loudly as he hits the jackpot on the fruit machine and it begins to pump coins into the tray. “Lucky bastard.”

  I dart a glance at him, and my heart inexplicably does a little thump-thump. Who is? Pete or Tubby Fatso over there shoveling pound coins into his pocket? But then my phone, which has been lying on the table, lights up, starts flashing Pete’s name and begins to vibrate itself into a puddle of spilled Diet Coke.

  “Hi, it’s me,” says Pete smoothly. “Can you come home?”

  “What, right now?” I look at my watch as Patrick mouths “Another drink?” and grins cheerfully at me. The moment has passed, if it was even ever there.

  “Clare’s here.”

  “What—at our house?” I’m confused and shake my head at Patrick. “What’s she doing there?”

  “Hang on—I’ll pass her over.”

  There’s a fumbling sound. “Yo, chick,” says Clare. “Where the bloody hell are you?”

  “I’m at the pub. What are you doing at mine?”

  “Well, someone, aka our mother, phoned me and said she was worried about you and could I come down and make sure you were all right. She said you were weird on the phone to her.”

  “I’ve been ill, actually,” I say quickly.

  “Evidently. Nice pub, is it? I told Mum you were all right. Anyway, I thought I’d come and surprise you since you were on your sick bed. I’ve got Lucozade and magazines and everything. And I’ve sacrificed a Friday night.”

  “Well, you should have called first.”

  “Er, except then it’s not much of a surprise, is it? And since when are you ever out on a Friday these days anyway? What pub are you at? I’ll come and find you.”

  “The Bottle House, but don’t worry—I’m coming back in—” But the line has already gone dead. Great, now I have to wait until she gets here and I want to go home!

  “My sister is coming to join us,” I say to Patrick.

  He frowns. “Isn’t she about fifteen?”

  “Yes, seven years ago. Has it been that long since you saw her?”

  He looks nonplussed. “Maybe. It’s been a while. I don’t really remember. Shall I get some more drinks in? What’ll she have? Lemonade?”

  I snort. “If you put about four vodkas in it, yes, she probably will.”

  He’s still at the bar when Clare puffs up to the table, all rosy-cheeked from being outside, and slings her bag down on the floor.

  “Hiya.” She leans in to kiss me. “Oh yeah, I can see what Mum meant—you look really ill. You’re such a wanker—I could be out getting some bunty tonight, but Mum was like, ‘Stop being so selfish and get on a train.’ Where’s your pal, or did you make him up too?”

  “At the bar,” I begin. “Look, Clare, I don’t want to stay that long…”

  “Oh great.” She rolls her eyes. “Is he a tit?”

  “No! It’s Patrick. You’ve met him before.”

  She looks blank. “Must be a gooch, I don’t remember him at all.”

  “I just don’t want to leave Pete on his own all night, and—”

  “Why?” She makes a face. “He was in a right stomp when I arrived. I could hear him shouting as I came up the garden path. I’d leave him to it.”

  “Who was he shouting at?” My heart freezes.

  She shrugs. “Dunno. He was holding the phone when he answered the door and said he’d call them back. I thought it was you, I was going to kick him in the nads. Oh, hello.”

  Her voice suddenly becomes a little smaller and shyer as Patrick appears by the table clutching three drinks.

  “Hello.” He clears his throat, smiles and remembers his manners. “Er, let me put these down. Sorry, my hands are all wet. Um, hi, I’m Patrick. I don’t think we’ve met.”<
br />
  But Clare is gazing at him like the rest of the world has just frozen and they are the only two people in it. I’m almost embarrassed and turn apologetically to Patrick, but then I realize that he is looking at her pretty intensely too.

  Oh no…no, no, no.

  “Yes you have,” I say quickly. “This is Clare, my little sister. Clare, this is Patrick.”

  Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Jesus! Sorry! I thought you were…well, my God, you’ve certainly changed.”

  Clare actually flushes a little pinker. “Well, thank you…Patrick.” She says his name slowly, like she’s trying it out for size. “It’s good to see you again.”

  Patrick sits down and passes over our drinks. “And you…and you…Well, um, so what have you been doing for the last seven years?”

  “A-levels, getting pissed, nicking my clothes and going to uni,” I interject sharply, and Clare frowns. “Look, Clare, are you sure you don’t know who he was shouting at?”

  Clare laughs lightly in a “No I don’t and shall we talk about this later?” sort of way and then says firmly, “I’ve no idea. Sorry, sis.” She turns back to Patrick and smiles as she pushes her hair off her face, saying brightly, “So, Patrick. Do you work around here?”

  Half an hour later, they’re getting on like a house on fire and I have the sinking feeling that something significant is not so much brewing as bubbling up madly. I’m also chewing my nails down to the quick, desperate to get home, but not seeing how I can without being blatantly rude and letting on that something is up.

  “Wings or gills?” says Clare.

  “Easy. Gills. Maybe I’ll hook up with the Little Mermaid,” Patrick says flirtily. God, no wonder he’s single.

  “What?” They both look at me.

  “Sorry?” I say innocently. “Did I just say that out loud? Look, Clare, we really have to—”

  “Okay,” says Clare thoughtfully, completely ignoring me. “Would you rather be completely covered in fur or scales?”

  “Fur,” says Patrick, “because at least then I can shave it all off and look slightly normal.”

  “Five o’clock shadow over your whole body is normal?” teases Clare.

  “Good point,” he concedes. “Would you rather…shave your tongue or…”

  “…eat a pizza topped with Dot Cotton’s pubes,” Clare finishes.

  Patrick gags on a mouthful of drink. “I’d cut my tongue out rather than do that.”

  “Okay, would you rather…French kiss a dog—”

  “Been there, done that,” Patrick says. “Come on—test me.”

  “A real dog…or go down on Ann Widdecombe?”

  “Clare!” I put my glass down. “Please!”

  But Patrick is laughing. “Definitely the dog.”

  Clare, who is now on a roll, shoots me a mischievous grin. “Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to be lowering the tone. Let’s talk politics. Would you rather teabag John Prescott or stick your fingers up Tony Blair’s arse—no gloves?”

  “Er, would there be any room, what with George Bush’s whole hand already being up there?”

  “Well,” Clare says admiringly. “Not just a pretty face, a satirist too.” And Patrick actually blushes. For God’s sake.

  “Right—that’s enough,” I say firmly. “I’d like to remind you I am actually ill already without having to think about John Prescott.”

  “Bollocks,” coughs Clare as she takes a sip of her drink.

  “I am!” I say, widening my eyes at her and standing up. “And I really need to go home now.”

  “Well, go on then,” says Clare. “No one’s stopping you.”

  “But I need you to come with me!”

  “Why?” says Clare simply. “Ring Pete, he’ll come and get you.” I can’t think of anything to say to that, so slightly foolishly I just stand there for a moment. Clare sips her drink innocently and Patrick stares at the table, struggling with the obvious desire to stay in the pub and chat up my sister, and his innate good manners that mean he should see me home. My sister wins.

  “Okay, fine,” I say wearily. “Patrick, can you make sure Clare gets back to mine safely, please. I assume you’re staying with us tonight and not going back to uni?” She nods.

  Patrick stands up. “You’re sure you don’t mind…” He trails off awkwardly.

  “No, I don’t mind.” I do actually. I can see what is happening here—you’d have to be blind not to. But I need to get home. I can’t sort Pete and me, and deal with Clare and Patrick flirting like crazy, and think about Katie. It’s too bloody much.

  Pete barely says hello when I get in the car.

  “Thanks for coming out,” I say tiredly.

  “Welcome.” He looks over his shoulder as he pulls out. “Told you you should have stayed in.”

  “I know.” I hold my buzzing head. “Sorry about Clare landing on us. Is it okay if she stays at ours tonight?”

  “She’s still here? Where?” he says in surprise.

  “Still in the pub, with Patrick,” I say.

  “Oh!” he says and then a slow smile spreads across his face and he chuckles. “Oh dear!”

  “Just don’t,” I say, closing my eyes. So much for making him jealous.

  “Are you sure she’ll be staying at ours tonight?” he teases.

  “Yes! I’m absolutely sure,” I snap back, slightly more sharply than I intended.

  “Okay, calm down.” He looks surprised. “I was only joking.”

  “Sorry.” I try and make my tone more conciliatory. He doesn’t need a row with me—I’m supposed to be the one he’s getting on with, it’s her he should be rowing with. “How’s your evening been?”

  “Quiet.”

  I glance at him sideways and I just can’t help myself. “Oh? Clare said she heard you shouting at someone on the phone.”

  “Get out of the bloody road! Jesus, they’ll get themselves killed!” He slows down as some kids decide to cross, mistakenly believing in their drunken haze that our car is much further away than it actually is. “I ordered an Indian after you left. They said half an hour and it was seriously late. I did lose my rag a bit at that.”

  “That must have been it then,” I say doubtfully.

  After I’ve made up the spare room, we watch some TV and then he says he’s going to bed. I say I’ll wait up for Clare and he kisses me briefly and goes upstairs. Then something occurs to me. I go into the kitchen and look in the bin. There are no takeaway trays in it. Another lie.

  I look for his mobile, but I can’t find it anywhere. Pausing only to send Clare a text telling her where I’m leaving the key, I give up and go to bed.

  NINETEEN

  I wake up to the sound of laughing and chatting downstairs. Pulling on my dressing gown, I wander into the kitchen to find Clare, in last night’s clothes, munching her way through a bowl of cereal and Pete putting some drying-up away.

  “Top of the morning to you,” says Clare. “Like your new mugs. When d’you get them?”

  “After the burglary,” I say, without thinking.

  Her chewing slows. “What burglary? You never said anything about that!”

  I wave a hand quickly. “Let’s not talk about it, it was nothing really—I don’t want to go into it now. How was last night after I left?”

  She looks smug; I have successfully diverted her. “Well, I’m afraid I had a rather controversial snog…”

  “…with Patrick! And she stayed there!” says Pete delightedly.

  Clare gives him a look. “Not like that. Honestly, Mia, your boyfriend’s mind. I came back, but some twat had forgotten to leave the key out.” She looks pointedly at me.

  “I bloody did leave it out,” I say indignantly. “I can’t help it if you were too pissed to find it.”

  “Luckily Patrick had come back in the cab with me,” she ignores me, “and being a gentleman had waited to see me get inside. Only I couldn’t, so I went to his. And he slept on the sofa.”

  “Yeah,
yeah!” Pete crows.

  I sit down at the table. “So you snogged, then?”

  “Yes, we did.” She sighs happily and pours some more milk into the bowl. “He’s fit. And well funny.”

  “Are you going to see him again?”

  She shrugs. “Nah. Shouldn’t think so. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m at uni and he works…”

  I know what this means. This is faked indifference, just in case he doesn’t call her. She likes him. She likes him a lot.

  “You’re only an hour away,” says Pete reasonably, putting some glasses in the cupboard. “That’s no distance at all, and he works in London.” I stare at him. Remarkable how quickly he’s become captain of Team Patrick since it means he can no longer be even vaguely interested in me.

  “You don’t mind that I snogged him, do you?” Clare says, looking at me carefully.

  “Mind? Why should I mind?” I laugh. “I’m totally cool with it.” Reaching for a spare bit of toast, I start to butter it carefully. “Did he ask for your number?”

  Clare looks smug. “Of course. And I’ve got his. He’s under McFittie.” She waits but I say nothing. “His surname is McDonald?” she says patiently. “Jesus, Pete, good luck with this one to-day.”

  “What about that trip to Barcelona you’re going on? Aren’t you after some bloke called Adam?” I say hopefully.

  “Who?” she says blankly. “Oh him. I’m not so sure I’ll go now. Think I might like to stay…a little closer to home. If you know what I mean.” And she grins naughtily.

  By lunchtime she is on the train, and when I get back from dropping her off at the station, the house feels empty and lonely without her. Pete is working on his quote upstairs and I just wander around, feeling a little lost and unsure what to do. My friend and my sister…As if on cue, my phone bleeps with a message from Patrick.

  Are we ok with what happened last night? As in me and you? Don’t want to mess anything up but would really like to call Clare. Is that ok?

  What can I say to that? I text back that it’s fine. And on some level it is. I couldn’t love Clare more than I do, and if a guy as lovely as Patrick wants to be in her life—well, how great is that? She’s right, he is fit, and funny; but he’s also kind, loyal, thoughtful, generous. Everything I could want in a man for my sister.