by Jane Fallon
That’s easy. I know I’ve already locked away this particular secret and thrown out the key.
‘God … yes, I swear. I don’t think we should ever even talk about it again between ourselves. And you’ll delete that text I sent you, won’t you? Just in case.’
‘Agreed. And already done.’
‘Was everything … she didn’t think anything was up when you got home?’
He exhales loudly. ‘No, thank God. She’d never suspect … not us …’
‘What a mess.’
‘Shit. What were we thinking?’
There’s not even a little bit of me that minds that he’s viewing me as a ghastly mistake. I’m glad. I feel exactly the same.
‘I have no idea.’
‘You do know this is the only time … I mean I’ve never … with anyone. I was being truthful with you before.’
I don’t doubt him for a second. It’s clear he’s feeling as bad, as confused, as I am. ‘I know. OK, so everything back to how it was. Like it never happened.’
‘Who are you again?’ he says and that makes me laugh. It’s such a stupid Patrick joke.
‘I might see you at the weekend. I don’t know.’
‘Yes. Come over. Otherwise Mich is going to worry about what’s up with you. It’ll be OK.’
‘If we pretend everything’s normal then it will be, I suppose.’
‘Exactly. At least I hope so. We can’t change what happened. I wish we could.’
Now I know why they talk like they do in the soaps. Sometimes a cliché is all you’ve got.
I feel as if I want to apologize for getting us in this mess in the first place but, of course, he doesn’t know the half of it, so I just keep my mouth shut.
‘I’m pretty much home, I should go.’
‘I feel a lot better,’ I say, and I do if I ignore the big black shadow that’s lurking just out of my vision.
‘Good. Things will be OK.’
‘They will. I just have to get over my self-loathing first.’
‘Me too.’
‘Night, Patrick.’
Just carry on as normal I tell myself. Eventually you might feel as if it is. And then I remember that I’ve promised to have an early drink with Michelle tomorrow. I don’t know how I could have forgotten. We arranged it last week when she decided we hadn’t been seeing enough of each other because she’d been under pressure at work. We even jokingly typed the date into our calendars, promising only to renege in the event of death or serious illness.
I look around wondering if there’s some kind of ‘accident’ that could befall me, resulting in a one-night-only hospital stay and no ill after-effects, but I’m way too much of a baby. The sight of needles makes the world sway and the floor disappear from under me. Anyway, the bottom line is, short of a miracle, I will be in the office as per usual tomorrow and available for drinks after. I toy with the idea of making up a work crisis, but Michelle knows I’m having a quiet time. She would be able to tell I was making excuses. Carry on as usual, that’s what Patrick and I promised we would do. Drinks with Michelle it is then.
15
She’s already there when I arrive. She always is. I am pretty punctual by nature but for Michelle it’s almost a psychosis. She’s so afraid of being late that she actually arrives everywhere a minimum of fifteen minutes early. Once I arrived bang on time and she was looking at her watch and drumming her fingers on the table impatiently. She laughed when I pointed it out.
I stop in the doorway for a moment, taking her in. She’s leaning forward, looking at something on her phone. Smiling. Her blonde hair hangs forward over her face and she reaches up to hook it behind her ear. She’s way prettier than I could ever hope to be. Not that it’s ever bothered me. I haven’t even really thought about it since we were teenagers and that kind of thing seemed to matter. Now it strikes me as being of huge significance. She’s much more even-tempered than me, probably smarter, clearly a nicer person. What was Patrick thinking? What was I thinking, more to the point? Why would either of us risk losing her?
I have been asking myself if a tiny bit of me feels flattered by the fact that – even if only for a brief moment – Patrick must have fancied me. I’m so nothing like the perfect pretty girls he has always gone for. I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, but I’m afraid there might be an element of truth in there somewhere. I really don’t want to have to acknowledge that I’m that shallow.
I almost lose my resolve and turn round and walk away again. The little restaurant cum bar where we always meet has huge windows, though, and it would be just my luck that Michelle would look up from whatever she’s doing and see me just as I was sending a text saying I’d been run over by a taxi. And right on cue she does, and a wide smile takes over her whole face and I feel like the shittiest, most disloyal, worst friend ever.
Michelle stands up to hug me. She smells of citrusy shampoo and CK1, the perfume she’s worn for at least the last twenty years. I can’t catch a whiff of it anywhere without thinking of her. There is already a large glass of white wine – presumably Sauvignon Blanc, my white of choice only because it’s one of the few I can name – sitting on the table in front of the empty chair. Despite my post-Patrick resolution never to get drunk in company again I pick it up and throw back a mouthful guaranteed to knock out a smaller mammal before I even sit down.
‘Thirsty?’ Michelle says with a hint of a smirk on her face.
I force myself to put the glass back on the table. ‘Mmm. It’s hot out there.’
‘Should we get some water?’ She looks around, trying to catch the waitress’s attention.
‘Just tap,’ I say, glad of the distraction. On our post-work-drink catch-up evenings we always leave to go home by half seven at the latest and anything that fills the time between now and then that isn’t Michelle and I talking about our personal lives is fine by me.
‘Is that new?’ I say, indicating her businesslike summer shirt. This is the kind of insightful, deep conversation you can look forward to if you’re best mates with me, obviously.
‘It is. Warehouse. I had to find something quick because I burned a hole in my other one so I actually went to a shop all by myself and picked it out without you to help me. Impressed?’
‘Lovely.’
There’s nothing much else I can say. It’s a mass-produced functional shirt. I’m a little obsessive about patronizing the small independent clothes shops in our respective areas to try and stave off the inevitable big chain takeover myself. Not that I seem to be making much of a difference. It soothes my conscience, though. Or at least it did when the biggest things troubling it were where I bought my shoes and whether the fish I ate was ethically sourced. The epitome of first world problems.
Now I wouldn’t care if the whole of Belsize Park was flattened to become a superstore with its own sweatshop out the back so long as it meant I could rewrite the events of the past few days.
‘I have no summer things.’ If I keep going at this scintillating rate we could talk about nothing but clothes shopping for the next hour. Michelle’s not having it, though.
‘Did you get anything for your mum yet?’
I see an in and I start to drone on about various gift options I have considered and the reasons I have rejected them, desperate to fill the hour with idle chat. I’m boring myself, but I persevere. When Mich looks away for a second I surreptitiously look at the time on my phone. Six forty-five. Only three quarters of an hour to go before I can make my excuses and leave. I gulp back the remains of my second large glass of wine, ignorin
g the fact that I know I should keep my head clear.
‘Shall we have one more?’ Michelle says. She’s only just finishing her first – single – vodka and tonic.
‘Sure. I’m not in a rush.’ I can say this safe in the knowledge that she will have arranged a time to sit down and eat with Patrick. On catch-up evenings he always cooks and has dinner ready for when she gets home.
By the time the drinks arrive I have steered the conversation on to work-related things. I know Michelle has been knee-deep in coordinating a campaign for a new app that’s being launched – something to do with price comparisons on beauty products in high-street stores, I don’t really understand – so I quiz her about how it’s going.
After that, out of politeness if nothing else, she has to ask me about my work, so I bore for England about a couple of shows that are in different stages of production and then, thankfully, it’s time to go. We haven’t actually talked about anything beyond the polite conversation of acquaintances. Perfect.
Michelle, it transpires, has arranged to meet Patrick at a restaurant in Soho for dinner. I wonder if it was his idea. If this is his way of trying to prove what a good husband he is.
‘Why don’t you come?’ she says as I flap my arm about to stop a taxi.
‘No!’ I say far too quickly. ‘No. I’m not going to intrude on your date night.’
Michelle laughs. ‘It’s not like that. He just had a screening to go to so I said I’d meet him after.’
‘Honestly? I’m knackered.’
I managed to shove her into the cab, relieved that we’re not going the same way. Three drinks in and I really don’t feel like going home and sitting in my empty flat thinking about what a fuck-up I am though. I want to go out and get wasted. All my other friends will be tucked up at home with their partners and/or their children. I don’t know anyone who goes out drinking on a week night any more. Actually, scrub that, I do.
Bea answers almost immediately. I can hear noise in the background that tells me she’s in a pub or a restaurant.
‘Is everything OK?’ she says before I can even say hello.
‘Yes. Sorry to call in the evening. I just wondered what you were up to – whether you fancied a drink.’
‘Sure …’ she sounds hesitant. This is a request without precedent. Like I said, despite how well we get on we tend to keep our social lives separate beyond an after-work quick one in the local. ‘I’m in the pub on the corner of my road with Ali.’
Ali is Bea’s flat mate. One of them. She has two, I think, Ali and Sarah, and there is usually a drama unfolding. Bea seems to be in charge – she has kicked a couple of them out in the time that I’ve known her.
‘Oh. Well … I don’t want to muscle in …’
‘It’s fine. It means Ali will have to stop going on about her ex, which’ll be a relief, to be honest.’
I hear Ali object in the background, laughing shrilly.
‘Are you OK?’ Bea continues.
‘I just feel like some company, that’s all.’
‘Get over here then.’
She reminds me of her address. It’s only five minutes from Angel tube but I get a cab anyway. I’m not even halfway there when I start to regret it. I’d be far better off holed up in solitude in my little flat. I’m a loose cannon. It’s good that Ali’s going to be there. We can keep the conversation general, have a few drinks. Numb my brain enough so I can sleep.
Don’t make an idiot of yourself, I remind myself as the taxi pulls up. You’re a bit tipsy. A lot emotional. And you’re still Bea’s boss when it all comes down to it. Don’t have one too many and fall flat on your face in the middle of the pub. Order a Diet Coke, some part of me says, but the rest of me just laughs in its face.
The pub is like something you might see in a Guy Ritchie film just before a major gun battle breaks out, killing everyone except the biggest name actor. It’s very man heavy. I assume the wives and girlfriends are all gathered somewhere pink, necking back vodkas and moaning about their men-folk. There is a pool game going on and I can’t help thinking how much the cues look like weapons. I edge my way through to the overcrowded patio out back. Bea is sitting at a corner table with a woman I assume must be Ali. She’s about Bea’s age. Short hair. Big glasses. Angry expression. Looks like one of Chumbawumba.
‘Hey,’ Bea says when she sees me. ‘Welcome to my local. Very retro, don’t you think?’
‘Are you here ironically?’ I ask, only half joking.
Ali turns her furious-wasp face to me. ‘It’s authentic.’
Great, this is going to be a fun evening. ‘Oh …’ I stammer. ‘Of course.’
Ali glares at me and then her face creases up in a huge smile. ‘I was joking. It’s a shit hole.’
Bea is laughing heartily. ‘But it’s our shit hole.’
‘OK, who wants a drink?’
Bea indicates their mostly full glasses. ‘We only got here just before you called so we’re OK.’
I head back inside to jostle my way to the bar. One of the advantages of being in such a testosterone-fuelled establishment that clearly still thinks it’s the 1970s is that they all make way for ‘the lady’ and I get served in record time.
On the way back with my vodka and Coke I stumble rather attractively over the leg of a chair. The three glasses of wine I sank earlier have caught up with me.
‘Are you pissed again?’ Bea says, incredulous.
‘No! A little bit. I was out with Michelle before.’
‘Ah,’ she says knowingly. ‘And how are things there?’
‘All fine,’ I say, not wanting to talk about it. ‘All blown over.’
‘Well that’s a relief.’
For a minute I’m worried that she’s going to fill Ali in on the details, even though I swore her to secrecy about the honey-trap plot on about a hundred different occasions. She doesn’t, of course, because she’s Bea, which is shorthand for reliable and trustworthy.
‘Tamsin’s friend has been having a few problems,’ she says to Ali by way of an explanation. ‘Nothing major thankfully.’
She turns back to me, a mischievous glint in her eye. ‘Ali was just telling me how she bumped into Stuart, her ex, with his new girlfriend, in M&S Food yesterday.’ She raises an eyebrow at me and I know she’s saying, ‘Go on, I dare you.’
I remember that Ali is the over-sharer. Bea once warned me that if I ever met her I should avoid asking her anything personal. ‘You’ll never get away. I have to feign emergencies to shut her up.’
‘That must have been tricky,’ I say, taking the bait. ‘When did you split up?’
Ali’s owlish eyes widen and I feel a bit bad. Eleven minutes later, when I’ve heard the whole history of Ali and Stuart’s relationship – in intimate detail I should add – this sympathy has largely dissipated. I know now that Ali and Stuart met at a singles night for people who are into techy things; that the first time they had sex she asked that they turn the lights off because she was worried about her puffy legs, but Stuart had insisted they turn them on and he hadn’t seemed put off at all; that she had always wondered if she might be gay, but being with Stuart had convinced her otherwise, and that eventually, just as she had started dreaming about a small but intimate wedding in Greece, he had announced he wasn’t in love with her after all, and two weeks later he had shacked up with Tara from his work, who Ali had been worried about all along if she was being honest.
After a while I start to find her prattling on quite soothing. Once I realize I’m not expected to contribute beyond the occasional
‘really?’ and ‘ooh’ in seemingly random places I switch off completely, apart from the odd shared raised eyebrow with Bea. I don’t think about anything except the warm night and the passing traffic. It’s cathartic.
‘How about you, Tamsin?’ I suddenly hear Ali’s voice penetrate my fog. ‘What’s going on with your love life?’
‘Oh … nothing,’ I say, looking at the table, my drink, the honeysuckle growing up the trellis. Anywhere but at Bea. I feel as if she would read the lie on my face in a second.
‘Tamsin is selectively single,’ Bea says, smiling at us both in turn. ‘That’s why she’s so rational and sane. No drama.’
‘That’s what I aspire to,’ Ali says.
Bea takes a long sip of her drink. ‘I don’t think it’s possible to have a life with no drama in it. There’s always something.’
She looks at me quizzically, and for a split second I actually consider it – telling Bea, and by default Ali – what happened. Purging it all and then asking her to tell me what to do, absolve me. It would almost be a relief. She would probably give me the standard ‘what’s the big deal, you were pissed and you didn’t actually go all the way’ pep talk and I would decide she was right and immediately feel better.
‘Here’s to drama,’ Ali says, sweeping up our now empty glasses and standing up. ‘Same again?’
I suddenly feel like I should get a grip. Head home before more alcohol loosens my tongue and I turn into a confessional mess. ‘Actually, I should make a move. I don’t want to feel like shit in the morning.’
Bea jumps up and gives me a hug. ‘Do you want me to help you find a taxi?’ she asks, ever concerned about my welfare.
‘I’ll be fine. I’ll get the tube, it’s still early. See you tomorrow. Nice to meet you, Ali.’
I wave as I pick my way through the crowd.
16
Everything is back to normal. Or at least, the new version of normal. Normal with a hidden hint of dysfunction that only Patrick and I know about. Normal on the surface but a bit fucked-up underneath.