His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  I think about them flirting last night and wistfully gaze up the stairs. Pete and I used to be like that. I know we did.

  Later, I’m still thinking about how Pete just needs to be reminded of how great we have always been—me and him—while he’s still arguing with her. So I make a phone call…which, on Sunday lunchtime, sees us driving out of the town. We’ve been going for a little over half an hour when he twigs.

  “Are we going to the Brown Trout?” he says, looking over at me. I nod shyly.

  The last time we went to the Brown Trout was about a year and a half ago. The food was amazing and we ate on the terrace overlooking a stunning spread of shimmering summer fields. We went for a walk afterward clutching each other’s hand and a glass of Pimm’s, with the ice chinking in the glasses. All we could hear was fat woodpigeons cooing and leaves rustling as the breeze tickled them. Because it’s in the middle of nowhere, we might just stand a chance of having some peace and quiet; some time just for us.

  Sadly, it seems that things have changed a little since we were last here. The terrace is firmly closed up when we arrive, piles of wet leaves everywhere, and the umbrellas I last saw flapping lazily in the summer breeze are folded away. Not that that matters really—it’s too cold to sit outside, and they have a cozy fire in the bar anyway.

  But my heart sinks as we go inside. New management seem to have taken over, and what used to be warm, comfortable and traditional—beams and intimate nooks and crannies—has been replaced by edgy tables, a cocktail menu and a slick black and gray bar.

  Where the fire used to be, there’s a spiky arrangement of red-hot pokers and austere lilies, and instead of the warming, hearty roast I’d hoped for, we end up with pesto cannelloni for Pete and Thai salmon on a bed of seared honey parsnips and leeks for me. When they arrive, Pete’s is so hot—fresh from the microwave—that it resembles a bowl of lava, and yet mine is tepid with floppy, waxy vegetables. I try gamely to keep the conversation going, but Pete is distant. He’s still perfectly pleasant, but doesn’t seem entirely there. He’s just not trying. At all.

  Afterward, I suggest a walk. We trudge down to the gate at the bottom of the car park and Pete looks doubtfully at the bog that is just about passing for a field. “I don’t want to get my trainers muddy.”

  “Oh, you’ll be fine!” I try to sound convincing. “We’ll stick to the edges. Come on!”

  “Do you remember that walk we had here in the summer?” I venture fifteen minutes later, my arm looped through his as we carefully pick our way through the less squelchy bits.

  “I remember it was a lot warmer—and drier.” Pete shivers, pulling away from me and zipping his coat right up. “I think we should go back. It’s getting daft now.”

  “Just a bit further,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “Let’s just get to the trees.”

  “Okay.” Pete slips a little as he tries to step over a large muddy stick, avoiding a puddle the other side. “Thank God we didn’t bring the dog—she’d be filthy. Oh SHIT!”

  I look up in alarm from where I’m negotiating a tricky bit myself and see Pete, one leg completely submerged in the puddle, looking crossly back at me. “THIS is why I didn’t think this was a good idea,” he says through gritted teeth. He starts to try and pull his foot free, and finally it pops out with a big farting sound. I can’t help it, I laugh. He looks so silly standing there with one enormous mud clubfoot.

  “It’s not funny, Mia! My bloody trainer is completely ruined—look!” He lifts it up to show me and wobbles slightly with the weight of it. “Shiiiiit,” he says in alarm, as he slips and plunges the other foot into the mud bath.

  We both fall silent.

  “Well, at least they match now,” I say helpfully.

  We look at each other, look at his feet, and then we both laugh.

  “Sorry!” I wheeze. “You just look so funny!” Out of nowhere, I find myself laughing so much tears spring to my eyes.

  “Yes, okay,” he says patiently. “I am actually getting pretty cold now. When you’ve stopped wetting yourself, can you come and help heave me out?”

  In the car on the way back—with his socks drying on the dashboard—he turns to me.

  “Thanks for lunch and the walk,” he says. “It was actually really nice.” Then he squeezes my hand and my heart fills with love.

  Later, when the house is still and he is asleep, I am again creeping downstairs, past his drying-out trainers, which make me smile, in my now nightly ritual to find his phone. I am already so used to doing it, I almost don’t expect to find anything worse than I already have. So it comes as a huge, ugly, horrible shock that makes me catch my breath, like being plunged into a bath of icy water, when the screen lights up as I open his inbox and read:

  Ha ha! Bet you looked funny. We’ll have to get you some new trainers. Time you updated anyway! And thanx for saying sorry. I love you! xxx”

  The little flame of hope lit earlier in the afternoon blows out suddenly, and I stand immobile in the darkness.

  TWENTY

  At nine o’clock sharp on Monday morning in London, having called work and left another message saying—surprise surprise—that I’m still ill, I march into the post office and buy an envelope and a stamp. Taking the card that I stole last week from Liz’s bedroom out of my handbag, I cut the top half of it off, so her name has gone, but so that it still says “All love always, Peter xxx.”

  Then, disguising my writing, I scrawl my name and address on the front of the envelope, stuff the half-card in, seal it and post it. The top half of the card goes back in my handbag for later. Then I stride grimly off to the tube station. I’m not messing about any more.

  Four hours later, Debs is holding the end of a tape measure for me as I pretend to make a note of what curtain size I need.

  “I’m sorry Lizzie isn’t here again.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have much luck with her, do you?”

  “It’s no problem.” I let the measure go and it whizzes back, snapping shut. “You said when I rang this morning that she definitely wouldn’t be here and I know I’m going to meet her soon.”

  “Of course you will,” Debs beams. “I’m so glad you called back. I couldn’t believe it when that number you gave me didn’t work—I’m such a blonde, I must have copied it down wrong—and of course Marc’s in San Fran so I had no way of tracking you down!”

  Thank God for Marc and his big gay holiday.

  “Anyway, you’re here now.” Debs smiles confidently at me. “So you definitely want the room then?”

  I hesitate. Then I say softly, “Yes, I think I do. Can I move in straight away?”

  Debs squeals theatrically and gives me a quick, insincere hug. “Of course. Yay us!” she says. “We’re going to have so much fun.” Then, without missing a beat, she looks me square in the eye and says, “I’ll need a check for the deposit today, though.”

  “No problem,” I say smoothly.

  “Then I’ll go and get you a key, roomie!” she giggles, practically skipping out into the hall.

  Left alone, looking around the room I have agreed to rent, I can’t believe what I am about to do, and feel my heart thump against my rib cage. I close my eyes briefly. This is crazy.

  Debs comes back in and holds out a key. “Here you go.”

  I look at it and then I tentatively reach out and my fingers curl round it. “Thank you,” I say, slipping it into my bag. She looks at me expectantly and I realize she is waiting for the check.

  “Oh, of course.” I start to scrabble in my bag, and just as my hand closes round my checkbook, my heart stops. I realize that my real name is printed on the check, and that Debs thinks I’m Lottie…Shit.

  I play for time, pretending I can’t find it, and root around some more. “Where the hell…” I mutter. “I swear I had it this morning…”

  Debs is looking bored.

  “I’ll have to give it to you next time.” I look her straight in the eye.

  But Debs is not quit
e that green.

  “Riiight,” she says uncertainly. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I have the key back then? I’m not saying I don’t trust you or anything…”

  We have a stand-off moment. Neither of us really moves, and suddenly a mobile goes off in Debs’ pocket.

  “Excuse me, Lotts.” She pulls it out. “Hello? Yeah, why? What? FUCK! I’d completely forgotten! Oh shit! Tell them I’m leaving now. Oh, I’m so sorry! Yeah, yeah, I KNOW, yes, right now, bye!”

  She snaps it shut and looks wildly at me. “I’ve forgotten a wig fitting. I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go.” She holds out her hand for the key.

  “Well, tell you what,” I say slowly. “Why don’t I finish up my measuring and then I’ll stick the key back through the letter box when I’m done? I totally see that you can’t let me just take it with no deposit. I could pop it over tomorrow morning…in cash.”

  Debs’ eyes gleam greedily. “That sounds perfect! You’re a star, Lotts. Hey—and that way you can meet Liz too. She’ll be in then. Oh, I’ve got to go—I’m so late! They’re going to hate me!” She giggles like she couldn’t care less if that was the case, grabs a coat and her bag and squeaks over her shoulder as she gallops down the stairs, “See you tomorrow, roomie!”

  “Will do, roomie!” I call back, smile fixed glassily to my face until the door slams behind her. I wait for a moment or two, then I let out a deep breath.

  Looking at my watch, I realize I don’t have much time to get over to the theater myself now, but I’m going to have to wait another five minutes. It won’t do to arrive at the same time as Debs, but then neither do I want to be late. I am going to see the show again: a matinee performance.

  When I arrive, I am unamused to discover that a ticket will cost me thirty quid. Thirty quid! Pushing my tenners under the glass window of the box office actually hurts. I’m paying to see her in the show, effectively almost paying her wages. Jesus. And I’m at the back!

  Once the lights go down and the band start up, I tense. The curtain rises and I scan the stage for her as the big opening number begins. Finally I see her, all eyelashes and teeth, loose limbs and sparkly costume. My whole body tautens with the stress. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her—it’s like a car crash: I don’t want to look, it’s making me feel sick, but still my eyes are irresistibly drawn to her.

  I watch her dance and move with mounting jealousy. She’s good, even I can see that. She moves gracefully but with a sexy sharpness when required. Effortlessly she lifts a leg, drapes it over her male partner’s shoulder and throws her head back as he slides his hand down her breastbone. It’s a sexy, intimate move, slow and languorous. Next minute she’s up again and he’s hoisted her on to his shoulder. She’s smiling out at the audience. Out at me. The lights catch the shimmer and glitter of her costume, making her look luminous. And she is in love with my boyfriend.

  Next to her, I feel drab, boring and flat. I’m suddenly aware of the safe shades I always go for in my hair, the fact that the roots could do with a touch-up. The ordinariness of my outfit. I whinge bland; she whispers allure.

  This was a bad idea. She exudes sex on the stage, offers it on a plate. Why did I not see this before? Why didn’t I notice her when we came to see the show? How could I have missed it?

  I sit there, my nails digging into the seat, thankfully with no one either side of me, staring at her, wondering intently what would happen if I stood up right now and yelled BITCH! at the stage. In assembly at school, I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor with the other bored children, wondering what everyone would do if I stood up and swore.

  I’m seething and writhing on the inside with hatred and jealousy, as if I have a stomach full of squirming snakes. I don’t think anyone can tell just by looking at me, though. Anyway, they’re all looking at the stage.

  I don’t shout after all. I watch her fling and be flung, my eyes follow her every move. I see Debs too—she obviously made the fitting on time. She’s giving it all she’s got, but it’s Liz that I really hunt with my eyes. We get to the end of Act 1 and the moment when they all freeze, waiting for the curtain. She is motionless, staring out into the auditorium, smile fixed to her face, and I’m staring, staring at her, and for a minute I think I see her eyes flicker in my direction and narrow slightly, but that’s ridiculous. She couldn’t see me, right at the back, with all those lights shining on her. Could she?

  I slip out when the safety cloth has dropped. It’s started to rain outside, a light, fizzly rain. I’ve seen enough glitz and glamor and I want to get back—I’ve got stuff to do now I’ve checked they are both definitely at work and not going anywhere near the flat.

  The key takes a bit of wiggling in the front door, but finally it swings open and I go upstairs. Pixie doesn’t even bother to yip when I walk into the sitting room, just eyes me disdainfully and settles back down on the floor without making another sound.

  Watched over by Pete’s fixed, grinning face, still there on the bedside table, I’m rummaging through Liz’s wardrobe in minutes. The bag is still there. Good. I have a better look through her stuff this time and find in her bedside table a half-full packet of condoms, which makes me feel sick, and a vibrator—which makes me feel even sicker. It’s like finding my boyfriend is addicted to a real-life porn channel; a walking, talking, fucking, doll-like, proper girl, with a flat, sex toys and his picture. It’s just unreal and it’s the whole separateness that I can’t get my head round. I knew nothing about this. I still don’t know when or how they met, how long it’s been going on. Is this what he sees in her? Sex? I’d rather that than love.

  I go over to the bed and pick up a pillow. Sniffing it, I decide I can’t smell his aftershave. I pull back the covers and look in the bed. I know it’s sick but I can’t help myself. It’s just crisp and clean. Tucking it carefully back in, I smooth the duvet down, and then it’s over to her pine dressing table, which is festooned with strings of bright beads and glittering costume jewelry. I read through some of the cards she has in the small drawer, but it’s boring stuff. Then I notice her credit card, just left there. Sitting on the table.

  Picking it up, I stalk through to the living room, and when I see the deflated balloons hanging forlornly there, it seems obvious. I am so angry with her that I don’t know where to put myself. I just want to hurt her, like she has me, and I know that this will be better than doing anything to her physically.

  This will make her look like a total nutter.

  A quick call locates me a company who do boxed balloon gifts. A nice man goes a little bit quiet when I tell him what I want, but laughs, relieved, when I explain it’s for a party.

  I decline an accompanying message. Then I give the address that the balloons need to be delivered to, a week from today, read them my credit card number and give my name as it appears on my card: “Miss E. Andersen.” I ask that they don’t send me a receipt, and he wishes me a nice day.

  Then I pop the card back where I found it so that she’ll be none the wiser. Having used the bathroom and taken a brief unplanned moment to wipe both of their toothbrushes around the inside of the lavatory bowl (a little harsh on Debs, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay), it’s time to go. I pull the front door shut quietly and then post the key back through the letter box.

  It’s when I get to the tube station that what I’ve just done hits me. I glance back at the flat and my head starts to swim. Leaning against the wall, I gasp for air, reach my hand up to push the hair out of my face and find that I have broken into a light sweat. A couple of people are staring curiously as they walk past me—an old woman in a tea-cozy hat dragging a tartan shopping trolley, and a middle-aged man in thick glasses and a stained zip-up jacket—but, this being London, no one says anything.

  I try to slow my breathing down, feeling my pulse fluttering at my wrist. Just calm down. Take a deep breath. I look at the flat where I’ve just been, busily trying to make her look like a lunatic, and I know that the person who is b
ehaving really irrationally is me. But I can’t stop myself. I’m so frightened, and she loves him, for fuck’s sake. Has he told her he loves her too? What if he does? I don’t want him to leave me. I…I can’t do this any more, I can’t. I have to talk to someone. This is sending me crazy.

  I reach for my phone.

  “Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Look, I know it’s short notice but can you come and meet me for a quick coffee and a bite to eat?…Please?…Oh, thank you.” I close my eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  I feel sick with relief. Thank God. Oh thank God. Feeling a bit better already, I straighten my coat, smooth my hair down and descend to the underground.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I’m waiting in the window, fiddling with the menu, when the door pushes open. Amanda walks in, scans the restaurant and then smiles widely as she sees me.

  “Hello, you!” she says as she leans in to kiss me. Although it’s cold outside, her cheek is warm and rosy. She straightens up, unwinds her scarf and slips her coat off before sinking into the chair opposite me.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise,” she says. “And you know what? I’m really glad you called. I’ve got something to talk to you about. But you first. What’s up? You sounded a bit funny on the phone.”

  I take a deep breath, but as I’m trying to find the words, the waiter arrives with a bottle of red that I’ve pre-ordered, pours a little into my glass and waits for me to taste it.

  “I’m sure it’s lovely, thank you.” I look up at him and he inclines his head modestly as if he crushed the grapes himself. He pours us both a glass expertly.

  I take a big sip of my wine to steady my nerves.

  Amanda looks curiously at me. “Not like you to indulge in lunchtime drinking.”

  “Not like you not to!” I nod at her untouched glass.

  She reaches out and wraps her fingers round the stem, but then hesitates. She looks at me uncertainly from under her eyelashes and I notice for the first time that her eyes are positively dancing with excitement.