Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  I yawn, make my tea, and rub my eyes. I think about taking the tea back to bed and dozing off for another hour. Then I will have to get up and do some practice. I have been having too much fun, and my career will slip before I know it.

  I try to remember how I got home last night. It is encouraging that I woke up alone, in my own bed. I went to a party on my own, and held my head up and waited for someone to come and talk to me. Most people recognised me, so it didn’t take long. I was wearing a clingy white dress which, I hoped, looked classic as well as sexy. I had a fake tan treatment yesterday afternoon, so I glowed. I felt wonderful, and I scouted the guests for likely young men. A toyboy was what I wanted.

  I drank, ate nibbles, had shouted conversations, and revelled in the fact that I was at an exclusive party and that I looked fantastic. I tried to spot any women who looked better than I did, but there weren’t any. I spoke to journalists from gossip columns and assured them, with a wry smile, that I was doing my best to get over my heartache.

  I found an eighteen-year-old boy, the runner-up in a television talent competition and thus a mega-celebrity for the next couple of months. He had chocolate button eyes and clear rosy skin, and he smiled shyly when I strode up to him and introduced myself.

  ‘I’m Evie,’ I told him with a dazzling smile.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m Dan.’

  ‘I know.’

  I took him by the hand and sat him down in the corner. He looked bewildered and flattered by the attention, and we drank, shouted to each other, and snogged for the next couple of hours. I know we had our photo taken. I think I gave him my numbers and left him sitting there, smiling a dazed smile as I departed.

  I have done what I wanted to do. It was satisfying to kiss someone new and I imagine Dan and I will be meeting again. I know we will be in the magazines and papers. Jack will be heartbroken when he sees the photos.

  I had too many vodkas. Everything is looking bleary, and I sit down at the table to eat my cereal and drink my tea. I look through my post. There are four envelopes, three of which are Christmas cards. Christmas is a week away, and I still haven’t bought any cards or presents. I have been too busy enjoying myself to think of anyone else. I will hit Kensington High Street, and do it all today. I will also confront the question of Jack. Do I buy him a present, and if so, how much should I spend? Should I make it something I know he will love, or a token, an acknowledgement of the fact that we are still married? Can I give my estranged husband nothing for Christmas? Would a book or a CD be an insult? What will he buy me? Every time I consider doing my shopping, I hit these barriers, and procrastinate.

  Two of the cards are corporate ones, one from my record label and the other from my agents. They are each signed by about thirty people. The third is from Dominic. Jack has forwarded it without opening it. I knew I would hear from him eventually, and although I fantasised about him constantly before that night in Paris, I am not at all pleased to see his name on the card. He’s written a couple of words - How’s things? - and signed Dom with a lavish row of kisses. Dom is a pianist I have worked with several times, and the most recent beneficiary of my adulterous tendencies. He is tall and rugged and nearly forty, a Londoner who has lived in Paris for years and years. I’m glad he’s stayed away since our last recording, three months ago. He didn’t show much respect for my marriage when he was cajoling me into bed with the words ‘One night won’t matter, and he’ll never find out anyway,’ but at least he’s shown some sensitivity since then. Either that, or he has been too busy with the other women in his life.

  I liked Dom at the time, but I don’t want to see him again. I have moved on. I am going to be seen with innocent young boys from now on.

  I put Dominic’s card on the mantelpiece and wonder whether to send one back to him, whether it would even reach Paris by Christmas.

  The other letter is in a small white envelope, printed on a computer. The address is incomplete, but full enough for it to reach me. It’s probably a charity letter. They usually are. As I pull it out, I’m wondering whether to go shopping or to practise first.

  Bitch, it says. Nothing else. Just that one word. I turn the page over. There is nothing on the back, nothing on the envelope. Naturally, it must be from Jack, and I suppose he is quite justified. I wouldn’t have thought anonymous notes were his style, but I don’t blame him. I am well aware, objectively, that I’m not being particularly nice, and I know that he will have seen pictures of me at parties in the past week. If he felt bitter enough to send this yesterday, I wonder how he will feel when he sees me and Dan in the tabloids tomorrow.

  Briskly I tear the note in half, in quarters, in eighths, and set light to the pieces in a blue Le Creuset saucepan. I eat my breakfast quickly, and decide to force myself to forget my hangover, and to play my cello all morning, to restore my calm.

  Megan and I share a takeaway, late in the evening. We sit at the kitchen table and spoon biriani and jalfrezi on to our plates, and rip naan bread apart with our bare hands. Jack and I used to have Indian takeaways every couple of weeks, and by suggesting it to Megan, I was making an effort to reclaim every part of my life. I will not let curries belong to Jack. We are on our second bottle of wine. I have been drunk every night this week.

  I shouldn’t drink this much. I have always made a point of keeping my alcohol consumption under control, and I’ve never told anyone why. It is no secret that my father, Howard, is an alcoholic. My secret is that I know how easily I could go the same way. I haven’t lived with him since I was two, and I can’t remember anything about him, in those days, but I feel the pull of oblivion in the same way that I know he did. I drain my glass and put it firmly to one side. Then I stand up and fetch myself a pint of water.

  If this morning’s pithy letter is from Jack, I must make sure it’s brought into our divorce. Of course, we have no reason not to have the most amicable divorce ever undertaken: we have no children, not even so much as a goldfish to split between us. We should not need to blacken each other’s name. Jack might divorce me for adultery after he sees the photos of me and Dan, and I wouldn’t mind that. I can see myself portrayed as a glamorous scarlet woman. I should arrange to be photographed with a glass of red wine in one hand, perhaps a small cigar in the other, and a pair of killer heels on my feet.

  If it’s not from Jack, it must be from a nutter who reads the tabloids. A woman called Jane turned up here last Monday, from the Mail, wanting to know how I was getting on. I felt obliged to ask her, through a wide smile, to tell me how she knew my new address, but, through her own sympathetic simper, she steadfastly refused to enlighten me. It doesn’t take them long to track anyone down. I was glad to see her. She wants to do a big feature interview about the way I am coping with the realities of separation. I said she could do it in the new year, and gave her my mobile number. When she left, I was elated. I adore that sort of attention, and I know exactly what kind of interview it will be. I will be strong and brave and independent. They will print a picture of me and Dan. I will drop in the ‘fact’ that my playing is improving with my new confidence. I will talk up my career, lay a foundation for next year’s recording and my upcoming New York trip, and gain something material from this fiasco. I need my sales to carry on increasing, and the Daily Mail is a perfect forum through which to reach my fan base.

  The day after Jane’s visit, a photographer appeared, and the Evening Standard, which shares office space with the Mail, ran a photograph of me coming home, lugging my cello. Luckily I was wearing a new sheepskin coat and knee-high boots, and, objectively speaking, I looked fabulous. I’d had an inkling that something like that might happen. The words ‘Bedford House’ were clearly visible above the front door. They mentioned that it was off Kensington Church Street. It wouldn’t take much for anyone in possession of an A to Z to realise that Bedford House might be in Bedford Gardens.

  This morning’s letter came without an apartment number on it. If it’s not from Jack, it must be a nutter.
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  ‘Sorry, Meg,’ I tell her, noticing that she’s trying to pass me the rice. Megan has changed out of her work clothes, and looks as doll-like as ever in a pink sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. She’s even wearing a pink Alice band. ‘I’m a bit preoccupied today. I’ve got so much work on after the new year, I’m just trying to get my head round it.’

  She smiles prettily. ‘Evie,’ she says, ‘your life must be so glamorous. You have the dream job, and you’re always out and about.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ I concede, enjoying the fact that she is so impressed with me. ‘Christmas is a good time. You should come out with me tomorrow night. Things are a bit quiet workwise, though. It comes in bursts. I’ll have months of practising, doing groundwork, signing contracts, getting things set up. Then it all happens at once and my feet don’t touch the ground. I might not be around at all in February, for instance. There’s an ad I’m doing in New York, and with any luck that might lead to more work out there, maybe even a big concert. Fingers crossed. Then I’ll be back in Paris in the summer.’ I will be working with Dominic once more. It is good to have my options open, I suppose, and I might be interested in him again by then.

  ‘Goodness. I can’t believe my flatmate is famous! Mummy and Daddy are such fans, you know. I think they would have let you live here for free! Daddy told me last week that I should have let you have the big bedroom.’

  I smile. ‘That’s ridiculous.’ I would love the big bedroom, but I would need Megan to be insistent before I could accept it. ‘This is a wonderful place to live,’ I add. ‘Maybe I’ll meet your parents at Christmas?’

  ‘They would love that.’

  My family - my mother, stepfather, stepbrother and half-sister - live in Bristol. Megan’s smaller and more conventional family - her mother and father - live in the countryside nearby, in Somerset. We will be catching the train west together the day after tomorrow.

  ‘This biriani is gorgeous,’ I tell her.

  ‘Isn’t it just? This is the best Indian delivery in London, I swear. I wish they’d deliver men as well.’

  ‘The guy who brought it was OK-looking, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was about fifteen!’

  ‘Meg, you look twelve yourself.’

  She mops up some curry with her bread. ‘That’s probably why I’m always single. I only attract paedophiles.’

  ‘Don’t say that! You’re so pretty. You could have anyone you wanted.’ I really mean that. Men love waifs like Megan.

  She looks sceptical. ‘The men I want don’t seem to know that. Not that there are many of them about. I’ll tell you who I like. Older men, particularly if they’re French. Gracious, when I went to Paris I was in heaven. All those sensitive-looking guys in their forties with hair down to their collars and lovely coats! They look like intellectuals and artists. I positively adore them. I was swooning.’

  I laugh at her rapture. ‘There must be men like that in Notting Hill.’

  ‘A couple. And I’ve been out with them. What about you, Evie? What’s your type?’

  ‘Right now,’ I tell her, ‘boys. Only as a reaction to marriage. I’ve been an old married woman for so long, and completely off the market.’ Best, I think, not to mention the affairs to innocent little Meg. ‘So now that I’m out and about I’m finding the greatest novelty is the fresh-faced young boy. Dan Donovan, that sort of lad.’

  She laughs. ‘Dan Donovan? Are you joking? What’s he, seventeen? His single’s playing in every shop I go into. That’s his, isn’t it? “If you want me” . . . It’s awful. Do you fancy him?’

  ‘He’s a surprisingly good kisser,’ I tell her laconically.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Though not such a good conversationalist. And he’s eighteen.’

  ‘You’ve kissed him?’

  ‘Last night. I couldn’t help myself. He’s so adorably young and rosy. Like a little puppy.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘But I do realise that I won’t always be vamping after little lads who’ve just got famous. What is my type? You haven’t met Jack. And he’s not my type any more anyway. Brad Pitt, if he was available. When I met Jack, I went for skinny artistic types like Leonardo DiCaprio used to be, with floppy hair and girlish skin. That’s how Jack was when I met him. Him and Leo have gone to seed in exactly the same way. Thinking about it, I suppose Dan’s in the same mould as the young Jack. So I haven’t moved on after all.’

  ‘Will you bring Dan Donovan home to meet me?’

  ‘If you want.’ I picture it. A photo of a dishevelled Dan emerging into Bedford Gardens would be excellent. ‘Depends if he calls me.’

  She fills both our glasses with red wine, and we clink. ‘Cheers,’ she says. I realise that Meg might be able to become my friend after all, now that she’s relaxing with me. She is a rewarding audience.

  As we are washing our plates and throwing away copious quantities of leftovers, the buzzer sounds. We look at each other in bafflement, since nobody ever drops in, least of all after eleven, and Meg goes to the intercom. ‘Hello?’ she asks, warily. Then she smiles.

  ‘No I’m not,’ she says with a giggle. ‘I’m not, because I’m not her. But come on up!’ Then she turns to me. ‘Hope you don’t mind. You did just say I hadn’t met him, and here he is. He says he’s come to tell you that you’re the love of his life.’

  I rinse my hands under the cold tap with a shiver of foreboding. ‘Jack or Dan?’

  My husband is drunk. I haven’t seen him since our strained parting in the café. It is quarter past eleven, and he is almost paralytic. I know he will be mortified in the morning.

  He has shaved since I last saw him, and had his hair cut. He still looks terrible, with white skin and bags under his eyes. He beams when he sees me.

  ‘Evie!’ he says, lunging at me in the hall for a kiss. I peck him on the cheek and hurry to the kitchen to retrieve my wine. I need it to get me through this encounter. Jack smells of smoke and alcohol. Other people’s dirt is clinging to his clothes.

  ‘Jack, this is Megan,’ I say reluctantly, motioning from one of them to the other. ‘Meg, my estranged husband, Jack.’

  Megan is smiling coquettishly. ‘Hello, Jack. I’ve heard a lot about you.’

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here, Megan. Are you looking after my wife?’

  She nods, amused. ‘I do my best.’

  I push him into the sitting room, where he slumps on to the sofa.

  ‘Jack,’ I say firmly. ‘What are you doing here? If you wanted to come over you should have called first. Megan and I might have been in bed.’ Instantly, I wish I could retract the accidental innuendo.

  His eyes widen. ‘Oh! Oh, I see. Did I lose my wife to the world of lesbianism? That’s cool. Go ahead. Can I watch? You dirty little vixens.’

  I hold my head in my hands. ‘Jack, you are so drunk. Sorry, Megan. Feel free to go to bed. I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can.’

  She giggles. ‘I’ll fetch a glass of water.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  ‘I was in the area,’ he says expansively, leaning forward and shocking me with his alcoholic breath. ‘At the pub. Knew you were just round the corner so I thought it would be rude to be right here and not to pop by and say hello to my darling wife. Remember me? I wanted to say Happy Christmas.’

  ‘Happy Christmas, Jack. Shall I call you a cab?’

  ‘I’m a cab! There, I did it for you.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  He looks at me. His eyes aren’t focusing properly, but he’s trying to look plaintive and appealing. ‘Evie,’ he says, ‘that’s not very kind. We are married. I didn’t want the next time I spoke to you to be via a solicitor.’

  ‘Jack, we speak to each other at least once a week.’

  ‘Only because we’re selling a fucking house together.’

  ‘But we don’t just talk about the house. I think we’re doing well. We were, anyway, till tonight. This isn’t easy for either of us, and I think we’ve both been very adult about i
t. You’re going to be mortified in the morning.’

  ‘I won’t be if I wake up next to you.’

  I can’t help laughing. ‘Jack. You reek of beer and fags. You can’t stand up without swaying. I’m terrified you’re going to throw up on Meg’s carpet or her sofa. You are not seductive.’

  ‘I keep seeing you in the paper, out at parties. You never used to go out that much.’

  ‘I like going out.’

  ‘You should be home with me. You look desperate. Come out with me, Evie. You know you want to. OK, it’s a bit late tonight, but we could go to the all-night Greek place in Stoke Newington. How about it? You could get bladdered too. It would be cool. Way better than those poncey parties.’

  ‘No. N-O. Absolutely no way. I’m going to sleep.’ I catch his eye. ‘Alone. Not with you. Not with Megan. Not with anyone else. All by myself, like I do every night. I live in a single bed now.’

  ‘Tomorrow night then.’ He puts his hand on top of mine, and I am suddenly afraid he is about to cry. ‘Come on,’ he continues. ‘Please, Evie. You have to give me something. I’m dying here.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘I’ve got to tell you something. That’s why I came round. I’m doing what you said. After Christmas I’m going to Scotland. I’m going to stay at a Buddhist monastery to find myself. It’s all booked.’

  He looks at me, expectantly, waiting for my approval. Although it is pathetic that he’s following a throwaway comment of mine as if it were gospel, I can’t help feeling relieved.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Jack. Well done. I’m very pleased for you.’

  ‘Are you? Are you pleased?’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘I’ll stay about a month, I think. When I come back I’ll be calm and collected and we can give it another go. Our marriage, I mean. If you want to.’