Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  I shrugged. I had no opinion. Anne Marie took that as a sign that I didn’t really want to talk about work, so she asked me if I was thinking about going away this summer and we chatted about Italy versus Greece and villas versus hotels for a pleasant twenty minutes or so. I was only half present, though. Conversation by numbers. If she noticed, she was polite enough not to say as much.

  Bea arrived on Monday morning bearing muffins from the little bakery round the corner, so I knew she was feeling guilty. I had already decided not to bring it up again. Although it was tempting. She launched into another apology as soon as she walked through the door and shut it behind her, though.

  ‘I’ve been going over and over it in my mind ever since you called me. I just can’t believe he worked it out. Even though I said her name. God, I am so sorry about that, I was really nervous and it came out before I could stop it …’

  She was rambling, something Bea always does when she’s under pressure. The telltale eye twitch was present. I stepped in to put her out of her misery.

  ‘It’s OK. It’s fine. I just have to convince him that Michelle doesn’t, and hasn’t ever, suspected him of cheating – which shouldn’t be too hard because she doesn’t and she hasn’t – and then hopefully things’ll go back to normal.’

  ‘At least now you’ve got your answer, I suppose.’

  ‘I know. And I feel like an absolute idiot. Remind me never to listen to idle gossip again.’

  ‘And Patrick’ll forget about it soon enough, once he realizes Michelle isn’t behaving any differently towards him.’

  ‘God, I hope so.’

  ‘You were looking out for your friend, that was all,’ Bea said. ‘I don’t think anyone could fault you for that. And if I hadn’t …’

  I laughed. ‘OK, stop, let’s just agree we both feel bad. Beating ourselves up is not going to help.’

  ‘What can I do to make it up to you? Coffee to go with the muffin? More muffins? Coffee-flavoured muffin? Muffin-flavoured coffee?’

  ‘How about some work? I left a stack of crew CVs on your desk. Could you sort through them and send any that look interesting over to the Downsize Divas production office? They need to be Manchester-based.’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘And yes, coffee to go with the muffin. Thank you.’

  ‘And done.’

  I had learned a big lesson. I did not always need to be Michelle’s protector. She did not always need to be protected. Sometimes it was better just to leave things well alone.

  11

  By the time I got home from work today I had started feeling a little better. Things would calm down. Everything would go back to normal with a bit of time. I changed out of my work clothes, showered and dressed again in my black and white gingham pyjama bottoms and a vest top. I put my Juicy Couture red hoody over the top, tied my hair up in a ponytail and wandered into the kitchen to start planning what I was going to eat.

  Tonight the fridge was looking especially bare because Patrick’s disturbing visit on Saturday had made me lose my appetite for Budgens. I decided to phone out for a takeaway, but then I couldn’t decide what I wanted so I poured myself a large glass of red instead.

  I had just sat down in front of the Channel 4 news when the doorbell rang. My first instinct was to keep quiet and pretend no one was home, but curiosity got the better of me and I couldn’t resist answering. With any luck it would be the front door equivalent of a wrong number.

  Of course, it wasn’t.

  When I let Patrick in he didn’t look any better than he had on Saturday. He smiled when he saw my get-up, though.

  ‘Well, I’m glad you made an effort.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone,’ I said, self-consciously pulling the zip on my top up a little higher.

  ‘Really? All dressed up and nowhere to go?’

  ‘You’re very funny.’

  He followed me into the living room. I was trying to swallow the anxiety his unexpected arrival had triggered in me.

  ‘What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I can’t stop thinking about it. I know you said Michelle seemed like her normal self but I just wanted to hear exactly what made you think that …’

  I had called Patrick yesterday – Monday – when I knew he would be safely at work and out of Michelle’s earshot, to tell him that I was convinced he had imagined the whole honey-trap scenario. I’d had to pretend to be on my way into a meeting and therefore unable to talk for more than a few brief seconds. I couldn’t get off the phone quickly enough. I’m not, and never have been, a very confident liar.

  ‘Well …’ I said, thinking on my feet. ‘It’s just that I gave her lots of opportunities to tell me if she had anything on her mind. And we talked about you lots. Not specifically that … obviously …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she didn’t say anything. She seemed really happy. Talked about your weekend away coming up, as if she was really looking forward to it, that kind of thing. Honestly, I’d be absolutely gobsmacked if she had even considered setting some woman up to test you.’

  Patrick sat down on the nearest armchair.

  ‘OK. Thank God.’

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ I said, although I felt as if I could do with a stiff brandy myself. I was hoping he would say no, he had to get back, and then I could pour myself a plus-sized glass to enjoy on my own.

  ‘A drink would be better.’

  ‘Aren’t you driving?’

  He nodded. ‘One’ll be OK.’

  ‘Great. Red or white?’

  ‘White.’

  I opened the bottle (screw cap, thank God. I didn’t want to have to waste time fannying about with a corkscrew) and poured him the smallest glass I thought I could get away with without appearing rude. I didn’t feel up to facing the third degree. I wasn’t sure I would pass the test. I topped up my own glass with the red while I was about it.

  ‘Is Mich not expecting you?’ I said, clutching at straws.

  ‘She’s gone over to her mum and dad’s.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The thing is, it’s not like I’ve never had the opportunity. I mean, I’m sure she has as well. I just would never …’

  ‘I know.’

  He looked like he was on the verge of tears again. I sat there, not knowing what to do with myself. This was not a side of him I had ever seen before and it made me feel uneasy. Maybe I’d misjudged him all these years and he was really just a big softy.

  ‘I think you have to put it out of your mind. Whatever happened it was just some weird coincidence.’

  ‘You weren’t there. Do you mind if I get another?’

  He had drunk his wine in record time (well, I had only given him about three mouthfuls) and was holding out his empty glass.

  ‘Should you?’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘I can get a cab if I have to.’

  I didn’t really know how I could say no. I hardly looked as if I was on my way out for the night.

  ‘OK.’

  I poured us both another – much larger this time. Sod it.

  Then I offered up the first even vaguely plausible scenario I could come up with, in the hope that I could shut the conversation down. ‘You know what I think? I bet someone there put her up to it, this Cheryl. Someone who knows you and thought it would be funny.’

  He didn’t look convinced. ‘And they told her Michelle’s name?’

  ‘It’s hardly a state secret. They were probably talking about you, said something about you having a wife called Michelle and th
en said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if you went and threw yourself at him just to see how he’d react.” I don’t know, something like that.’

  ‘Why, though?’

  ‘God knows. Because they have a warped sense of humour.’

  ‘And what was she going to do if I’d said yes, I’d love to come to your room?’

  ‘Probably shout gotcha and run away. I’m sure that’s what it was, a stupid joke. It was probably someone whose show you’d turned down, or who you sacked off something once, and they thought it would be fun to make you feel like an idiot.’

  Patrick dragged his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know, Tamsin.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve let it affect you like this.’

  ‘It’s frightened the life out of me – the idea that something might be wrong …’

  And there it was, another fat tear exploded onto his cheek. I felt overwhelmed with pity. He was obviously feeling wretched. I couldn’t believe I had been so wrong about him.

  I drained the last of my drink, refilled both our glasses to the brim and crossed over to where he was sitting, plonking myself down on the arm of the sofa. Instinctively I put my arm around his shoulders again. I was an old hand at this now. He leaned into me. I felt slightly lightheaded. I knew that I’d drunk my wine too quickly. So I did what I always do under those circumstances. I drank some more.

  ‘It’ll be OK,’ I said to the top of Patrick’s head.

  ‘I hope so.’

  He reached his arm up and draped it over my leg, pulling me closer to him. This is the point when I should have stood up, patted him on the back like a friend would, insisted that we have a coffee to clear our heads. I didn’t, of course. Although it was a strange sensation, us sat there with our arms around each other, this was Patrick, my best friend’s husband. I still had no conception that it would turn into anything else. And – if I’m going to be really honest, and I might as well be – it felt nice. Comforting.

  We sat there like that for a minute or so, and then I became aware that his hand was moving. Just slightly. Just the barest hint of his fingers stroking my thigh. I knew that wasn’t quite right. Me rubbing his back in a soothing motion was one thing, but this felt altogether more intimate. Still, I put it down to his fragile state of mind and the Sauvignon Blanc. I eased back a tiny bit. Carefully. I didn’t want him to realize what I was doing and feel embarrassed.

  And then he was looking at me and I was looking back at him, seemingly unable to tear my eyes away, even though I knew I should. He was reaching out to sweep his fingers across my cheek and I was letting him. We were kissing. Full on. All out. As if we had been waiting to do this for the past five years.

  I could have pulled away. I could have stopped it before it went too far, tried to laugh it off as a tipsy misunderstanding. We would have got over it eventually. But his hand had started creeping up the inside of my top, pushing my resolve out ahead of it as it went. I let it. I didn’t want it to stop.

  And then it all goes a bit blank.

  12

  I can’t even tell you what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. Let alone that what we were doing was about the worst thing we could ever do, short of me murdering him and leaving him dead on Michelle’s doorstep with a fetching ribbon tied around his neck in a bow and a note saying, ‘Ha ha.’

  After a few minutes (I’ve decided to say fifteen, the prosecution may say twenty-five) it was as if I came to my senses, like I’d been given a shot of adrenalin to counteract the overdose. Drunk to sober in sixty seconds. His fingers were now inside my underwear. Inside me. I pushed him away.

  ‘We can’t do this.’

  Patrick put his hand out to pull me back towards him. I shuffled backwards to make it clear that whatever had just happened was over.

  ‘No. This is crazy. We can’t.’

  It was as if he suddenly realized what we were doing too. He dropped his hand, looked down at it as if it had a mind of its own. Did up his flies (his flies were undone!).

  ‘Fuck. No. Of course we can’t. Shit.’

  Once there was a gulf between us, Patrick sat looking in my direction while not actually looking at me at all. He kept his gaze fixed on the ground like a dog caught standing by the breakfast table with a Pop Tart in his mouth.

  ‘Shit,’ I said. And then, ‘I’m getting up.’

  ‘I should get going …’

  I readjusted my clothing. Zipped up my hoody over my still undone bra.

  ‘Michelle …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he somehow forced his eyes up to almost meet mine as he said this.

  ‘Me neither.’

  ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’

  ‘Me neither. Jesus. We just need to forget it ever did. Like …’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘We’ve just had too much to drink. Me anyway …’

  ‘Me too …’

  ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t come over for a bit …’

  ‘No. I don’t want you to feel you have to stay away … Just … I don’t know.’

  Both of us seemed incapable of actually finishing a coherent thought.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, making a vague gesture towards the door. ‘I should go …’

  I nodded, hands firmly in my pockets.

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘Are we …’ he said. ‘I mean, is it going to be OK?’

  ‘It has to be.’

  He turned and opened the door, waving a low hand at me as he went. Once he’d shut it again I double-locked it behind him.

  That was half an hour ago. All I’ve done since is sit and stare at the walls, a creeping feeling of self-loathing and fear threatening to engulf me. What the fuck have I done?

  This time there’s no one to confide in. My two usual sounding boards, Michelle and Bea, are out of the question obviously, and I’m clearly not about to divulge what’s happened to my brothers or my mum. We rarely get deeper than ‘How’s work?’ or ‘What are you having for your tea tonight?’ and I don’t think me telling them I’ve just had a fumble with Michelle’s husband would be the way to change that. My family love Michelle. I think my parents have entertained the thought that she’s really the daughter they should have had. So have I for that matter.

  I decide to get changed again, now that I’m sure he’s not about to come back. I shove all my clothing into the washing machine and set it to high. I don’t care if everything shrinks. I can feel a hangover kicking in already. I force myself to drink a vat of water, take Ron out for a quick bathroom break, and by half past nine I’m curled up under my duvet, wishing the world would go away.

  The worst part is that there’s nothing I can do now to change what’s happened. It’s going to be there forever. It’s on my record now, written in indelible marker. No chance of parole. We might not have ‘had sex’ but we HAD SEX.

  I know I’m not going to get any sleep. But I know I don’t want to get up either. I don’t want to risk catching sight of my face in a mirror.

  Somehow I am out cold when my alarm goes off, though. Sprawled across the width of the bed in a semi-circle around my half-conscious dog. My first thought is, Oh shit, is it time to get up already? My second thought is just, Oh shit. I’m tempted to call in sick. I’m the boss, who’s going to question it? I’m not sure I can face people. I don’t know how I’m ever going to be able to act normally again. But the thought of spending all day at the scene of the crime is worse.

  The first order of the day is our development meeting. We have
these every other Wednesday and they generally consist of a quick rush through our slate with everyone contributing any news they have on any of the projects, followed by a twenty-minute gossip drinking coffee and eating biscuits. Everyone except Ashley attends. Lucy and Bea take it in turns to make notes that they later transcribe and distribute to Ian, myself and Anne Marie. I doubt any of us ever refers to them again. It’s the only time we formally all get together, though, so we cling on to the tradition regardless.

  We always gather in Ian’s office – the largest of the upstairs rooms. It was easy for us to decide who would be where when we first moved in. He cared about size, I cared about view. Ian is sitting on his desk chair but, as usual, he’s pulled it to the side so as to appear less formal, Anne Marie and I occupy the two-person sofa and Bea and Lucy perch on chairs they’ve wheeled through from the other rooms. It’s a scorching hot day so we have the little window open as wide as it will go (no aircon here in our mid-Victorian terrace) and consequently have to shout above the invading street noise.

  I have nothing to contribute. Nothing. My head is completely elsewhere. I’m feeling exposed, as if the others might be able to sense what I’ve done. The way some dogs can sniff out cancer or spot an epileptic fit before it happens. Even though I spent an extra ten minutes in the shower this morning scrubbing and exfoliating till my skin was pink, to try to erase all traces of Patrick, I feel as though I can still smell him on me. As if he got under the epidermis and now I’m sweating him out, bit by bit.

  I explain my fragile state to Bea – who notices everything – as a hangover, plain and simple. At least I don’t need to act that part. There’s a small toffee hammer knocking on my temples every few seconds and someone seems to have put my brain in a vice. My stomach hurts, but whether it’s from genuine or guilt-induced nausea I can’t tell. She laughs sympathetically and produces an ancient Resolve from her bag, mixes it with a glass of water and hands it to me.

  When we get to any of my projects I just say ‘nothing much to report’ and let Bea fill them in with whatever she’s managed to glean from my emails and phone calls. Because she’s Bea, this means she pretty much knows everything about everything, so no one really notices the fact that I am mentally absent.