Monday to Friday Man

by Alice Peterson

  ‘I have this feeling she thinks it’s more serious than I do,’ he says. ‘I get the strong sense she wants to settle down . . . I mean, she is thirty-five . . .’

  ‘Her clock is ticking, Jack.’

  ‘Oh God, I can’t handle that. I seriously can’t handle that. There’s no way I’m settling down. I’m going to have to talk to her.’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘She’s always banging on and on about the weekends too, doesn’t understand I need my own space. Also I have to work.’

  ‘Of course you have to work, darling. You’re very successful. She should understand that.’

  ‘Yeah, but she doesn’t have a career, does she?’ He laughs. ‘She’s only a shop girl!’

  ‘Exactly. Honestly, Jack, you mustn’t feel guilty about ending it,’ Nancy advises, ‘and I think you need to do it now.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ says the cloakroom attendant, staring at me. ‘Is this your coat?’

  ‘How do I tell her?’ Jack goes on. ‘I always said that it was only a bit of fun . . .’

  ‘It’s not your fault, darling. Come on, we’d better find her.’

  ‘Hang on, Nance. Just one more kiss.’

  Nancy giggles. ‘I’m married.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘You’re a naughty, naughty man, Jack Baker.’

  When I hear them leave, I grab my coat and run.

  In the taxi, I take out my powder compact and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my cheeks flushed. I snatch off my wig, vigorously wipe the red muck from my lips and scrub the caked foundation off my cheeks. Shivering, I pull my coat closely around me, cold with the memory of Jack and Nancy together. Nancy and Jack are disgusting, pathetic excuses for people. I should have trusted my instincts. I knew it. Who was I fooling? Myself, that’s all.

  I’ve always tried to see Nancy’s point. OK, she isn’t my type, but I respected the fact that she was married to Nick and the mother of Hannah and Tilda. How could she have done this? Why would she want to humiliate me?

  Then there’s Jack. Nancy! He likes Nancy! He kissed her! I snap shut my powder compact. I hate myself for falling for a man like him. I should have known better. Look at me! Guy was right. I don’t fit into his life and I never will. He wasn’t ever serious about me; he was just out for a good time. He’s a liar. All those secret phone calls. I bet he is married! He goes back to his wife at the weekend. I don’t trust anything he’s said any more. I feel so upset and stupid. My mobile rings and his name lights up the screen. I don’t wait for him to say ‘hello’. ‘I heard you Jack. I saw you.’

  ‘Saw what? Where are you?’

  ‘Going home, and don’t you dare follow me. I want you out of my house.’ I switch my phone off.

  ‘Everything all right?’ the driver asks, looking at me with concern through his front mirror.

  ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I tell him, my chin wobbling.

  ‘Men,’ he says. ‘We’re not worth crying over, love.’

  The driver pulls up outside No. 21 and I pay him with a tip before rushing to Gloria’s door, knocking frantically. No answer. I look up to her bedroom window and then vaguely remember she’s in Ireland, going to a friend’s birthday party. I need to see Gloria! I can’t be on my own tonight! I can’t see Jack. What if he’s on his way back now, determined to talk to me? I don’t want to be in the same room as him ever again.

  I rush across to No. 21 and unlock the front door.

  I strip off, tossing my stupid platinum bunny costume to the floor and pull on jeans, a jumper and slip on some trainers. With Ruskin in my arms and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I hail another cab.

  Guy opens the door, hatless and in his dressing gown and when he sees my crumpled face he pulls me inside.

  ‘I’m sorry for just turning up . . . I tried Gloria . . .’ He leads me down the hallway, guides me into a small sitting room. I watch him manically tidying the sofa to make some space for us to sit down. He appears nervous as to why I have turned up on his doorstep in the early hours of the morning, and excuses the mess. Sprawled across the floor are garden-design books and pencilled drawings. ‘What’s happened?’ he asks me.

  ‘You were right,’ I blurt out. ‘Jack and I, it’s all over. I caught him with her . . .’

  ‘Her? Who?’ he says gently.

  He sits next to me, an arm around my shoulder, and waits for me to say something. ‘You were right,’ finally I admit. ‘How stupid of me to think I had anything in common with him! I was just so lonely after Ed and . . .’ I tell Guy about the evening, how one moment we were drinking at the bar . . . the next moment . . .

  ‘Jack and Nancy,’ he repeats in disbelief. I don’t think even Guy can comprehend it. I’m waiting for him to say, ‘I told you so’, but . . .

  ‘Oh, Gilly,’ he says, pulling me into his arms, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Guy and I drink tea and talk. I’m relieved Jack can’t find me here. ‘You were right not to trust him, Guy,’ I say more calmly. ‘They deserve each other.’

  ‘Well, one thing’s for sure – Jack doesn’t deserve you.’

  I lean in closer towards him, resting my head against his shoulder.

  ‘He doesn’t, Gilly. I don’t think you realize how lovely you are. You have no idea, do you?’

  ‘Guy, stop it,’ I say, though inside my heart melts at his words. ‘Tonight, it’s all my fault, I should have known . . .’

  ‘No. Jack is deaf, dumb and blind if he doesn’t realize how special you are.’ He hugs me more tightly, ‘And unlike all the other girls I know.’

  ‘I wasn’t his type,’ I console myself.

  ‘You don’t need to change, Gilly. None of this is your fault. He’s the idiot, not you, and I think it’s just as well you went to this Playboy party tonight.’

  I sit up. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s better to find out now rather than later,’ Guy says.

  We sit quietly for a while, Ruskin and Trouble lying by the fireplace, keeping an eye on us. ‘Can I stay here tonight? On the sofa?’

  ‘Of course you can,’ he says, kissing the top of my head tenderly.

  I turn to him abruptly, aware of a major piece in this puzzle that I am forgetting. ‘Oh my God. What am I going to tell Nick?’

  ‘You tell him the truth,’ Guy insists. ‘He needs to know.’

  ‘Nancy, she’ll make out I’m lying, she’ll . . .’

  ‘When it comes to trusting you or Nancy.’ Guy shrugs his shoulders. ‘Come on, Nick knows you love him, he’s your twin. I’d trust you with my life.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘You can’t tell a lie, Gilly. You’ll always do the right thing.’ He takes a strand of my hair, sweeps it away from my face. ‘That’s what’s so wonderful about you.’

  39

  I wake up the following morning on Guy’s sofa bed, Ruskin lying by my side. When I stroke him he moves away and resettles himself, reminding me he’s not a morning dog. My head pounds and slowly the realization of last night comes back to haunt me: Gilly Brown, single again, humiliated, soon to be without a lodger (how am I going to pay for all my bills plus my mortgage now?) and soon to be a messenger to Nick, bearing bad news.

  Guy enters the room. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’ he asks, handing me a dressing gown.

  I nod, stretching out my arms before following him into the kitchen. It’s a small open-plan space, and on one wall is a pinboard mounted with black-and-white photographs of family members. I smile at the picture of Guy standing next to his sister Rachel, dressed in his wedding suit and electric-blue shirt. ‘You kept your hat off.’ I sigh proudly.

  ‘All day long.’

  ‘That tie looks great on you.’

  There’s a lovely black-and-white picture of Guy and Flora together in New York, when Guy pressed the confirm button. Flora’s long hair is swept across her face and she’s laughing as she clings onto his arm. ‘It was really windy that day,’ Guy smiles. Flora is tall, s
lender and bohemian in style. She’s in her early thirties but has a young face and a serene, graceful quality about her. I can picture her trekking in a foreign country with her camera equipment slung onto her shoulder, exploring places and capturing moments.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, as I move away from the photographs and pull up a stool. He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of milk and scans the shelf for butter. I’m aware, after feeling so close to him last night, that he hasn’t fully looked me in the eye, preferring to keep busy. ‘No nasty Nancy dreams I hope?’ he continues.

  I smile. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, for offloading all of this on you, for coming round so late.’

  Guy flicks on the television, offers to make me some scrambled eggs and bacon. ‘You don’t ever need to be sorry for needing a friend in the night,’ he tells me, finally looking my way.

  We swap sections of the newspaper, I pour him some more coffee, Guy feeds the dogs scraps of toast under the table. ‘What are you up to this weekend?’ he asks.

  ‘Jumping off a cliff,’ I suggest.

  We both find ourselves smiling. I tell Guy about the arguments Jack and I had had about the weekends, his elusiveness, how he’d keep on using his work as an excuse. I tell him I wish I’d had the time to talk to his brother, Alexander, that night. I might have found out more about the real Jack, if he hadn’t interrupted us.

  ‘I don’t know, Gilly. He probably does need to work. These shows are full on. I’m not defending him,’ he quickly adds.

  ‘Or maybe I just have terrible taste in men.’

  ‘No you don’t,’ he says, gesturing to himself.

  My telephone rings. I turned it back on this morning. Talk of the devil. ‘It’s Jack,’ I mime to Guy, who encourages me to take the call. Heart racing, I go into the other room.

  ‘Whatever you saw, Gilly, it’s not what you think,’ Jack begins. ‘Nancy was upset, things aren’t going too well for her, and I happened to . . .’

  I cut him off. ‘I might be naïve, but I’m not stupid,’ I tell him. ‘I meant what I said last night. I want you to pack your bags and go.’

  ‘Gilly, please! Come on. I like you, you know I do.’

  ‘Really. You like me? So why are you kissing my sister-in-law?’

  ‘It’s just I can’t make the commitment you want. I sense you want more from me than I can give. Things are complicated . . . if only you knew . . .’

  ‘That’s fine. Just leave. I don’t want anything from you any more, except for you to go.’

  There’s a hesitant pause before he says, ‘Where am I going to go?’

  I laugh. ‘That’s not my problem.’

  ‘Gilly, I need my room, the show’s not over. I’ve paid rent. You can’t do this.’

  ‘I can do whatever I like.’

  ‘It says on the site it’s polite to give tenants notice.’

  ‘Well, if the site knew that you’d kissed Nancy, I’m sure they’d make an exception.’

  Jack, for once, is silent. Until he says, ‘Gilly, please. Can’t we talk about this?’

  ‘No. Why don’t you ask Nancy if you can sleep with her?’

  ‘Now you’re being childish. Look, I want us to stay friends . . .’

  ‘Stay friends?’

  ‘Stay friends and remain civil. I’ll be gone by Christmas.’

  ‘Fuck off, Jack.’

  I hang up.

  I return to the kitchen. ‘He tried to make out nothing happened, that I’d got the wrong impression.’ I sit down. ‘He wanted us to remain friends! The stupid thing is we were never good friends in the first place, not like . . .’

  ‘Not like me and you?’

  I bite my lip. ‘I told him to pack up his stuff tonight and get lost.’

  ‘Good. Time to move on.’

  Our attention turns to the television, another gruesome attack in London.

  ‘Oh, Guy, I feel blue.’ I push aside my breakfast. ‘I hate Jack, I really do, I hate him . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He made me feel young again. I know it sounds shallow, but . . .’

  ‘Right,’ Guy says, as if he’s plotting an idea. ‘There’s not just one Jack Baker in town. I’m taking you out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It’s a surprise.’

  ‘Tell me. Go on.’

  ‘No questions, Gilly. Just put something warm on,’ he adds.

  Guy clutches my hand as we skate across the ice rink, the Natural History Museum lit up by the Christmas lights twinkling in the trees. I wobble and stumble, laughing as I nearly fall over. I rush to the safety of the rails when a little girl in a bright-blue bobble hat and cream outfit pirouettes in front of me like a professional. ‘I just need to catch my breath,’ I tell him.

  Guy raises an eyebrow. ‘We’ve only just started.’

  I look at the other skaters, a whirl of vivid colours, fur hats and scarves, gliding round the ice rink, some more effortlessly than others. ‘I’m terrified I’m going to fall and someone will skate over my hands,’ I confide to him, ‘and chop my fingers off.’ I pull a scary face.

  ‘Don’t be such a wimp. You can do it.’ He grabs my hand and off we go. I shriek when he pulls me towards him, forcing me to go faster. Guy is a natural on the ice, but as for me . . .

  ‘Come on!’ he bosses me.

  ‘Slow down!’

  As I gain confidence and momentum, I begin to enjoy myself, letting go of Guy’s hand and telling him I want to skate on my own. He moves on, then turns and watches me. A surge of adrenalin rushes through my body as the cold air blasts my face and I skate a full circle on my own, and then another . . . and another. This time round I try to catch him up.

  ‘Come and get me,’ he calls.

  A group of children sweep past me, one knocks into my back and I’m on my bottom. I reach for Guy’s hand and he pulls me up. I brush myself down and start again. ‘How come you’re so good?’ I ask.

  ‘Used to skate on the farm,’ he calls over his shoulder, ‘when the lake froze over. I loved it.’

  Determined to catch him, I race forward and in my excitement lose my balance again, but this time manage to stay upright. I can’t stop laughing as I grab his arm as if playing tag in the playground. ‘Got you!’ I say.

  He takes my hand and we skate round the rink once more, together. I don’t want to let him go. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘Oh Guy, this feels amazing. I feel ten again.’

  For the rest of the day, we walk the dogs in the park and drink too much coffee. Late in the afternoon we drive in Guy’s clapped-out van to his favourite nursery just outside London because he needs to buy some flowers for a new job. Guy is a changed man when he wanders around pointing out to me the plants he particularly loves. ‘The names aren’t that important, Gilly, it’s what they look like,’ he says when I ask him what each one is. He tells me that he used to work in a nursery in his teenage years, loading up trolleys with geraniums and lupins, and that’s how his love for flowers started. ‘This client of mine, she’s into tapestry planting, so I need to find lots of different types and interweave them – it’s fun,’ he says.

  On the way home Guy glances over at me, saying I’m quiet. He asks me what I’m thinking about.

  ‘How foolish I’ve been,’ I admit. ‘I thought something didn’t add up with Jack, but I kept on telling myself I was worrying too much, that I should just enjoy it, go with the flow. Even Dennis got it right,’ I murmur.

  ‘Dennis?’

  ‘Just someone,’ I say.

  ‘Right. Not going to even ask.’ He smiles, before adding, ‘You should always follow your gut instinct, it’s normally right.’

  I nod. ‘I didn’t expect him to kiss Nancy.’ I stop, shaking my head, realizing how ridiculous it sounds. ‘But if I’m honest, I think I knew it wouldn’t work out between us. He was too closed off, too secretive, there was something wrong about him.’ Guy looks deep in thought. ‘What?’ I prompt.

  ‘Why don’t we follow Jack home to
night?’

  ‘Follow him? Why?’

  ‘You said it yourself. He was so shifty when you tried to talk to him about his private life and he never invited you to his place, so maybe he doesn’t live in Bath at all. Maybe he’s married and leads a double life.’

  ‘He’s not married.’

  ‘Let’s follow him,’ Guy continues, ‘find out for sure.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘What are you doing tonight?’

  ‘I’m having a night in. I’m not going to start stalking the man, Guy.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Gilly. Don’t you want to know if he really is who he says he is? It doesn’t matter if we discover there’s nothing weird about him, but at least we’ll know and then you don’t have to think about him ever again.’

  ‘I’m not sure I even care now.’

  He’s not listening. ‘We should definitely do this.’

  ‘No, we can’t! This is crazy,’ I say. ‘Anyway, what if he sees us?’

  Parked on the street outside my house, Guy and I watch Jack enter No. 21. Part of me thinks I should go in and face him. Maybe I’m a coward for not confronting him face to face. However, I said all I’d wanted to on the phone. I told him again that if I came home to find any of his belongings, I’d fling them out on the street. I’ve always longed to hurl a suitcase out of the window in a fury and see clothes scattering across the pavement. I didn’t get my chance with Ed.