His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  Fish, however, is determined to get utterly hammered and take us all with him. “Come on, girl,” he blusters as he tops up my glass. “Get some more of this down your neck. Well, it’s free, innit? You might as well.” His cheeks are beginning to glow; he’s getting a little friskier and sitting just a bit closer to me than he needs to. Mrs. Fish is likewise shrieking with laughter at something Pete has said, and he’s looking a little alarmed at her OTT reaction.

  Despite Fish, his cackling and his totally inappropriate story about what he did to a bloke who owed him £250 for a telly, I am tentatively enjoying myself. People are starting to get up and wander about in the lull between coffee and the speeches, and an aunt of Pete’s who I have never met before comes waddling over to the table and envelops Pete in a lilac-silk hug. She’s very jolly and powdery, asking Pete with a nudge and a twinkle when he’s going to make an honest woman of me; surely wedding bells ought to be chiming for us soon? I am more than a little disconcerted to find both me and Pete hurriedly clearing our throats and saying, “Oh, plenty of time for that yet!”

  All the fun fizzes out of me like someone letting go of a balloon, and quietly I shrink back into my seat, barely noticing as the aunt whitters on about what a shame it is that Pete’s mum and dad weren’t able to make it, and when are they back from their safari holiday?

  A glass is tapped and the speeches start. They are painfully long, the bride’s father having drunk a little too much wine and thus adding anecdotes he hasn’t practiced, which consequently are about as funny as discovering someone has shat in both your shoes. Just as we’re all drifting off to sleep, a mobile rings and everyone jolts awake. It’s Pete’s. He scrabbles to turn it off, but in his haste can’t find the button, so grabs it and holds it to his ear and makes his way out of the room to jeers, holding up an apologetic hand as someone, wittily, shouts, “I’M AT A WEDDING—NO, IT’S SHIT!” making the bride’s mother purse her lips crossly like a cat’s bum.

  I can’t concentrate on the rest of the speeches, as all I can think is, who is he talking to? Who’s he talking to? Is it her? They must have made it up…Feeling sick, I peer anxiously out of the window into the garden, but I can’t see him. I take a big slug of wine and it makes me cough and splutter. Fish helpfully whacks me on the back and a bit of red wine spit flies out of my mouth, which is nice.

  Pete sidles back in as we are all on our feet for the final toast. The best man announces that the tables will now be cleared for dancing and we all sit down heavily, silently thanking our stars that we survived the speeches. Fish spies that Pete has returned and says, “Look who’s back! Your other bird all right, then?” He winks at Pete and chortles. Pete freezes for a second, forces a laugh and then jokes, “Oh, she’s good, thanks for asking.” Fish retorts quickly with, “Steady on, mate! I don’t want to know what she’s like in the sack—not with Princess here.” He elbows me, then he leans in and, tapping his nose, murmurs, “Tell me later!” before letting rip with another cackle.

  I can’t take any more of this, so I get up and weave my way unsteadily through the tables. Pete doesn’t come after me; probably thinks I’ve had too much to drink and need the loo. Outside in the chill air, the sun is dipping low and the sky has gone a magnificent red. It’s by far the best weather of the day, but the photographer has long since packed up and gone home.

  The cold air rushes into my lungs and I can smell wood smoke from nearby houses and a mushroom-like dampness from the surrounding trees. Two skinny young waiters, all spiky hair and hunched shoulders, are having a crafty fag by some French windows, shuffling from foot to foot to keep warm in their thin white shirts. The smell of their cigarettes carries over to me, making my head swim a bit. I feel giddy and light-headed, and my pulse starts to quicken slightly. I’m a woman on a mission again, I think, as I totter off toward the car park in my high heels.

  A stealth mission, but I’m going to come out of it all guns blazing. I have Pete’s keys in my handbag, and something else too; I’m almost giggling naughtily to myself as I reach the car. But as I slide into the driving seat and click the door shut behind me, I sober up a little and remember why I’m there, what I’m about to do, and that actually it isn’t funny at all really. Looking over my shoulder to check he hasn’t followed me, I reach into my bag and carefully pull out the wisp of peach knickers that I stole from Liz’s flat. Shoving them under the passenger seat, I make sure they’re completely hidden before getting out of the car and locking it up again.

  I’m back in the hot fug of the room within five minutes.

  The floor has been cleared, and the band are just doing their final “one two, one two” to test the mics, while a pageboy who is turning in faster and faster circles in the middle of the dance floor makes himself dizzy and happily falls over.

  Then the first dance is announced to cheers and whistles and the happy couple take to the floor. They are a little hesitant at first, with everyone’s eyes on them, but as the band start to croon “Something Stupid” they clutch each other tightly, her looking up at him dreamily and whispering something, him looking proudly down at her, arms protectively round her waist. They look so happy that it makes me want to cry. I’m standing there watching them, feeling more alone than I think I ever have, when I feel arms slide around my own waist, and Pete is there.

  I’m looking at the couple on the dance floor in front of me and trying to picture us instead of them…but I can’t. I’m staring at them so hard they are going blurry in front of my eyes. Suddenly I don’t want to be here…I just want to go home.

  I tell Pete I want to leave, and he seizes the opportunity gratefully, getting my coat and ushering me back to the car. We are on our way and he’s saying what a twat that bloke I was sat next to was and how he’s still hungry and have we got anything to eat at home?

  I’m thinking, when shall I pull the knickers out from under the seat?

  I wait until we are back home and he’s turning the engine off; then I pretend to reach down to get my bag. I feel my fingers grasp the wispy material. Here goes.

  “Ooohh!” I squeal. “There’s something furry under the seat! What the hell is that?” I pretend to look. “Oh, hang on, it’s a tissue or something.” I pull out the carefully folded knickers and then I say, “No it’s not…I think it’s material. What is this?…Put the light on, Pete.”

  He sighs tiredly and switches it on, saying something about just wanting to get in. The words die on his lips as I carefully and deliberately unfold the knickers. I let the information sink in and then I say, ominously quietly, “Would you like to tell me why you have a pair of women’s knickers in your car?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  He is just gaping like a guppy trying to find water, and for a brief second I almost feel sorry for him. But I don’t stop.

  “Whose are these, Pete? They’re not mine…Oh my God!” I clamp a hand to my face, like it’s just dawned on me. “Are you…have you…have you got another woman?”

  Staring at the knickers, he bleats, “I…I…no, of course not!”

  You bloody liar.

  I reach for the door handle, I scrabble out of the car and run up the path, trying to fit the key in the lock to get into the house.

  I hear him going, “Shit!” as he gets out of the car, and then he shouts, “Wait!”

  I kick my shoes off and run upstairs to the sound of Gloria barking, before slamming into the bathroom and locking the door. Then I wait. Come on, Pete. This is the bit where you run upstairs and deny everything.

  He comes pounding up the stairs and rattles the door. “Sweetheart, let me in!” he pleads. “I don’t know how they got there! I’ve never seen them before!”

  I don’t have to force a laugh, but I do make my voice sound deliberately wobbly. “Don’t try that one!” I explode, all high-pitched. “Knickers in a car? Bit of a fucking cliché, isn’t it? What were you doing? Off for a quick shag? She left her KNICKERS there? Oh my God!”

  Now when I need tears, w
here the hell are they? I’ve cried enough to float the Ark recently…and when I could really use them? Nothing. Fucking hell!

  He’s still rattling the door. “Come on, Mia—that’s ridiculous! Me? Have an affair? Don’t be so stupid!”

  That just makes me even angrier. I feel ragingly mad. I could happily go out there and punch his face in. He must think I’m some kind of idiot. Not having an affair? The lying bastard!

  Tears are now so far away that I have to rub a bit of soap on my finger and dab it briefly on my hot, dry eyes. It does the trick, making them sting and water immediately. Quick check in the mirror—yes, I look like I’ve been crying now, so I fling the door open. “How did they get there, then?” I shout accusingly.

  The question hangs in the air, and he paces about a bit and then says, “Look. I’ll tell you the truth. But don’t go mental, okay?”

  This ought to be good, seeing as I know I put them there under two hours ago.

  “There’s this girl I met…” he begins, and I feel faint as the words reach me. My heart crashes ten floors in two seconds and then suddenly the tears are there for real. It’s finally hearing him say it that does it. I whimper and move a step away from him.

  He says earnestly, “No, no, sweetheart—it’s not what you think. Let me explain.” He takes a deep breath. “I met this girl, an actress, at a bar when we were having a work do.”

  Oh my God, he’s actually going to tell me the truth. I try to catch my breath and wobble slightly, looking at him with scared, wide eyes.

  “It was nothing—we just chatted, that was all, about my work, her work. Most of my lot were pissed and I was driving, it was just a relief to have someone sober to talk to. Toward the end of the night, she said she really liked me, and could we meet up again? I said I was flattered, but that I had a girlfriend…then I left. She must have hung around and managed to get my mobile number out of one of the lads, though, because she called me the day afterward. I should have told her not to call again, but it felt rude to do that—and she just seemed normal, a nice chatty girl who knew I had a girlfriend. She called the next day too and we talked again, but pretty soon it went from one or two calls to her starting to, well, bug me.

  “I realized she’d got a lot of problems—and I mean a lot—but she just wanted someone to talk to. She said she needed a friend and that I was real and not as self-absorbed as people she worked with, who weren’t really her friends. She told me a lot of stuff about her…pretty fucked-up stuff…and then when I said I didn’t think I could be the friend she needed, she started crying and said how she always bored people and how she didn’t know how she could cope any more, and hung up on me. So I called her back, talked to her…I mean, she made it pretty clear she was talking about topping herself.” He pauses to let the words sink in.

  “I just got too involved. I think she liked the attention and everything revolving around her. Then she got this part in a show in town and I was really pleased for her. We met up for a coffee, I got her a card and stuff—even said I’d come up to see it. In fact we did, it was that show I took you to in town?”

  I don’t say anything, I just nod, but I’m starting to feel a little worried. This actually is starting to sound…well, almost believable.

  Pete sinks to the floor and holds his head. “But it all backfired. She thought I’d come up with the intention of seeing her. I’d mentioned what hotel I’d booked into. I don’t think she realized I was bringing you, and when we got there, while you were having your massage, I got a call from her room—she’d booked into the hotel too! I think she thought that I wanted to…well, you know.” He looks at me, very embarrassed. “Or maybe she thought she could persuade me to…Anyway, I went up to her room to tell her to leave, and this champagne arrived and everything…so I finally went mad and told her it was never going to happen and the calls were to stop. She got really apologetic and said it was cool and that she was sorry she’d misread the signs and that she wouldn’t bother me again if I didn’t want her to, but we could stay friends, couldn’t we? I was so relieved, I just said of course we could still be friends and stuff…” He looks at me pleadingly. “But I didn’t really mean it. It’s just what you say, isn’t it? She stopped calling for about a day, but then it started again. She called me in tears because she got robbed…”

  I raise an eyebrow. “She got robbed?”

  He looks shamefacedly at the floor. “Oh God, I’ve been such a prat. She got robbed and rang me in tears saying that she couldn’t pay for this bag she’d been waiting for, for like EVER, because all her cards had been nicked, and why did bad stuff only happen to her? And I felt so sorry for her that I went and bought it for her. I phoned her and said I had it and that she could pay me back when she got the money. I felt like I’d done a really nice thing, and she was really happy, only you went and found it under the bed.” He smiles at me ruefully. “So I had to give you that one and say I’d pay her for another. Bloody expensive gesture.”

  My legs start to give way, and I sit down heavily. I stare at him transfixed, and in a hoarse whisper say, “Carry on.” But I don’t want him to. This can’t be true, it can’t be!

  “I thought about what you said about the burglary not ringing true, and that it looked like it had been done just to wreck the place. It all seemed to add up and point to her. So I went nuts and called her. Phone calls is one thing, but breaking into our house? That’s just weird freaky shit.” He shakes his head. “She denied it totally, but I said I was calling the police. She said she’d top herself if I did that, and that I was the mad one, not her. How could I be so nice to her one minute and then turn on her and accuse her of something she’d never done and would never do? She cried and said that she’d fallen for me,” he flushes red, “and that it really hurt that I could say something like that to her, and that she thought we were friends. I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just hung up and didn’t do anything—I just hoped she’d go away, I suppose. I don’t think she wants to hurt me or you, she’s just obsessed with me.”

  I don’t say anything. I can’t.

  “As if that wasn’t weird enough, that card arrived for you. Well, that was half the good-luck card I sent her…I can only assume it was designed to make you ask if there was something going on you should know about, or that she was trying to say I was hers, not yours. I dunno.” He looks tiredly at me. “She’s mental, totally mental. Once I’d managed to get out of that one with you…well, then the earrings happened. I didn’t leave them out for you, babe…I think she broke in and left them there on purpose for you to find.”

  He looks at me, his face haunted and screwed up with misery. “And now the knickers…She just wants to have me to herself! She’s intent on breaking us up…and it’s only because you’re so innocent and have such a trusting heart that I’ve managed to hide it from you up until now. I’ve pleaded with her, begged her to leave us alone, and all she keeps saying is it’s not her, she’s not doing anything, and I’m the mad one. But it keeps happening…I don’t know what to do any more. I think I’m going to have to call the police.”

  Oh God. Oh my God, what have I done? What the hell have I done? I’m truly horrified, and feel sick to the pit of my stomach. I can feel the acid starting to swirl and bilge. So he hasn’t been having an affair? And everything I’ve done has made an innocent girl with a schoolkid crush look mad…and has in fact driven him to speak to her more than he would have done if I’d just left everything alone? Oh, Jesus! He’s not having an affair…I don’t know what to say. I just sit there trying to take it all in. “Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”

  He looks at me challengingly and directly. “Would you have believed me?”

  I stop and think about this. Would I?

  Do I?

  I think about the picture I saw by her bed. It could have been him reluctantly having it taken…could it have been in a bar? She is young, I suppose…I used to have pictures in my room of boys that I had a crush on that I’d nev
er even kissed, but surely I was fifteen or something then; she’s in her twenties!

  Maybe she is just an innocent girl who although she has her problems (and don’t we all?) fell in love with Pete, and now has him calling her all the time and wrongly having a go at her, accusing her of things she hasn’t done and knows absolutely nothing about. I mean, obviously I know she’s not mad and didn’t do all those things, because I did them.

  I don’t know what to believe…it all sounds so plausible, and everything fits. Is he telling me the truth? But what about Debs, and her assured “Lizzie’s boyfriend is an architect…”

  Maybe Liz is just nuts; maybe she told Debs that Pete is her bloke and Debs just took it as read…If only I’d had the chance to speak to her properly yesterday. If only he hadn’t rung and said he was on his way over…Hang on. He went over to see her! But I can’t ask him directly about it. How would I know about that?

  “So how many times have you told her to back off?” I say directly. “Have you just said it over the phone?”

  “Oh no,” he says grimly. “Believe me, I’ve told her to her face too. Nothing seems to sink in. She’s unhinged.”

  Okay, so that fits, and Debs was there when he went to the flat. That would suggest he was going there to have it out with her. Oh my God. What’s going to happen when those balloons arrive on Monday?

  “She even called me today at the wedding…” He shakes his head. “Still bleating on about how she didn’t do it, any of it. Then this goes and happens. I don’t know how she’s doing it all…How the fuck did she get into my car?” He bites his lip. “It’s getting scary now. I’m so, so sorry I didn’t tell you. I was just so worried you’d leave me. But I think maybe we have to do something serious about it now. Phone calls are one thing, but these two weeks have gone way beyond that—the breakin, the freaky stuff she’s sending…What do you think, should we call the police?”