His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  This is it.

  The latch turns in what feels like slow motion. I straighten up, determined. The door swings open and everything goes still. In under a second I have gained complete control of myself.

  I look into the face of the woman standing in front of me, and my icy calm betrays nothing, not even a flicker.

  “Hello,” I say. “I think you’ve been expecting me.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Debs smiles at me and says, “Certainly have! Come on up! You know the way by now!”

  Indeed I do.

  She turns and walks ahead of me; I shut the front door and follow her up.

  “How was your wig fitting yesterday?” I ask conversationally as we go into the sitting room. I’m trying not to look around. Where is she? In her room? In the bathroom? “Did you make it on time?”

  Debs wrinkles her nose and snorts. “Yes thanks, it was all fine. Bloody wardrobe. Think they own the place. You know what it’s like. Want a cuppa while we wait for Lizzie? She stayed at a friend’s house last night but she knows you’re coming over and she’s on her way back.”

  “Tea would be lovely.” I slip my coat off and lay it carefully on the arm of the sofa.

  “Cool.” She smiles and wanders off into the kitchen.

  I exhale deeply and stare at one of the photos of Liz. Deep breath. She’s not here yet. Compose yourself.

  Debs wanders back in with two mugs and hands one to me before sitting down on the orange sofa and curling her legs underneath her like a cat.

  Just as we both open our mouths to say something, the phone goes. Debs shakes her head in disbelief. “That phone! God, it just never stops—I’m so sorry, Lottie. You know what? I’m just going to leave it. Now, tell me about you. Where did you say your last flat was?”

  “Well, I—”

  Just as I begin, a woman’s voice feeds tinnily through the answer phone. “Hi, it’s me! I’m really sorry…I’m running about fifteen minutes late—decided to take a bloody cab and we’re stuck now. I’m guessing Lottie is there already. Say sorry for me and I’ll be back ASAP. Love ya!”

  Debs laughs and then groans. “Typical Lizzie. Sorry, Lotts. Anyway. You were saying?”

  “I actually live with my—” I start, and then the phone goes again.

  “I don’t believe it! Bloody thing!” Debs glares at it. “Just ignore it. You live with your…” She looks at me expectantly.

  “Boyfriend,” I say firmly. “And—”

  “Hi, it’s Peter.” A very familiar voice fills the room and I nearly drop my cup of tea in shock all over the carpet. “Lizzie, I’m on my way over—sorry, I’m on the car phone and the reception is a bit dodgy. I know you said you were going to be in this morning and I really think we need to sort this all out. See you in a minute.”

  My eyes widen in shock and I can barely breathe. He’s what? Oh fuck! FUCK! I have to go—how close is he? And why’s he coming to see her, why? What the hell do I do now?

  Debs sighs and is busy setting her mug down on the carpet, so she doesn’t notice me having a moment of terror and panic in the corner. “Excuse me, Lottie, I have to make a quick call.”

  She gets up and stalks to the phone. “Hi, it’s me. Peter’s just phoned. He’s on his way over…I don’t know, hon…Yeah, she is.” She glances at me. “Yeah, I think so too. It might be wise.”

  All I can think is, get off the fucking phone—I don’t have much time!

  She hangs up and turns to me. “Look, Lottie, this is really awkward and I’m SO unbelievably sorry but, well, there’s a bit of a situation developing that Lizzie needs to defuse and I think it might be better if we do this another day. Do you mind? I promise it’s not always like this!” She laughs awkwardly. “I’m so sorry.”

  I just don’t care. All I want is to get away from here before he arrives.

  “It’s okay.” I gather my bag and coat up quickly. “Look, I’ll be in touch.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “You’ve been really good about this, I appreciate it.” Once we get to the bottom of the stairs, she holds the door open for me.

  “Please don’t worry, Debs.” I smile brightly, my guts churning. I have to go! He could be here any second! “I’ll give you a ring.”

  “Thanks!” she beams. “You’re a star, Lotts! See you soon.”

  The door closes behind me. I let out a whimper and scan the street. He’s driving. Should I make a dash for the tube? Oh, where’s a cab when you need one! I stumble to the edge of the pavement. If he sees me here…Oh God, what was I thinking, coming back here again? It wasn’t worth it! I shouldn’t have taken the risk—I was getting too sure of myself. If I lose him…

  Then I see a bus approaching a stop on the other side of the road. That’ll do. I look urgently left and right, before hurtling across. It doesn’t matter where it’s going; I just have to get out of here.

  I throw myself on, show my travel card and lurch over to a seat as we start to pull away.

  Oh, thank God. I look back over my shoulder as the flat begins to disappear out of sight. I feel ill with the relief.

  It’s short-lived, though. He’s going over there—he, they, might both be there right this second. Together. What’s he going to say or do? Has he gone there to finish it? Or maybe just to tell her to start taking more care…I stare miserably out of the window.

  I wish I knew what was happening. I wonder what he’s doing right now.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  When he gets in later, he is not in a good mood at all. I jump when I hear the front door bang shut, and shortly after that he slams out to the gym.

  He seems a little calmer when he gets back and flops down on to the sofa beside me.

  “Sorry,” he says shortly.

  I shoot a glance at him. “What for?”

  “I’ve been a bit stressed this evening. I’ll just grab a shower, and then do you fancy a glass of wine?”

  I nod, and he looks pleased. “Good, won’t be long.”

  Later, on the sofa, I’m resting my legs on his lap affectionately, but being careful not to be too clingy. He’s relaxed and comfy and stroking my leg idly. “This is nice,” I say quietly.

  He glances over and flashes a smile. “Yeah, it is.” He turns back to the TV.

  Then I feel his phone vibrate in his pocket. He ignores it, and minutes later it vibrates again. Another text message. He shifts carefully. Then it starts to vibrate properly. She’s ringing him.

  He swears under his breath and slides a hand into his pocket to switch it off. “Probably just Mum. No concept of the time difference whatsoever, that woman.”

  But then we both jump as the house phone rings shrilly. No! She can’t be calling him here! Oh my God!

  He pushes my legs off his lap, jumps to his feet and snatches the phone up. He doesn’t say anything, no hello, nothing, just listens for a second and then says clearly with his back to me, “No, I’m sorry, no one has ordered a taxi to this address.”

  My eyes narrow. Either that was an utter, amazing coincidence or he really, really thought on his feet.

  He hangs up and turns back to me, smiling. “Come on, it’s late—let’s get to bed.”

  I don’t protest, and once I’m in bed I only say in amazement that he must have read my mind, when he offers to zip downstairs for my glass of water. He makes sure he’s not gone too long and kisses me good night a little absently. I’m not surprised, with what must be on his mind.

  Once the lights are off, and he’s asleep, I slip noiselessly out of bed and downstairs. His phone is under a cushion on the sofa. I switch it on and look first at the call list. It was her who phoned him.

  Then I look in his sent messages. Just as I thought, he sent one to her about twenty minutes later, while he was getting my water. It is short and to the point:

  What you playing at? Don’t ever call house again. Will speak to you tomorrow. Go to bed.

  I switch the phone off and creep quietly back upstairs.

  TWE
NTY-SIX

  The following day, I am standing in a very upmarket underwear store in a part of London where most of the shops have doormen, and if not, doorbells.

  The colors and textures surrounding me overload my senses. Sweetly innocent sugar-icing pink and yellow balconettes here, rich plum and damson push-ups and thongs over there. Black satin and bordello-green silk bras and French knickers. Antique pale lace baby dolls. I just don’t know what to get. Thankfully, an assistant has clearly seen women like me many times before, and before I know where I am, we are both standing in a changing room admiring a plunging cleavage I never knew I had, she is telling me how much more flattering a high-cut line is, and don’t my legs look longer?

  “He’ll love it!” she twinkles at me conspiratorially as she takes the items to wrap in tissue paper. God, I hope she’s right. I can only assume that the tissue paper must be laced with diamond thread and spun by angels, as the total bill for one underwear set (two pairs of knickers) is £370.

  That leaves me £30 change from my cash. Dear God.

  I feel faint and almost lose my nerve, but then I remember Liz on stage. I have no choice but to do this.

  After all, I used to dress a little more like that when I first knew him; it’s just over time that I began to tone things down. We started not going out to clubs as much, so there was no need to buy tiny little sparkly tops. Then because I wasn’t wearing that sort of thing I didn’t need to watch what I ate quite so carefully. Loose jumpers and tops can be very forgiving. But now I can see that was where I started to go wrong. I took my eye off the pan and it boiled over badly.

  Next, I go and have my hair washed and styled in an expensive salon that luckily for me has had a last-minute cancelation. When the very camp but very beautiful stylist called Bernardo finishes and with a flourish whips out a mirror, smiling smugly at my exclamations of delight, I could cry, but this time with relief. I look, well—quite pretty! My hair is glossy and bouncy, full of life. Just what I want Pete to associate me with.

  I go and have my nails done too. Subtle attention there, though, no long Essex-wife talons; I’m going for effortlessly gorgeous. Tottering past the counter of a makeup brand I have seen in lots of glossy magazines, for once I stop. Normally I have no time for this sort of thing, but today I ask the girl’s advice and she’s not thick or caked in foundation at all. She’s actually very sweet and makes me up artfully.

  It pays off for her, though, when I buy a handful of products that cost so much, I almost gasp in shock. She sees my look of alarm, pats my arm reassuringly and tells me it will be worth every penny and that I look amazing. I half smile and say she probably has to say that to everyone. She looks earnestly back at me and says, well yes, she is supposed to, but with me she really means it.

  Finally I take a cab over to a small boutique that I have always walked past before because it looks horribly expensive and places like that scare me. I tend to assume, probably not wrongly, that the shop assistants are going to know, as soon as I walk in, that the bag I am carrying on my shoulder was thirty quid in Monsoon and that my trousers are French Connection, not Prada. This therefore makes me a fake and not of their world. I’ve always imagined a Pretty Woman scenario where they won’t serve me. But wrong again! It turns out, once I plunge in through the door before I lose my nerve, that they too are actually lovely. Honestly, there are so many really nice people in the world when you’re spending money.

  The sales girl is very chatty as I’m twirling this way and that, looking at myself in the mirror. She tells me that they have some new stock coming in next week and she knows there are a couple of items that would look simply stunning on me. She starts to tell me about them, and I’m being seduced by her descriptions of chocolate and raspberry silks when she suddenly breaks off and lets out an ear-piercing shriek while batting at her head. I can see something fluttering confusedly about and she flaps her arms wildly. It drops to the floor as she hits it, and without pausing for a moment she shoves an immaculately heeled shoe on to it and grinds.

  She gingerly peels her foot away, and we both peer at the floor and see a butterfly crushed on the cold glassy tile. Its body is still twitching and pulsing; wings in a pulped tangle.

  “Urgh!” She grimaces graphically. “What a disgusting mess. Excuse me, madam.” She clicks off to the desk and curling her lip in distaste uses a tissue to wipe up the remains, throwing the balled-up result in the bin.

  “Fancy that this time of year!” she muses, peering at the floor to make sure all traces of wing have gone. “Now, where were we?” She switches back on the smile. “Ahh, that’s right! Beautiful clothes for you!”

  The dress I finally settle on fits me so well and looks so lovely I know I have to have it. I will regret it forever if I don’t make it mine. I want to wear it out straight away but I don’t. I’m saving it for later. It is so stupidly expensive, it actually doesn’t feel real as I pass my card over to the girl. But as I walk to the station, swinging glossy bags with expensive names on them, I know they are the genuine article. They just better be worth it. New underwear and getting my hair done to seduce my man. What a cliché…

  Sitting on the train home, willing it to move faster with every fiber of my being, I become aware of a few admiring glances. At me!

  My phone rings and it’s Clare. She’s wheezing with laughter before she even speaks and the sound of it is so infectious that in spite of everything it makes a huge grin spread across my face.

  “Guess what?” she just about manages to say. “I’ve started this new discussion group on Facebook called ‘I don’t need a shag when uni fucks me every day’ and…ha ha ha…oh sorry…” She gulps and tries to get herself back under control. “And me and the girls posted the topic ‘Would you rather have a vagina where your belly button is or…’” she giggles uncontrollably again, “‘a cock on your shoulder?’ And Amy said…he he he…Amy said she’d rather have the cock, because then she could dress it up as a parrot and it would be less weird! HA HA HA!”

  I laugh out loud and a man looks up from his paper and smiles before glancing back down. Clare wheezes again. “Oh God…my tummy hurts so much!” she gasps. “I mean, who…” But then we go through a tunnel and I lose her.

  The man looks up again and I glance shyly away as I catch his eye. But then I spot the twinkle of a wedding band on his finger and it tarnishes the moment for me. I think of his wife, probably at the station with their kids in the back of the car, waiting tiredly for his train to get in…So I don’t meet his eye again and he gets the message, turning back to his paper. I am not the sort of girl who would do that to another woman, thank you very much.

  My phone goes again and it’s a text. Lottie.

  Please don’t die. Is very boring without you. Saw Spank Me pick nose AND EAT IT earlier. HATE him.

  I decide not to text her back in case she rings and hears that I’m blatantly on a train. She thinks I’m practically on my deathbed by the sound of it. Instead I count down the stops and almost break into a run when I get off at the station, I’m so desperate to get back, but I don’t. I don’t want to be all hot and sweaty with running makeup. That would defeat the whole object of my plan.

  Once the front door shuts behind me and I’m in the stillness of the house, I race upstairs, strip off and put on my new underwear. I touch up my makeup, get the new dress out of the bag and carefully lay it on the bed. Sitting down next to it, I wait for Pete to get back.

  I don’t have to wait long. I hear the door slam, which is my cue.

  I start to pad around upstairs and hear him bounding up the stairs two at a time. He comes into the room to find me applying some lipstick in my new underwear, looking like I’m getting ready to go out, and gratifyingly gives a low whistle.

  “Bloody hell,” he says. “Is that new?”

  I look down at myself and shrug. “Don’t think so, why?”

  He raises an eyebrow at my pneumatic chest and says, “I think I’d have noticed, don’t you?”


  Well, yes, you would think so.

  “How was your day?” I ask, reaching for my earrings.

  He grimaces. “Shit. But it’s picking up now.” He smiles at me and I feel my heart flutter. Keep it cool—don’t blow it. Then I notice he’s holding something in his hand: an envelope. “What’s that?” I ask as I walk past him to get the dress.

  He stretches out his hand.

  On the front in a crappy attempt to copy my fake writing is my name and our address. He has drawn a pretend stamp on it, which has a smiley-faced stick-head wearing a crown.

  I open it and see that I’m not the only one who has been shopping. In the envelope is a top half to the card I received yesterday.

  It is a new, sanitized top half, which says my name in it instead of hers. How lucky for him that he obviously remembered where he bought it. Although that stings…she’s that special that he can remember where he bought cards for her?

  It also says, This card entitles you to a night at the ballet with me…who loves you very much. All in pen the same color. He has, I’ll admit, paid attention to detail, but as for the content? Is that really the best he can do? For the man who bumped me out of the way with a massage so he could fuck his lover two floors up in the same hotel, it’s a little disappointing, really.

  Instead of saying that, though, I go, “Ahhhh! How sweet!” and “Ooohhh! You’re so thoughtful!” And then I say that I still don’t understand why he cut it in half and sent it separately…but whatever. I’ve always wanted to go to the ballet, and how clever he is to have chosen a card with a dancer on the front as well!

  He has the grace to at least look at the floor. I put the card down and pretend to carry on getting ready. I don’t kiss him or hug him. I just return to what I was doing.

  “Are we going somewhere?” he asks as I loop the dress around me. “Nice frock, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” I smile. “I am, you’re not.”

  He looks surprised. “Oh.”