Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  ‘Are you OK?’ she hisses as we head back to my room once the meeting is over.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I snap. And then immediately feel bad. ‘I’m never drinking again,’ I say, attempting a joke.

  ‘Where did you go last night?’

  My brain won’t even function well enough to make a proper excuse. ‘I don’t want to think about it. Suffice to say me and my friends are too old for clubs.’

  ‘Ha!’ Bea says. She knows I despise nightclubs. ‘You went to a club? Which one?’

  ‘Shit. I can’t remember the name. It was in Notting Hill somewhere.’

  ‘Mode?’ she says. ‘Or Peacock? Although that’s more of a bar.’

  ‘I need to sit down,’ I say and it isn’t really a lie.

  ‘Of course, sorry, I’ll shut up.’ She stops in the doorway to my office. ‘Do you need anything?’

  I adopt a gentler tone of voice. Even though I’m fighting the urge to say, ‘This is all your fault,’ I know it isn’t. It’s mine. ‘No, thanks. I’m just going to get on with some stuff.’

  I go in and shut the door behind me, something I rarely do. Then I sit at my desk, elbows on the table, and put my head in my hands.

  13

  After about half an hour of pointless introspection and self-flagellation I have decided what I have to do next. In the short term anyway. The very short term. I need to speak to Patrick to make sure we are on the same page about this having been an unfortunate one-off incident brought on by alcohol and emotion, and never to be repeated or indeed spoken of ever again. And I need him to guarantee me that he won’t get caught up in a fit of guilt and confess all to Michelle.

  This is obviously the opposite of the advice I have given in the past to friends who have slipped up. ‘Honesty is the best policy,’ I have always trilled blithely, as if I’m some kind of expert. ‘What kind of relationship are you going to have if you can’t tell him/her everything?’ I can hear myself saying, ‘It’s not as if technically you had full-on sex with them, you’re all grown-ups, just come clean and it’ll all work out for the best.’ I want to punch that smug know-it-all now.

  In this case honesty is definitely not the best policy. The best policy would actually be some kind of time travel where I could go back and do everything differently, but as that seems unlikely to happen, at least in the next few days, then the kindest, least hurtful path would be to agree that Michelle never needs to know the way in which the two people she cares about most in the world – parents aside possibly, although that’s not a given – have betrayed her. We can’t change it. We can’t undo what’s done, however much we regret it now, so all we can do is try to forget it ever happened. It’s not as if there’s ever going to be a repeat performance.

  It suddenly becomes urgent that I make him understand how crucial this is. I don’t want to risk calling him from the office. Even though my closed door might as well have ‘Do not enter’ written on it, there is still the slim chance that someone might interrupt me. Or even overhear what I’m saying. So I grab my mobile and head down the stairs.

  ‘I’m going out for a bit,’ I shout to Ashley, without stopping long enough for her to ask me any questions. ‘Can you tell Bea?’

  ‘OK,’ she calls back. ‘Shall I take messages or put everyone through to her?’

  ‘To her,’ I shout up the stairs. ‘I won’t be long.’

  I walk up the road to Brook Green. It’s only half eleven but it’s hot, so it’s already full of people lying prone on the grass like so many rows of the wounded. Offices everywhere must be empty. Calls going straight to voicemail. There’s a bench in the shade that’s unoccupied, so I park myself there and scroll through looking for Patrick’s mobile number.

  It rings once, then his voice cuts in. ‘Hi. This is Patrick Mitchell. Leave me a message and I’ll call you back.’ Short and to the point. Damn. I hadn’t even considered that he might be busy. On the spur of the moment I decide to leave a message. I know that Michelle’s the last person in the world who would snoop through her husband’s phone. Oh the irony. Nevertheless, I try to keep my voice neutral ‘Hi. It’s me. Tamsin. I need to talk to you. Give me a call.’

  I sit there for a few minutes, willing my mobile to ring, and then I realize he might not get back to me for hours. On the way back to the office I buy myself a carton of coconut water at the little shop on the corner. My alibi.

  Five minutes later my direct line rings. I dive for it, thinking he might have phoned me in the office if he was having trouble getting through on the mobile.

  ‘Hello,’ I say in a loud whisper. I look up and check the door is closed.

  ‘Tamsin,’ a woman’s voice says loudly. ‘It’s Fi.’

  Fiona. Ian’s wife. I’m very fond of Fiona but I have no desire to talk to her at the moment.

  ‘How are you? Is this an OK time?’

  ‘Um. I’m a bit—’

  Fiona is one of those people who never wait for you to finish your sentence before they start their next one. Consequently any conversation becomes a battleground of who is talking when.

  ‘It’s just I wanted to ask how you got on with Adam. Ian said you weren’t that taken but I thought I’d put a word in for him anyway. He’s a thoroughly nice bloke.’

  God, really? This is why she’s called me?

  ‘I’m sure he is. We just weren’t a good—’

  ‘Match? He’s Becca’s favourite teacher. At least he was, she doesn’t have him this year.’

  ‘I don’t think we had anything—’

  I pick up my mobile. Check for missed calls. Nothing.

  ‘I haven’t had the chance to ask him what he thought, but I will if you want.’

  ‘No! No, thank you. Listen Fiona, I have to—’

  ‘Because I’ll almost certainly run into him at Parents’ Evening.’

  ‘I’ve got another call coming thr—’

  She starts to say something else, but I clatter the phone down. I hope she doesn’t think I’m being rude. Chances are she doesn’t. Fiona doesn’t really need anyone else on the other end of the line to have a conversation.

  ‘So,’ Bea says when she gets me on my own, having first established that I am feeling a little better. ‘How are things with Patrick Mitchell and his wife?’

  There’s only one reply I can give. ‘They’re fine. I think it’s all blown over already.’

  She plonks herself down on the armchair in my room, long legs hooked over the side, wedge-heeled sandals dangling. ‘Oh thank God. Can I stop feeling guilty now?’

  I force a laugh that wouldn’t be out of place in a bad am dram production of Charley’s Aunt. I think I actually say the words, ‘Ha ha.’

  ‘Totally. I should never have made you feel bad in the first place.’

  ‘Completely understandable. So, guess what? Lucy flat-out refused to type up the notes this morning. Even though I did it last time.’

  How difficult and self-aggrandizing Lucy can be is one of Bea’s and my favourite topics. I don’t want to play today, though.

  ‘Actually, Bea, I need to watch the rough cut of episode three of Space Seekers. I promised them I’d—’

  Bea jumps up before I can finish.

  ‘Sorry, of course. You get on. I’ll bring you in a coffee in a bit.’

  ‘Do you want to watch?’ I like to hear Bea’s thoughts on our shows. I am often too quick to judge. One shaky edit or cheesy reaction shot can have me tutting and rolling my eyes about the incompetence and lack of taste of everyone involved so violently that my conc
entration is shot. However much I try to remind myself that first cuts are always – and I mean always – awful, I can’t help myself. Every niggle and irritation I have had about the production team since day one rises up to greet me. I told them not to do that, I said that if they took the shot from there it would look ugly. I knew that presenter would come across as patronizing if they didn’t keep reminding him to adopt a warmer tone every take.

  Of course, my rational self knows that there are a hundred different versions of each programme within the same footage, just waiting to be brought out. The editing process is like watching a miracle unfold. And rough cuts are just what they say. Rough. Templates for discussion. No one is suggesting that this be the finished product. It doesn’t stop me despairing, though. Even after all these years.

  Bea, on the other hand, being one step removed and an altogether calmer human being and less prone to knee-jerk reactions, tends to see the bigger picture. She often has helpful suggestions, too. I have been known – only when under extreme time pressure I should add – to get her to view an edit for me and to pass her notes off as my own.

  ‘I’ve already seen it,’ she says and pulls a face that I take to mean I’m going to hate it.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Doable. Just take deep breaths. Keep calm.’ She laughs.

  She shuts the door behind her so I can concentrate, which leaves me free to stare at my mobile for another ten minutes, willing Patrick to return my call.

  Eventually I force myself to give up. I watch the Space Seekers first cut and go through my usual range of emotions – irritation, outright anger, resignation – before calming myself down by making copious notes about ways in which it could be improved. As always, once I’ve thought it through rationally I emerge the other side, optimistic that the programme will be good with some careful re-editing. All the material is there, it’s just in the wrong order.

  Bea’s suggestions tally with mine. Although I’m confident about my own opinion, I won’t deny it’s sometimes nice to have it seconded. Especially because the producer of Space Seekers is notoriously tricky and seems to view every note as an affront. I get him on the phone, argue the finer points of cutting a scene – where the presenter patronizes the home owner by explaining at length how louvre doors work – or just tightening it up, for way too long. I get my way in the end and he promises me the offending footage will go straight into the digital bin. In return I agree that he can keep a toe-curling exchange between the same presenter and one of the handymen in its cringy entirety. I send an email to Ian, copying Bea in, to remind me to replace the front man if the series ever gets re-commissioned.

  I’ve managed to kill another hour. My phone is still stubbornly silent. I do that thing where I pick it up and press a few buttons as if to make sure it’s working properly and there isn’t a return message from Patrick hidden away in there somewhere. Not that I would have missed him if he called, I have the ringer turned up to full volume and every five seconds or so I stare reproachfully at the handset in case I miss something.

  I start sweating, thinking that maybe he’s confessed all to Michelle already. I imagine his guilt is on a par with mine. He’s bound to be beating himself up, going through agonies of self-loathing alternated with fear of discovery. If he’d told Michelle everything, though, she would have called me. Turned up at my office with Ron in one hand and an axe in the other probably. I need to reassure him quickly, though. Let him know that I will never divulge what has happened. Never. Who would it benefit?

  I briefly consider calling him on his work number, or even going over there, but I know that would only draw attention to myself. He’ll call me as soon as he’s able. This is as important for him as for me.

  I can’t just leave it all to fate, though, so I decide to send him a text. I agonize over what to say, and in the end I conclude that being to the point is best.

  ‘Still can’t believe we did that last night. Too much wine, ha ha. I’m feeling horribly guilty and I’m sure you are too. Def right that we never tell Michelle. It would only upset her even though it meant nothing. T.’

  I add a kiss, like I always do, take it off, put it on again, then take it off for good. Too soon.

  I need a distraction, so I head downstairs to Bea and Lucy’s shared office.

  ‘Lucy, have you done the minutes from this morning yet? It’s your turn to do them, isn’t it? I need to check something.’

  In so far as I know no one has ever been interested in reading the general meeting minutes before. She looks trapped, like a rabbit in some very bright headlights.

  ‘Um … I haven’t got round to it yet. I’ll do them now. What did you want to check? I can look in my notes.’

  ‘No. Just do them as soon as you can, if you don’t mind. Thanks.’

  I turn to leave. Bea smirks at me and I give her a hammy wink as I go.

  14

  By home time I am a nervous wreck. Why is Patrick not returning my calls? I know that I can’t try him again now that there’s a possibility he might be at home and in the same room as Michelle. Even I’m not that stupid.

  On the way to the tube station Michelle herself phones and I lose my bottle and can’t answer in case she starts screaming that I am a home-wrecking bitch and she hates me. When I listen to the message she left it’s almost worse – she’s her normal, jokey, friendly self, just calling for a catch-up. I don’t call her back – I have no idea how I can pretend that everything is as it should be.

  I can’t even be bothered to change out of my work clothes. I head straight for the fridge, gag when I see some wine, and pour myself a glass of cranberry juice the size of a small lake. I flop down on the sofa, gulping it back. Thankfully Sharon the dog walker has been in and will have taken Ron for a romp on Primrose Hill, as she does every afternoon, so he’s flat out on the wooden floor, probably dreaming about having her for an owner instead of me. My plan is to retire to bed before it even gets dark and take a Nytol. I appreciate this is no good as a long-term strategy, but for tonight it’s all I have.

  The sound of my phone nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I grab it before whoever it is can decide to ring off. Patrick.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you to call me all day,’ I say as an opener.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. We had our big strategy meeting. I was with people all the time …’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Walking home from the tube. Are you good?’

  ‘Yes. No. Are you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  There’s a long uncomfortable, weighty silence.

  ‘So?’ Patrick asks eventually.

  ‘We were drunk, obviously …’

  ‘Obviously. I have a terrible hangover by the way. Do you?’

  ‘Awful. But that’s no excuse …’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Really sorry. I have no idea what came over me.’

  You’ll be relieved to know I resist the obvious response.

  ‘God, me too. Don’t blame all this on yourself.’

  ‘It’s hard not to. I was the one who was all needy and emotional. Now I’m exactly the person Michelle was worried I am.’

  ‘You’re not. What we did was wrong. Awful. But it could have been much worse. I mean, it doesn’t bear thinking about …’

  ‘OK, steady on,’ he says. ‘Don’t go mad.’

  I can’t help but smile. ‘You know what I mean. But it was a mistake. A drunken, stupid mistake. It never would have happened otherwise. It’s not like we se
t out to do it.’

  ‘No! Of course not.’

  ‘So you’re not that person. We fucked up but you’re not that person.’

  ‘I’ve never lied to her before. I don’t know if I can …’ he says and I feel my heart jump a beat.

  ‘You have to. We both have to. It’s the only way things’ll ever be OK. It’s not as if it’s ever going to happen again.’

  ‘Maybe she’d understand. If she knew we were drunk and I was all over the place …’

  ‘No. God. She’d never feel happy about us seeing each other again. Imagine thinking you couldn’t trust your best mate and your husband to be on their own together.’

  He sighs. ‘Shit. And if she is worried about whether she can trust me at the moment this’ll just make things ten times worse. You’re right. It just feels so wrong.’

  ‘I know. But promise me you won’t say anything. Please, Patrick.’

  ‘Of course not. We agreed.’

  ‘I know but I needed to hear it again. The thought of Michelle—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, I’m married to her, remember.’

  I still feel the need to hammer the point home.

  ‘Whatever happens you never tell her. If you have a fight or … I don’t know … something happens between you one day … please.’

  ‘Jesus, Tamsin. Nothing is going to happen between us. I adore Michelle. And if it makes you feel better I promise that even if she has some kind of personality transplant and runs off with Jim from next door I swear to you I will never say a word. Never. OK?’

  I know I can’t push him any more, even though my instinct is to stay on the phone all evening making him repeat his words over and over again.

  ‘And the same goes for you too, obviously?’