by Emily Barr
‘I know,’ she says, with a smile. ‘It could be, couldn’t it? If the three of them worked out, we’d have triplets by next Christmas. Imagine me, pregnant with triplets! I’d be massive. My body would probably never recover.’ She is enthralled at the prospect.
‘You’d wee every time you sneezed for ever more.’
‘And I’d never wear a bikini again because of the stretch marks.’
‘And you’d have to go for vaginal tightening.’
She looks horrified. ‘Evie!’
Our food arrives. My plate is a foot in diameter. Kate’s fruit comes in a white bowl, with a delicate serving of natural yogurt and honey on the side. I drink the coffee gratefully.
‘I need this to wake me up,’ I tell her. ‘The bloody lovebirds kept me up half the night, with their loud and passionate sex. They get worse every weekend. I looked at the clock at one point, when they started up again, and it was four o’clock in the sodding morning. I can’t help imagining them. I would never, ever have asked her to that party if I’d had any idea that this would be the result. I suppose she had already told me about her “type”, and Guy does embody it except that he’s not French, but I never imagined . . . He’s fifty-five!’
Kate winces. ‘I can’t believe you’ve got into that situation. The thing you dread about flatmates most of all. It’s gross. I really wouldn’t have thought Meg was the type. She looks so innocent.’
‘I know! They do say convent girls are the worst. It freaks me out.’ I look at my watch. ‘The funniest thing is that I’m going out with an eighteen-year-old. Hope you don’t mind, but Dan’s going to pop in here in a minute. I wanted you to meet him.’
Kate covers her eyes with her hand. ‘Do I have to? I’ll only tell Ian and he’ll tell Jack.’
‘This has got nothing to do with Ian or Jack. Just say hi. He’s so sweet. He is adorable. I’m taking him back to the flat. Do you want to come?’
‘To witness the meeting between your toyboy and Megan’s sugar daddy? No thanks, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘How’s Jack getting on in Scotland anyway? He writes from time to time, but I know he’s only trying to say the things he thinks I want to hear.’
‘He’s fine. It was a good idea of yours, even if you did think you were joking.’
Kate gets up to go to the loo, and as soon as she has left the table I take the letter out of my handbag. I brought it with me to show her, to see what she thought. I haven’t mentioned these letters to anyone yet, and they are starting to bother me. There was one waiting when I got back from Bristol two weeks ago, and another arrived this morning. The first was another one-worder - Slag, a strangely dated term - and this one is slightly more loquacious.
I smooth it out on my lap, and force myself to read it again.
See you soon, bitch. Like the others, it is printed on standard white photocopier paper. I can’t decide whether it is a threat or a joke. I notice, with a strange objectivity, that my hand is shaking. It can’t be from Jack, because it was posted in London W1. I will take it to the police, but I won’t tell anyone else. Kate would be distressed and worried on my behalf, and she needs to be calm. If she can’t eat a fried egg, she can’t read hate mail either.
I am safe in the top-floor flat. No one can get in. I bolt the door and put the chain on every night, and Guy has promised to visit us every weekend. I correct myself. He will visit Megan. He has, so far, been rightly embarrassed by encountering me in my pyjamas outside the bathroom, or waiting for the kettle to boil in the kitchen. Guy is more reassuring a presence than Dan would be, if he ever stayed over.
Kate comes back, and at the same time, Dan comes through the door. I see her look at him and shudder.
I turn my electric smile on him, and stand up for a showy kiss. ‘Hi!’ I say, stroking the back of his neck and noting the glances we are getting from the other customers. He kisses me on the lips, and puts a hand on my waist. Dan’s hair is shorter than it was last time we met, and it has been styled on top. In his wildly fashionable leather jacket, he looks every inch the young pop star.
‘Dan,’ I tell him, as he pulls out a chair. ‘This is Kate.’
‘Hello, Kate,’ he says. He barely takes his eyes off me. I love being the object of this devotion.
She hides her distaste. ‘Hi, Dan,’ she says warmly. ‘I hear your song everywhere.’
He smiles. ‘I know! Me too! It’s mad, isn’t it?’
‘It must be strange hearing your own voice singing when you go into a shop.’
‘It is. I’m not stupid, Kate. I know this is just the start and I have to build on my success, but I just feel this is, like, such a great platform for me. Do you know what I mean? It’s all my dreams come true.’
I look at him fondly. He is so young, so naive. In his half-unbuttoned shirt, he looks like he’s trying too hard at the school disco. I want to look after him. This is not a line of thought I wish to pursue.
A teenage girl comes up from a nearby table, glares at Kate and me, and apologetically asks Dan whether she can have her photo taken with him. This, I realise, is real fame. That is something that never happens to me. I am famous, but I live my life in relative obscurity. I would love to be disturbed in restaurants. I am a classical musician. However hard I try - and I try extremely hard - I will never be an idol.
Dan’s song comes over the sound system. I look round, and see the waitress smiling at us. At him. He looks at her too, and gives her a thumbs-up. She blows him a kiss. I look on, jealous.
The police station is a new building, and it smells of polish. I sit uncomfortably and wait to be seen, along with a strange assortment of other visitors. Some of them look positively scary, while others are clearly law-abiding citizens such as myself. Of course, I shouldn’t make snap judgements based on idle prejudice. The middle-aged woman in the lavender twinset might be reporting in to have her electronic tag checked, while the scary man with the tattoos could be distressed over the theft of his shoulder bag. Who am I to judge?
I stare at the paper, trying to block out my surroundings, and wonder what I’m doing so far from my normal world. I almost convince myself that I am being stupid, and leave. I could ring Dan up, get him to come back over. I only made him go because the letters were niggling, and I thought I should do something about them. I didn’t tell him that, and he didn’t ask why I wanted him to leave. I think he likes being bossed about.
I study a poster that is trying to convince me to speak up about domestic violence, and another that reminds me to lock my car.
‘Evelyn Silverman?’ asks a young policewoman, walking up to me. ‘Would you like to come with me?’ She smiles and I follow her through a door, down a corridor carpeted with a scratchy blue matting, and into an interview room. She has blonde hair in a no-nonsense bun, and severely applied lipstick, and she looks like an actress from The Bill. This, of course, is because I have seen The Bill many more times than I have had dealings with the actual police. She flips the sign on the door to say the room is occupied. I am alarmed.
‘It’s OK,’ she says when she sees my face. ‘There’s nothing official about this. It’s just a place to chat. Have a seat.’
I sit on a hard chair and take the letter out of my bag.
‘Right, Evelyn,’ she says. ‘I’m Eleanor. You’ve had a few nasty letters?’ She takes the envelope I pass her. I watch her face as she reads it. She is completely inscrutable. ‘This is to the point. How many of these have there been?’ she asks, looking up.
‘It’s the third. I threw away the first one. It said “Bitch”. The second one said “Slag”. Am I being stupid coming here? The last thing I want to do is waste your time. I mean, people get charged with wasting police time, don’t they?’
She smiles. ‘Not in your case. Not unless you were writing these yourself.’ I look at her, alarmed. She smiles. ‘Which of course you are not. You did the right thing. If you get another one, try not to handle it any more than you can help. Put it stra
ight into a plastic folder and bring it to me. It’s best if you don’t open it.’
‘So can you do anything?’
She looks down at the letter again. ‘Not easily, to be honest. It’s printed from a computer, so that’s going to make it hard to identify. If you have a good idea where they’re coming from we can certainly check that out for you, although to be honest we are rushed off our feet at the moment. There’s a possibility of DNA on the envelope, but I strongly suspect it was moistened with a sponge. People are wise to that one now, thanks to the TV.’ She looks at me, with a friendly direct gaze. ‘Do you have any ideas?’
I wriggle in my chair, trying to get comfortable. ‘At first I thought they were from my husband. We split up a couple of months ago and he came over one night, the same day the first one arrived. He was in quite a state. But they’re not his style, plus he’s in Scotland. So . . .’ I give her a dazzling smile. ‘I don’t imagine you’ve seen me,’ I tell her modestly, ‘but I’m in the papers from time to time. I’m a musician, and the tabloids take an interest occasionally. There was a photo of me in the Standard a while ago, before the first letter came, with the name of my apartment block in it. Then the same picture was in the Sun, and they said in the piece that it was off “swanky Kensington Church Street”. I think it probably came from someone who reads one of those papers.’
‘What kind of musician are you?’
I smile apologetically, wishing I could say I was, for instance, Radiohead’s little-known female guitarist. ‘Classical. I play the cello.’
She looks at me, eyes narrowed. ‘Were you in that royal thing for Prince Charles’s birthday?’ I nod. ‘I know you! You were on the mobile phone advert too.’ I nod again. ‘And,’ she says triumphantly, ‘you’ve been going out with Dan Donovan! Great! Well, like I said, we can’t do a lot right now, and if it comes from a Standard or Sun reader, that doesn’t exactly narrow the field. There are millions of them. If it was from someone who saw you in the Standard, that would suggest a Londoner, as do the post-marks. Do you live on your own?’
‘No, I have a flatmate, but neither of us is exactly a black belt in karate.’
‘Um, and I suppose I can assume that you have a boyfriend?’
‘Dan? Yes, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he? Meg’s going out with someone older. Dan comes over from time to time and Meg’s boyfriend is only there at weekends, and not every weekend.’
Eleanor leans forward. ‘Look, I don’t want to worry you,’ she says, ‘and these things almost always come to nothing, but if she ever stays with him instead, or goes away anywhere, I suggest you go to Dan’s, or to friends or family for the weekend. Just for your own peace of mind.’
I nod, scared.
‘But like I said, ninety-nine per cent of the time there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a precaution. Obviously don’t open the door unless you’re a hundred per cent certain that you know who it is, and that you believe them. You could consider a video entryphone if this continues. And maybe stop having takeaways delivered, that kind of thing. Avoid situations where you could be opening the door to strangers.’
‘OK,’ I tell her.
‘But, Evelyn?’ she says. ‘Don’t let this preoccupy you too much. I’m certain you’re going to be fine and, like you said, that this is someone who saw you in the paper and has a twisted mind and is getting a kick out of the idea of scaring you. They’d be over the moon if they could see you now, talking to the police. They’re very unlikely to come looking for you. I mean it. There is also a chance that this could be your husband, however out of character it might seem. So, if you feel that you can, it is worth confronting him about it and seeing what his reaction is.’
I smile wanly. ‘Thanks,’ I tell her. I hope she’s right.
By the time I get home, looking over my shoulder all the way, I am not in the mood for seeing Guy and Megan again, and I am still less in the mood for an interview with the Daily Mail. Yet both of these things are on my agenda for the rest of the day.
‘It’s the famous cellist!’ exclaims Guy, before I have even stepped through the door. ‘Come back without her youthful consort. Come in, Miss du Pré.’
‘Shut up, Guy,’ I say, rather more curtly than I had intended.
He pulls an exaggerated ‘oops’ face at Megan. ‘Sorry,’ he says with fake contrition. Megan giggles. Guy is wearing a T-shirt and jeans, and Megan is in her dressing gown. I ignore them both, and head straight for my bedroom, where I shut the door firmly. There is a used condom on the table, from earlier, and I wonder what would happen if I impregnated myself with Dan’s sperm. Then I drop it into the bin, and drop a magazine on top of it, just in case the journalist comes into my room.
I check my clock. In two and a half hours she will be coming round to write about what a survivor I am. I know I have to be shy about my relationship with Dan, and I’m glad she knows about it so I don’t have to do anything so vulgar as saying his name. I take a clean towel from my cupboard, and decide I must start with a shower.
Megan taps on the door. ‘Evie?’ she says. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Hi, Meg,’ I reply, as brightly as I can. ‘Of course. Come in. Sorry if I was grumpy.’
‘That’s fine,’ she says, slipping through the door. ‘As long as you’re all right?’ She kicks her slippers off and sits cross-legged on the bed. ‘Dan’s sweet, isn’t he? It’s very odd to meet someone in real life who you’ve seen on telly a thousand times.’
‘I know. He’s lovely.’
‘Though not your type, I wouldn’t have thought.’
‘He’s just what I need right now. I’m very fond of him.’
‘And he adores you.’
‘His “people” are furious with him for being seen out with me all the time. So he must quite like me to carry on doing it anyway.’
‘There was a call for you. Another admirer. A guy called Dominic? He said he’s in London, wondered if you wanted to meet up. I wrote his number down for you next to the phone.’
I perk up a little. ‘Dominic? Cool. Thanks, Meg.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘Just a pianist I work with sometimes.’ Just the man I spent a night with. The man with whom I had spectacular, guilty sex. The man who finally made me see that my marriage was over. ‘But quite cute. I might get him to take me to dinner.’
‘My word, Evie, you are in demand. He sounded flipping keen.’
The woman from the Mail has insane hair. It has been styled so that no trace of what it must have been like naturally remains. I try to imagine what it looks like in the morning, before she’s blow-dried and styled it, and I wonder whether she’s single, or whether only a married woman, whose husband is long since used to it, can maintain that sort of hairstyle. She is, I estimate, forty-two. Perhaps, if she’s single, she sets her alarm for six on the mornings after she pulls, and leaps into the shower before her beau sees what she really looks like. Maybe she carries a hairdryer and an arsenal of products every time she goes out, just in case. I check the size of her handbag. It is capacious. Then again, her hair might be a wig.
‘It’s terribly kind of you to invite me to your home,’ she says, again.
I simper. ‘You’re welcome. There’s nothing to hide.’ Except, I add to myself, for one used condom. ‘Feel free to go through the bathroom cabinets!’
She laughs, a tinkling, fake laugh. ‘Oh, that’s not what we do at all, Evie. It’s folklore.’
‘Well, anything embarrassing belongs to my flatmate.’
She holds her head on one side and pretends to note this point in her notebook. I’m not sure which of us is sucking up to the other more keenly. I know she has the upper hand, that she could turn this interview into a slating of me if the fancy took her. I also know that the chances are strong that an offhand remark I make will end up as the headline, and that I have to select every word I say with enormous care.
‘All right, Evie,’ she says. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’ll switch the tape re
corder on now. Mmm, this tea is perfect.’
‘Of course, Jane.’
‘Now, I’d like to tackle the split between you and your husband first, if that’s all right. I’m sorry we have to go over it, but you do understand, don’t you? Let’s get it over with.’ I nod, and push my hair behind my ears. I have made myself, and our flat, into a fantasy version of real life. I am washed, made-up, moisturised and blow-dried, my nails filed and painted a sober neutral. I am wearing a long and demure black skirt with black tights, and a deep red cashmere jumper. My hair has been styled for half an hour to make it look artless. I’m wearing diamanté stud earrings and a simple silver necklace, and I’ve put my wedding ring back on. My make-up is subtle and, I hope, barely noticeable. I know some papers don’t like divorced women, and particularly divorced career women, but I hope that I represent the acceptable face of Things Just Not Working Out.
‘Was there a particular incident,’ she asks delicately, pen poised, ‘that made your separation inevitable?’
Yes, I want to say, I shagged a pianist. I committed adultery. It wasn’t the first time by any means. My husband still has no idea. And then there’s my past. Jane would adore that.
‘No,’ I tell her, ‘there was no one else involved. Jack and I were very happy for most of our marriage, and I’m still extremely fond of him. But we both agreed that it wasn’t working. Our lives were so diverse. My work takes me all over the world, and that caused problems in our domestic life. I’m very aware that I chose to have this career and I feel terrible . . .’ I let my voice quaver for a moment. ‘I really do. I feel awful that I made a decision to use the talent I have, if that doesn’t sound too boastful, to do the thing I feel I was born to do. And that this choice has led to the end of our partnership. We are still very good friends, and I talk to him a lot.’ I force a wan smile. ‘Who knows, Jane? Who can tell what the future will hold?’
She smiles. ‘Will Dan Donovan be a part of that future, do you think?’