His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  Lottie shrugs and shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

  “What was I expecting her to say? ‘Oh, Mia, I’m so glad you called so I could confess my dark secret to you. Three and a half years ago, I came back into your life and having already stolen your childhood sweetheart, I decided to kiss the man you’d managed to subsequently meet and fall desperately in love with. I don’t know why and it was very wrong of me. I should have told you the truth but I wanted you to still be my friend, so I lied and said it was all his fault. But hey ho—you’re not my friend any more anyway, so I might as well come clean.’”

  Pausing, I reach for another tissue, yanking it out of the box and blowing my nose again.

  “‘It was all my fault,’” I continue with my high-pitched mimic. “‘Pete never tried to kiss me; I wickedly tried to seduce him because I was unhappy at the time and wanted what you had.’” I ball up the tissue and throw it toward the bin, but miss. “‘He simply can’t be having an affair now with this Liz. You are the only woman for him. I’m so sorry. I’m going traveling and I know you will never forgive me, but at least we’ve made our peace now and you know you have a good man there. Hang on to him…’ Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.”

  Lottie sighs. “A touch unrealistic, perhaps. You said it yourself. What good outcome could there possibly have been? So what…you made a mistake. Don’t beat yourself up about it. What matters is here and now. She really has nothing to do with you and Pete.”

  I inhale deeply and try to calm down.

  “Look, you’ll never really know what happened in that room between them—who did what, whose fault it was, who betrayed you. You made the decision you thought was right at the time, and that’s all we can ever do. All you had to go on was what you knew for certain about her, and you saw her with your own eyes in bed with Dan. So what that you were only twenty-one?”

  “Twenty,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Whatever. She still did it. Would you have done that to her?”

  “No. She was my best friend.” My voice cracks and wobbles slightly and I close my eyes as I try to get a grip on myself. “I know you’re right…it’s just, the fucking stupid thing is…” I open my eyes and look Lottie square in the face, “the thing that I could still punch myself for is that even now, all these years on, I still went back for more. I didn’t stop to think about who had done what to who and when. What it really comes down to is that I still hoped there was enough of our friendship there to help me through what has definitely been one of the worst times of my life. And there wasn’t. There isn’t. And there isn’t ever going to be again. We’re never going to sit down and set it right. I’ll never really know why she didn’t try to get in touch with me again after that night, how it slipped so badly into nothing when it used to be everything. And one day, when I’m old, someone is going to tell me in passing that she’s died, and I know, I know that I’ll wish with all my heart that it could have been different. I just keep thinking of those two little girls we once were, dancing madly round around her living room, giggling like crazy.” Tears well up in my eyes again, to my immense frustration. “God, I wish I could stop crying!” I blink them back fiercely.

  “Maybe there are friendships that are just never supposed to last into adulthood and that simply don’t stand up to scrutiny,” Lottie says gently and reaches out for my hand.

  “Maybe,” I concede. “Or maybe she just didn’t like me as much as I thought she did. I’ll never know. Such is life.”

  Lottie takes a deep breath. “I think you just have to let some things go, even if it really, really hurts and you don’t understand why you couldn’t make it all okay. Some things you just can’t fix.”

  “I know,” I say and squeeze her hand back gratefully, finally letting go to wipe my eyes. “I think I’m starting, at last, to learn that. God. Friendships can be even harder work than relationships!”

  Lottie shifts around uncomfortably.

  “I wasn’t actually talking about Katie,” she says carefully.

  Her words hang in the air.

  “I love Pete,” I say quietly, and, just like delicate bubbles, everything she has just said bursts silently, vanishing without trace.

  “Then I’m speaking out of turn, and I’m sorry.” She stands up resignedly and starts to gather our cups before walking to the kitchen. She hesitates as she reaches the door.

  “It’s good to know that he’s worth all of this; what you’ve put yourself through. After all, it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. The only person you really can’t lie to is yourself, and obviously you’re not doing that, so…it’s all okay, isn’t it?”

  I ignore her. “I think I’m going to pop out and get some milk.”

  “Look, Mia,” Lottie interjects, “if I’ve crossed—”

  “Do you want anything?” I cut across her desperately, begging her silently not to say anything else.

  “No,” she sighs. “You’re all right.”

  I’m only slightly cheered when Patrick unexpectedly turns up at the office at about five o’clock, eating a bag of sweets like he’s ten or something, wondering if I want to go out for a drink.

  I’ve just finished the delighted “Hello!” and the “What are you doing here?” bit and he’s done the “I finished work early and was up this way so I thought I’d pop in” bit. We have a slightly awkward “How’s my sister?” and the “She’s okay, thanks” bit, which is going to take some getting used to, and are just starting on the “So, how’s work?” when Lottie, obviously tiring of chit-chat, says, “Hey, Patrick. What do you think about this?” She swings her legs out from under the desk and eyes Patrick steadily. “Pete says they…” she nods in my direction, “should formalize things.”

  I shoot her a surprised look as Patrick frowns and gives the matter his consideration.

  “Oh, blimey. Big step. Hmm! I’m not sure now is a good time to buy, though.” He chews thoughtfully on a blackjack and looks at me seriously. “The market’s a bit volatile at the moment but it’ll be an investment, I suppose. Just make sure you sign all the right stuff to protect what you put in and—”

  “Not buy a house, they mean get married,” Lottie interrupts bluntly. “Isn’t it romantic?”

  Except she says it again in the same sort of voice that someone might say, “Oh, a free holiday in Baghdad! How lovely!”

  Patrick’s chewing slows for a moment. His smile fades and he goes a bit still. Then it’s as if someone plugs him back in again. The smile appears on his face from nowhere and he grins and says, “Well, bloody hell! Congratulations!” He comes over and gives me a hug. “Get all of us, happy and loved up!”

  “He hasn’t actually asked me yet,” I point out, disentangling myself from Patrick, who smells quite lovely now I think of it: expensive sandalwood aftershave and aniseed. Lucky Clare. “But he as good as did. And I didn’t say no. That’s nice, isn’t it?” I squint worriedly up at Patrick.

  He glances at Lottie, who drops her gaze. “Hmmm,” he muses under his breath. “Hmmm.”

  Then the megawatt smile is back. “Course it’s nice!” he says. “If you’re happy, I’m happy! You are happy, aren’t you?” He looks at me searchingly.

  I pause for a minute. Am I? Yes, I think so. I’m certainly relieved.

  “I’m going to get married!” I say shyly.

  Patrick nods slowly and says, “Yes, you are…Well, that’s decided then. We have to go for a celebratory drink!”

  “I can’t,” I say regretfully, getting up. “I’ve got to get home really. You’re all right, though? My sister being nice to you?”

  “She’s fantastic,” he says, popping a cola cube in his mouth and making toward the door. “I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy. Anyway,” he blows me a kiss, “you know where I am if you need me.”

  I nod gratefully and blow him one back. He winks at Lottie, gives me a salute, then he is gone. As ever, when Patrick leaves the room, it feels suddenly a little quieter
and more boring.

  Lottie sighs. “That’s nice that Clare and he are together. Is it weird for you?”

  “A little,” I say honestly. “But Patrick’s so lovely, I’m just glad they’re both happy. Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. Thanks for today. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem,” she says, smiling a little sadly. “See you tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

  As I walk home from the station an hour later, I think about how we can start to spend more time together now, Pete and me. Maybe a shared hobby would help?

  Once I’m in through the front door, I kick my shoes off, shouting, “I’m back!” I turn around.

  There is a large cardboard box sitting in the middle of the floor with a big label addressed clearly to me.

  My heart stops. Oh no…oh please no. Max said he’d sort it…

  Totally aghast, I dash over to it and peer wildly at the delivery note. Pete signed for it at 2:30 p.m. I am too late. He’s seen it. Oh Christ, I thought that stupid fucker sounded young. I probably got the office junior who didn’t know his arse from his elbow. I should have called back and double-checked.

  Pete appears at the top of the stairs to see me staring up at him, horrified.

  “Do you know who that’s from?” is all he says. “You expecting anything?”

  I shake my head. “Did you send it?” I venture weakly.

  He looks grim. “No, I didn’t, but I think I know who did.” We both know what he’s suggesting.

  “I think we’d better open it,” he says uncertainly. “I’ll get a knife.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  As he slides the blade through the Sellotape, the cardboard flaps either side of the box open and two balloons rise silently out of the dark depths. One is a jaunty skeleton, and the other is just plain black with a white RIP across its proud, shiny front.

  Pete blanches and whispers, “Fucking hell.” I look at the balloons bobbing merrily and then I sneak a look at him. He is visibly shaken.

  Then he springs to life and dives toward the box, tipping out the tissue paper, hunting for a card. But of course, I didn’t order one, so there is nothing to find. He jumps to his feet saying, “She’s pushed it too far this time. This is fucking mental. That’s it. This stops here!”

  He’s really angry. I can see a small vein throbbing in his neck and his eyes have gone small, glittering like a snake’s. He marches out of the room and I rush after him, shouting, “Wait! Pete! It might not be her! It might be a joke from someone else…What are you going to do?”

  He’s already got his phone in his hand, and is listening, waiting for it to connect. He ignores my flapping next to him, and I can hear his teeth grinding. I’ve never seen him like this. He’s angry and yet scarily calm and focused.

  “Never mind fucking hello,” he says into the phone, his tone low and slightly wobbly with something more akin to total rage than anger. “Did you or did you not send the sickest balloons to my girlfriend today? One that said RIP on it?”

  He listens for a minute, closes his eyes and says, “Don’t lie to me, Liz. Don’t make this worse, because I will find out. Did you or didn’t you?”

  I can’t make out what she’s saying, but I can hear a voice with a rising note of alarm on the other end of the phone. I stare at him and he stares back, listening to her and saying nothing.

  Then he snorts a burst of laughter, but it’s a bitter, aggressive “I don’t believe you” laugh.

  “Oh save it!” he says. “She knows all about you, so that won’t work. In fact, she’s standing right next to me if you want a word.”

  I shrink back, shaking my head violently. I don’t want to talk to her! He looks at me and frowns at me in a sort of “don’t be so silly, I had no intention of making you speak to her” way.

  “Just tell me the truth. Did you send them?” he continues relentlessly. “Don’t cry—it’s pathetic,” he almost spits down the phone. “Listen to yourself! You’re so sad! Fucking get a grip!”

  Even I’m a little shocked by this. Okay, so I don’t like her. In fact I hate her, but didn’t he say she was suicidal? I have never seen him like this—so harsh, so unkind.

  “Just tell me!” he continues. “Did you send them?”

  There’s silence apart from a torrent of high-pitched squeaking down the phone.

  Pete says nothing, he just lets her rant.

  “Well, you know that’s not going to happen. That can’t happen. We talked about this,” he says simply, no emotion in his voice at all now.

  They talked about what?

  “I’m bored now,” he interjects rudely over whatever she is saying, and in a clipped voice that I’ve not heard before either, he says, “All I know is that someone sent some very unpleasant balloons, with all they imply, to my girlfriend, who I love.” He reaches for my hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “And I’m not having it. Unfortunately, seeing as you’ve been wacky enough to send her all sorts of shit this week, which, whatever you say, could only have come from you, when some mad balloons turn up out of the blue, who do you think is going to spring to mind? Funnily enough, I’m not really convinced by you just saying, ‘No I didn’t, and you have to believe me.’ I think I should call the police. This is getting out of hand.”

  This obviously has an effect; there’s another high-pitched squeak. He stops and goes quiet again, and then shakes his head, listening to whatever she is saying.

  Then he says, “Well, that’s that then, isn’t it? You said it, you don’t understand it yourself. You’re mad, Liz, mental.” He taps the side of his head viciously. “You remember what I said to you. You don’t come near us again, okay? It’s over. It’s OVER.”

  Then he hangs up and throws the phone across the floor.

  “I’m sorry,” he says simply. “I’m sorry you had to hear that. It’s definitely her, though. When I said I’d call the police, she crumbled and said that an amount had appeared on her credit card, but she hadn’t known what it was for, and that someone must have got hold of her card number and used it. Can you believe it? The lengths she’s going to…my God! She’s just insane—totally ga-ga.” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  But I’m not listening. Something in the way he said “It’s over” did not sound right. He said that like someone would say “We’re over.” As in the end of a relationship.

  “What’s over, Pete?” I ask, ignoring what he just said.

  He looks up and stares at me. “What d’you mean?”

  “You said, ‘Remember what I said…It’s over.’ What did you mean?”

  He looks bemused. “This, her obsession with me. All this.” He waves his hands at the box. “The cards, the fucked-up gifts.”

  “Not a thing with you and her, then? Not anything that would mean you’d lied to me and hidden something that I should know about? You wouldn’t be making decisions about my life without me being in full knowledge of the facts? Would you?” I say quietly.

  He looks at me straight, takes my hands and says slowly, “I love you and I’ve done nothing you need to worry about. It’s her that’s the nutter. I still think I should call the police. What if she really means to hurt you…or me?” He looks up at the bobbing skeleton worriedly.

  With that unsettling thought, for him anyway, we sit there in silence, just looking at the balloons. I don’t know what he is thinking, but all that is running through my head, on its now continuous and exhausting loop, is that even if he is lying to me, considering what I’ve done to Liz and how I’ve lied to him, am I any better? Or worse?

  THIRTY-TWO

  Later that night, we’re trying to watch TV and not acknowledge the balloons in the corner of the room. I want to burst them and throw them away, but Pete thinks we should keep them in case they are needed as evidence. How did this slip so far out of my control and go so wrong?

  The balloons are not the only thing setting us on edge. Since he hung up on Liz, his phone has rung almost continuously, until finally he switches it off, s
wearing under his breath, before staring blankly at the TV screen.

  From the other sofa, I question how she has his number again, seeing as how he changed it. He, still clearly simmering with rage in the corner, says he was so angry when he called her earlier, he forgot to withhold his number. So that’s how. “Not what you think!” he says, flashing me a hot, don’t-go-accusing-me! look.

  I apologize and say I wasn’t accusing him of anything and that I’m going to get a drink, does he want one? He shakes his head silently and then says, “Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.” I smile gratefully at him and walk out into the hall. My smile slips as soon as I’m out of sight and I pause to sigh, leaning my head on the wall for a moment. This is hellish. What have I done? Maybe if I just sit tight and say nothing, it’ll just go away. There’s nothing more to come, nothing more I’ve planned. It can be over now. Really it can. After all, he does think she’s mad. I don’t think he is interested at all now—even if he was before.

  I think I’m getting a headache. I can feel a dull throb starting to pulse at my temples and spread over my brow. I might just take a paracetamol and go to bed. It’ll all be better in the morning.

  Since I’ve been in the sitting room it’s got dark outside, and I can’t see a thing in the hall without the light on. I’m fumbling around to find the switch when I happen to glance at the front door, the top half of which is frosted glass. There, framed in the eerie fluorescent orange glow from the street, is the distinct outline of a figure.

  Someone is out there, just standing on the doorstep.

  I freeze to the spot, completely unable to move or make a sound. I feel my chest constrict and my heart starts to thud. Then, as I watch in horror, the figure leans in slowly and silently presses its face up against the glass.

  I can’t see distinct features, just the impression of a nose, an eye and some long tendrils of hair. The head moves a little jerkily as I stand there in the dark, paralyzed with fear. I’m trying to scream but no noise will come out. I’m just making this hoarse, breathy rasp, too low to hear. “Pete!” I’m breathing frantically. “Pete!”