Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  It’s been just over six weeks. Six long weeks since that evening. Gradually I have forced myself to spend more and more time with Michelle until I am almost back at pre you-know-what levels. At first it was painful. I tried to stick to meeting up with her on her own, or timing my visits to theirs when I thought it was most likely Patrick wouldn’t be there. The first time I got it wrong and he suddenly stepped into their kitchen as Mich and I chatted over a cup of tea. I don’t know who looked more horrified, me or him.

  It had been sixteen days. Michelle had told me that Patrick was doing a set visit to Nottingham on a Thursday evening, because some show he’d commissioned was doing night shoots using some kind of new low-light vision technology or something, which meant you could show off a revamped garden in the dark without having to floodlight the place. He was keen to see how it worked, she said. If it did it could save them a fortune in hours wasted setting up lamps. She’d invited me over to keep her company and, as I had just about got back to the stage where I could act normally around her again – after a couple of encounters when I couldn’t even remember what our regular conversation was, let alone make it, to the extent where she’d ended up asking me if I was OK, and I’d had to lie about problems at work and an argument with one of my brothers – I’d agreed. I missed her.

  I had finally stopped obsessing about what I’d done. It was still there, don’t get me wrong. A few days after the event I had forced myself to confront the full horror of what had happened and there it was in glorious technicolour: tops pushed up, trousers unzipped, hands and mouths everywhere. We had got a lot done in fifteen (OK, twenty-five) minutes. I’d made myself consider, for the first time, whether I actually did have feelings for Patrick. Whether I had been harbouring my old secret crush for years, just waiting for my opportunity. I honestly didn’t believe I had.

  After that I had tried to park the whole incident at the back of my brain and dump a couple of skips full of bland, inoffensive rubble in front of it. I know that doesn’t really work as a metaphor, but you get the picture. Out of sight, out of mind.

  I think it helped that I hadn’t been able to discuss what had happened with anyone. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Patrick since that initial phone call, of course. I had mercifully resisted the urge to confide in Bea. I could almost make myself believe it had never happened.

  So, anyway, Michelle and I were sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in front of us – we were both attempting a no-alcohol month, that is, I was attempting it and she was accomplishing it with ease – talking about, if I remember rightly, the fact that she had bumped into one of our friends from school on the tube, when suddenly I heard a noise and there was Patrick standing in the doorway wearing nothing but a towel.

  I jumped. He jumped. Michelle laughed, thinking our discomfort was down to surprise, not guilt.

  ‘I thought you were out,’ I said and it came out more accusatory than I meant it to. I tried not to notice his unclothed upper body. Felt myself blush red.

  ‘I just popped home for a shower,’ he said, clutching the top of the towel.

  Michelle was still finding our over-the-top reaction hysterical. ‘Sorry, I thought I’d said.’ She laughed, waving her arm at me. ‘Your face!’

  ‘I was just startled, that’s all,’ I said, trying to force myself to laugh along.

  ‘You both look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be here yet,’ Patrick said, which to my ears also sounded like an accusation. ‘Or I’d have got ready earlier.’

  ‘God, she’s seen it all before,’ Michelle chipped in. I looked at the floor.

  Thankfully he turned on his heels, muttered something about being late and went upstairs to get dressed. Five minutes later he stuck his head back around the door, leaning in just enough to kiss the top of Michelle’s head.

  ‘Won’t be late,’ he said, and he was gone before I could even say goodbye.

  I decided I needed to start dating again. I didn’t want my last encounter with a man to be with Patrick. I needed something to wash the taste out of my mouth, as it were. OK. That ended up sounding way more graphic than I meant it to, but you know what I mean. So a week or so later I re-registered at Other Half, my dating site of choice. Tried to convince myself that all sorts of unlikely looking people might prove to be my soul mate.

  I spent an age working on my profile. I know my good points. Or, at least, I know what my good points were before I was forced to revise my opinion of myself. Loyal, honest, reliable, hard working.

  I realize this sounds like a for-sale ad for a carthorse.

  Funny. Supportive. Good fetlocks.

  OK, I made that last one up. But I do have quite sturdy calves. I tried to say something funny to show off my GSOH. Failed. In the end I settled for factual. I mentioned Ron (Must love dogs) and a bit about my job.

  Obviously I left out all my negatives: I’m unforgiving, critical, a looks fascist where men are concerned (which is ludicrous given said calves), pessimistic, occasionally overbearing and controlling. Untrustworthy.

  The end result was a biography so bland I wouldn’t want to date any man who might think I was a good catch. Like Groucho Marx said, I wouldn’t want to join any club that would have me as a member.

  I forced myself to press send. Tried to forget all about it.

  The first date was fine. Just that. Fine. His name was Mario. That was the most colourful thing about him. He was a nice-looking man with a nice personality and an unchallenging job in a recruitment agency. We made nice conversation over a nice meal and then we said goodnight, both knowing that there was no reason for us to ever see each other again. Or, at least, so I thought. Turned out Mario thought we’d had a ‘spark’ and persisted in emailing me for a couple of days, asking when we could meet up again, until eventually I had to spell out that there really was no chance of us going anywhere.

  His reaction was, well, to be nice. Of course it was. I just wished I could have liked him more.

  My second attempt was more eventful. Owen was as attractive as his picture promised. Dark-haired and light-eyed – a fatal combination in my book. Tall, slim, muscular. He oozed pheromones. I couldn’t quite believe he had singled me out. Turned out I possessed the one thing he found irresistible: a vagina. We met in a pub in Bloomsbury, with the intention of going on for a meal if we hit it off. He was in full-on seduction mode from the first moment and, even though I found it cheesy beyond words, I found myself going along with it. In the end we skipped the food part, went back to mine, had what I thought was fantastic sex and then, the minute it was over, he grabbed his stuff and left. He didn’t even pretend to make a promise to call. To be honest I didn’t care. I would never usually do something so reckless with a person I had known for a full hour and a half, but it almost felt like an exorcism. I had no interest in trying to pursue a relationship with him. His conversation had mostly been about himself and his gym routine. As he left I had to stop myself from shouting, ‘I’ve just used you as much as you’ve used me,’ after him.

  Tonight Michelle, Patrick and I are celebrating. Michelle has landed some big new account at work. Something virtual, God knows. Anyway, she announced that she wanted to toast her success with a glass of bubbly. It’s the first proper evening the three of us have spent together since … well, since.

  We’ve all met up at the Charlotte Street Hotel after work and somehow, miraculously, managed to bag a spot out on the street. The credit needs to go to me for that one, really. I am skilled in the art of standing and staring resentfully until someone feels bad (or intimidated, I don
’t much care which), and decides to call it a night and vacate their table.

  Patrick clicks his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. I look away. I hate the finger-clicking. Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Pad!’ Michelle says. It’s as far as she ever gets to acknowledging his bad behaviour.

  We all raise our glasses. ‘Here’s to your swanky new campaign,’ I say. I clink her flute and then, of course, have to clink Patrick’s too.

  ‘Hear hear,’ he says. ‘Let’s hope it pays you a fortune and I can retire and live off your hard-earned cash.’

  ‘Actually, it’s not really that big of a deal. I just wanted an excuse to get together with my two favourite people in the world. I feel as if we hardly spend any time together any more, the three of us.’

  If I said there was an awkward silence I would be doing it a disservice. It’s deafening it’s so quiet.

  ‘Well, this is nice,’ is the best I can come up with. I’m finding it hard to look at Patrick. I’m still scared I’ll give myself away.

  ‘Oh,’ Patrick says, as Michelle tops up our glasses. ‘I bought these today, look.’ I realize he’s trying to force a conversation and I’m grateful.

  He digs around in his bag. Comes up with a pair of sunglasses. ‘Good, huh?’

  He pops them on. They’re brown and a bit retro-looking. By retro I mean they’re like those giant monstrosities you used to get in the seventies.

  I can’t help myself. I laugh. ‘You look like an ant.’

  Patrick feigns a hurt expression. ‘I got them from that vintage shop in Endell Street.’

  ‘Just because they’re vintage doesn’t mean they’re stylish,’ Michelle says laughing. ‘They’re very … Roy Orbison.’

  ‘They’re Gucci,’ he says huffily.

  ‘They’re hideous is what they are. Michelle’s right. Roy Orbison.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘Actually they’re more Deirdre Barlow. But in the eighties.’

  ‘Or Dame Edna.’

  Patrick smiles and it looks like a genuine, happy smile. ‘I hate it when you two gang up on me.’

  And there it is. The moment when it actually feels as if things will get back to the way they used to be.

  Relief. That’s what I feel when I wake up early the next morning. The sun is already streaming through my too-flimsy curtains. Usually – these days – this is the time when I toss and turn, beating myself up about every bad thing I have ever done. Well, just one thing, really. The thing. This morning it feels as if a weight has been lifted. Don’t get me wrong I would still do anything if I could take it back. I will still never forgive myself. But I now believe that Michelle, Patrick and I can continue to be friends. I can imagine a time when it will all feel like a distant nightmare. Hopefully one that happened to someone else.

  Famous last words.

  17

  I’m going to be sick.

  Michelle is crying in my living room. She’s trying to talk but she keeps tripping over her words, hiccupping back sobs. I have no idea what to do.

  This is the moment I’ve been dreading for weeks. And I have no one to blame but myself.

  She takes a deep, gasping breath. Blows her nose loudly on a tissue she produces from her bag. I resist the urge to go over and hug her in case she punches me in the mouth. I don’t think I have ever seen Michelle cry without going to her aid.

  ‘I think something happened,’ she says obliquely, looking at me expectantly. I have no idea what to say, so I say nothing.

  ‘I think Patrick’s slept with someone.’

  There’s a second when all I take in is ‘Patrick’s slept with’. I reach for one of the denials I have been rehearsing in my head over and over – I would never do that to you, neither of us would ever treat you like that, technically does it count as sex if there’s no penetration? – and then I realize that what she said was ‘someone’, not ‘you’. Patrick slept with someone. Not ‘why did you fool around with my husband, you bitch?’ I am not ‘someone’ as far as Michelle is concerned. Could it be possible that she doesn’t know it was me yet?

  ‘What?’ I say, grasping around for how best to respond. ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I found something,’ she says, and I desperately try to imagine what evidence there might be. A stray long chestnutty brown hair discovered down his trousers? Next she’ll tell me she’s just waiting for the results of the DNA test to find out who it belongs to.

  ‘A receipt. Well, a credit card slip. Whatever you call it.’

  OK. I don’t think I gave Patrick a receipt. Acknowledgement for services rendered. I breathe out for, it seems, the first time in a while.

  Michelle carries on. ‘I was sorting out our receipts. Going through what needed filing and what I could throw away. And I thought I could do Pad’s too, so I had a quick look through his desk in the study and I found this …’

  For the first time I notice she has a screwed-up piece of paper in her hand. One of those small, innocent scraps we all amass by the hundred every year. She hands it to me.

  It’s the usual confusion of numbers. The amount at the bottom reads £393.91. At the top the words ‘Park View Hotel, Knightsbridge’ spring out at me.

  I have never been to the Park View Hotel, with or without Patrick. The tightness in my chest eases up a little more, but then a new thought hits me.

  What the fuck does this mean?

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say to Michelle, finally feeling brave enough now to move onto the sofa next to her and take her hand.

  ‘That’s the night he was supposed to be in Nottingham, remember? When he had to look at the new kind of lamps.’

  I think back. I have a vague memory. I kept Michelle company while Patrick went to Nottingham for work. The night he appeared at the kitchen door in a towel. I look at the receipt again. July 16th. Four weeks ago.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am. I checked our calendar. July sixeenth, P to Nottingham. That’s what it says.’

  ‘Maybe you got it mixed up and the show was actually shooting in London?’

  ‘It wasn’t. And even if it was, why wouldn’t he have come home after? Anyway, that’s not all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This.’

  She reaches into her pocket and brings out another crumpled piece of paper. This time A4. I know what it is immediately. An itemized bill from the hotel. Under name of guest, it clearly says Patrick Mitchell. The room-service breakfast charge is so high that if Patrick had eaten all that alone I’m pretty sure he would have gone straight into a coma. In small type on the top right-hand side it states, ‘Number of guests: 2’.

  I can hardly take this in. Is she really trying to tell me that Patrick’s having an affair?

  ‘After I found the credit-card receipt I hunted round in his stuff. This was in the bottom of his work bag.’

  I wait. I can hear a woodpigeon cooing repetitively outside, in the gaps between the noise of the cars.

  ‘You think Patrick took a woman there? To a hotel?’

  She nods. ‘He lied to me about where he was going. Why would he do that if it wasn’t to cover something up?’

  ‘Have you asked him?’

  ‘No. He’s at work. And I wanted to talk to you first. To be sure. He wouldn’t, would he, Tam? Not Patrick?’

  I’m not sure even I know the extent of what Patrick is capable of any more.

  ‘No. God … no … I’m sure there’s a perfectly innocent explanation.’

>   I can’t help it. I’m terrified this might rebound on me. If Michelle forces a confession out of Patrick about whatever this is, then who knows what else he might tell her.

  She looks at me with big, watery eyes. ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know. I still think maybe you got the places confused. Or he did. He wrote it on the diary as Nottingham but that was a different day or something.’

  She shakes her head. ‘We had a whole conversation about it when he got back. I’ve got an aunt and uncle who live there, remember?’

  I let out an involuntary sigh. I have no idea what is going on here.

  ‘And anyway, what about the other guest? Number of guests, two.’

  ‘A colleague?’ I say, although I can’t offer up a good reason why a colleague might be sharing his room.

  ‘Tamsin, we live in London. Why is he staying at a hotel in London? He could have been home from Knightsbridge in a cab in twenty minutes. It just doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  Michelle lets out a loud sob. ‘Please let it not be true.’

  I put my arms round her and pull her into a hug. ‘He wouldn’t do that to me, would he? Go off with someone else?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say and I wait for someone to strike me dead. ‘Of course he wouldn’t.’

  As soon as she leaves I pick up the phone to call Patrick – even though Michelle asked me not to say anything to him until she’d decided what to do. I have no idea what the real story is, no idea what the hell he might have done to her, but I have to make sure that whatever he decides to confess to her, whatever she finds out, it has nothing to do with me. I can’t just leave it all to fate.

  18

  Patrick answers on the third ring. I know I can’t just come out and accuse him of something. To be honest, I haven’t really thought through what I’m going to say.