by Jane Fallon
‘I don’t think I’m in the right mood,’ she says.
Fine by me. It means we can go and settle in a café and sit and drink tea and eat cakes instead.
‘Are you seeing someone?’ she asks as I pour. ‘Is that why you’re hardly around at the moment?’
I rarely bore Michelle with the details of my love life. She’s heard it all before and anyway, usually by the time I’ve explained who someone is I’ve broken up with them. I certainly didn’t mention my encounter with Owen. Not that she would be shocked by the one-night stand element (more like one-and-a-half-hour stand actually if I’m being pedantic) but I would have to endure a lecture on safety and the dangers of inviting a stranger into my home.
‘Not really. I’ve given up Tinder.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘I tried Other Half again for a bit but nothing lately. I did go for a drink with a friend of Ian and Fiona’s the other week actually.’
That gets her interest. ‘Who? Tell me everything!’
I can’t really explain the whole Adam debacle to her (she would want to know why I was so distracted and borderline rude, and I can hardly say, ‘Because I was thinking about what might be happening with Patrick and Bea’), so I make up another man and the reasons I won’t be seeing him again – a bit young, a daughter from an old relationship that he has every weekend – I call him Justin because it’s the first name that comes into my head, and I give him a hipster beard and a flat cap. By the end I’ve grown quite fond of him. I could get good at this lying lark.
The following afternoon I’m half asleep on the sofa watching Columbo when my phone rings. When I see Patrick’s name my first instinct is to throw the handset into the washing machine and set it to extra hot. Then I realize I can’t not answer. Has something gone wrong? Shit. I can see why curiosity has killed so many innocent cats.
‘Hi,’ I say nervously.
‘Hey. You good?’
Surely he’s not just phoned for a chat. I can only manage monosyllabic.
‘Yup.’
‘Great. I need a favour.’
That wakes me up. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
He doesn’t acknowledge that. ‘If Michelle asks, could you tell her I popped over to yours for a couple of hours today? She went to a spa and I wasn’t expecting her back till about five, because she had a massage booked, but when I got in just now it turned out she’s been home for hours ’cos the therapist was off sick or something. She’d been trying to ring me but … obviously my phone was turned off. I panicked and said I’d been at yours. Sorry. First thing that came into my head.’
I can’t really believe what I’m hearing. I have to ask him to say it again and then I’m still not certain if I’ve heard correctly. ‘You want me to cover for you?’
‘It’s no big deal, Tamsin.’
‘How can you say it’s no big deal? You want me to lie to Michelle about the fact that you were with your mistress? I assume that’s where you were?’
‘Lie again, you mean.’
‘You can’t ask me to do this.’
‘It’s only if she asks you. Which she almost certainly won’t.’
‘No. This isn’t fair. Tell her you were somewhere else if you want but don’t involve me.’
‘Too late. I already said it. Please, Tam. This is the last time, I promise.’
‘Why the fuck didn’t you just tell her you’d been for a walk, or shopping or something?’
‘Because it just came out. It seemed like the best thing to do – to say something she could check if she wanted, given what’s been happening.’
This is a nightmare. I realize then that I have to make a stand. OK so maybe he ends up getting caught one day. But do I really believe he would sell me down the river to Michelle?
Actually, yes, I think I do. I don’t know this man now. He seems capable of anything.
But would she believe him? He would only tell her if she had discovered his other indiscretions. She would already know he was a practised liar. Would Michelle ever believe that I would do something so disloyal, so hurtful? His – proven to be worth nothing – word against mine?
I don’t think she would.
I decide I have to call his bluff.
‘I can’t.’
‘You can’t?’
‘No. I can’t just keep piling deception on deception, even if you can.’
Patrick exhales loudly. ‘You make it sound as if there’s any other option. You know that if Michelle finds out about me and … her … it’s as bad for you as it will be for me.’
OK, here goes. ‘I’ve decided to take that risk.’
He stays silent for a second while, I imagine, he takes this in.
‘Ah,’ he says eventually. ‘You think she won’t believe me. You’re probably right. Michelle’s very trusting.’
‘So …’
‘I can’t force you to help me out. It’s just a shame you sent me that text message though.’
I feel as if I’m falling. Like the ground has shifted out from underneath me. I’m already sitting down, so I grab on to the arm of the chair for support.
‘I thought you deleted that,’ I say, clutching at straws.
‘Really? Do you remember what it said?’ I hear him pressing buttons on his phone. I don’t remember it word for word. Just the gist. That’s enough.
‘Ah, here it is,’ Patrick says, his voice more distant. ‘“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 thought the “ha ha” was a particularly nice touch,’ he says.
23
Bea
Obviously I never intended for anything to happen. My plan was to get in there, get it over with and get out quick. I just hadn’t bargained on Patrick Mitchell being so cute, that’s all.
I’d clocked that he was good looking from the photos Tamsin had shown me. And his wife looked quite sweet. Michelle. Pretty but a bit drab. I remember feeling sorry for her. She clearly had no idea what her husband was capable of. I believed most of the rumours I’d heard, to be honest, no matter what I said to Tamsin. There were just too many of them for it not to be true.
I arrived at my stuffy little room at the cheap-but-close Inn at about five o’clock. It contained a TV the size of a dinner plate, a hairdryer that was fixed to the wall in case one of the guests was a kleptomaniac, and a distinct lack of a mini bar. There was soap scum round part of the sink. Something that looked suspiciously like a pubic hair in the shower. The event started at seven, so I lay around doing nothing for a bit and then, just as terminal boredom was about to set in – I can’t bear doing nothing, let alone doing nothing on my own in a shit hole – it was time to get ready.
I made a real effort. I almost wanted him to make a pass at me so that I could report back to Tamsin how well I’d done. I worried that if he didn’t – if he was innocent of the charges – she might think I hadn’t tried hard enough. The evidence would be inconclusive. And if I had to go through with this I might as well try and get an A plus. The more gold stars I can chalk up against my name the better.
I wore the red bodycon dress that Tamsin suggested. I’m not one to big myself up but I know what my good bits are – small waist, long legs – and that dress certainly showcases them. I spent ages doing my make-up. I am useless at making up my own face. I either finish up looking like a clown or a prostitute,
or both if there is such a thing (note to self, look into whether starting a brothel full of clown prostitutes would be an astute money-making venture). At one point I wiped it all off and started again. By the end I looked pretty passable.
I arrived at the posh hotel where the event was being held at bang on seven. I was dying for a drink. Tamsin had drilled it into me, though: don’t have more than three glasses of champagne. And I kept agreeing with her. I know I can be a bit of a loose cannon when I’ve had a few. That didn’t stop her saying it five more times, though. When Tamsin makes a point she likes to hammer it home.
They were handing out glasses of something warm, fizzy and sickly sweet as you went through the door. In all the anticipation of how I was going to approach Patrick and fulfil my mission I hadn’t even stopped to think how utterly miserable it would be to go to a do like this on my own. I’m not the sort of person who can strike up a conversation with a random stranger. It’s not just that I don’t want to – which I don’t – it’s that I wouldn’t know how. Flirting I can do. Banal ‘And what is it that you do?’ conversation kills me.
I had a quick scout around but there was nobody I knew. Everyone was in groups of four or five, slapping each other’s backs and clinking glasses left, right and centre. Their best night ever because they might win an award for the grading on Tart Up Your Garden For 99p. Later, four-fifths of them would be crying into their puddings no doubt. Their moment of glory cruelly snatched away. The mind-crushingly lame speech they’d written, thanking everyone from their partner and children to God, screwed up and chucked in the bin.
I stood about a bit, sipping my fizzy wine, and then I decided to have a look for a seating plan. I might as well at least go and sit in my allocated place. It might feel less humiliating than just standing there alone. Plus I could find out which table Patrick was on, which would make hunting him down later easier.
I was looking around for where it might be when I saw him. My prey. I recognized him immediately from the photographs, but the first thing that popped into my mind was how much better looking he was in real life. Which is saying something. The second thing was, Shit. I’ve really got to do this now.
He was chatting to a group of people. A man and three women. I edged a bit closer and it all seemed very businesslike. I heard words like ‘bottom line’ and ‘contingency’. Hardly foreplay. The seating plan turned out to be right behind them so I squeezed past – making sure I took the route that meant I was closest to Patrick. He gave me a smile as I made my way through, but it didn’t seem anything other than friendly. God, that man has a nice smile though.
And then that was that. They called us through to the main hall, I sat at a table full of people I had never met and had no interest in talking to, they served the prawn and avocado starter and the interminable ceremony began. But at least I had him in my sights.
24
Tamsin
So there you have it. My best friend’s husband and one-time-for-a-brief-second-before-we-came-to-our-senses sexual partner is now blackmailing me. The smoking gun in question: a text I stupidly sent him in a panic after our encounter. He’s kept it. He has it. There’s nothing I can do about that. And what’s worse is it’s vague. It makes it obvious that something happened between us that I am ashamed of and want to keep secret, but it doesn’t go on to say that we didn’t go through with what we started. That he would have carried on but I stopped it.
Patrick seems pleased with himself, not at all like someone who has just stooped to an unprecedented low, even for him, the newly crowned king of low.
‘You’re fucking blackmailing me! This is unbelievable.’
‘Of course I’m not. I’m just saying, that’s all. Michelle might not appreciate that message.’
‘What’s happened to you? Have you heard yourself?’
‘Tamsin, I don’t want to argue with you. I’m just asking you for a favour. It’s no big deal.’
‘And if I don’t you’ll show Michelle my text?’
‘God no! I don’t want her to see it any more than you do. All I’m saying is that if she starts questioning where I am all the time then that’s no good for either of us.’
‘You really are a piece of shit.’
‘It’s only if it comes up.’
‘That’s it, Patrick. No more.’
‘I owe you one.’
‘I have to go,’ I say and I end the call.
So now I have two choices – I can go along with Patrick, cover for him, try to make sure Michelle doesn’t find out what he’s up to. But when will it end? I’ll do him this favour, then there’ll be another one, then another. He’ll still be waving that text message in my face in twenty years’ time. And Michelle will still be blissfully happy, with no idea that she’s spent her whole life with a cheating bastard.
Or – and bear with me, because I have no idea how I am going to achieve this – I can come up with a way to diffuse the bomb. And if Michelle finds out exactly what her husband is like, then maybe that’s for the best. She can make up her own mind about whether or not she wants to be with him once she has all the facts.
I just have to try and erase that text message first.
I decide to make a list. A list always makes everything seem better.
There is only one thing I can think of to put on it:
Delete text message
I sit and stare at that for a while and nothing inspires me, so I make a sub list.
Phone
Check photos in case he’s taken a screen grab
Downloaded onto his computer?
Downloaded onto his work computer?
Fuck. There’s no way I’ll ever know if I’ve erased it completely from the world. Although, in reality I can’t believe he’d keep a copy on his work computer because Verity is on there all the time I assume. And Verity loves and admires him. He would never want her to discover what he’s really like.
Plus, so long as he thinks he’s won then it probably won’t even cross his mind that I might turn into some kind of private eye. I’ll just have to do what I can. Anything would be a start.
Lulling him into a false sense of security is the first step. I need to get comfortable enough round at theirs again so that I can find a way to take a good look through his phone.
A couple of days ago Michelle asked me if I wanted to do Heart Attack Saturday next weekend. I had my excuse ready. I had promised my eldest brother and his wife that I would visit for the weekend. I have to be careful what I say when it comes to my family because Michelle, as I said before, both loves and is beloved by my parents. She probably talks to them as often as I do. She doesn’t know my brothers very well, though. They were too old to be interested in their little sister’s friend coming over when we were at school (Rob is ten years older than me, and Sasha eight. I was ‘a bit of a mistake’, my mum told me once. ‘In a good way, obviously,’ she had added hastily when she saw the look on my face).
I call Michelle and tell her my plans have changed. Rob and his wife, Sally, have decided to go away for the weekend. My time is my own again. I’d love to come over, it’s been weeks since we had a proper night in, the three of us. Michelle, of course, is delighted. Both of her favourite people in one room.
‘Am I on salad duty?’ I say before I ring off.
‘Of course. Someone has to make the salad that we all leave in favour of the pasta.’
‘I hate that my skills go unappreciated.’
‘I’ll tell Pad to start planning his sundae toppings. I’m bored of just chocolate and strawberry. This i
s 2015, where’s the salted caramel or fig and balsamic?’
‘Great,’ I say, trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice.
She doesn’t ask me if Patrick really came over to mine. Of course she doesn’t. Now that she has had her mind put at rest about Nottingham I doubt the question of Patrick’s fidelity will cross Michelle’s mind again. Not unless someone else asks it anyway.
Anne Marie, Ian and I are having lunch, something we always mean to do regularly as a chance to chat about how things are going, but our over-stuffed diaries mean it rarely comes about.
We’re sitting outside the little Italian on the corner at our favourite table. Ian and I safely in the shade, Anne Marie, at her own insistence, in the full-on glare of the sun. She’s only sixty-three but she has the lines of a seventy-five-year-old and she doesn’t care. I love her for that. She’s going on holiday next week. Seven days in the sun in Greece with her best friend Mary. They go every year. Anne Marie comes back looking like a raisin.
The tiny terrace is ringed with fake plastic ivy and fairy lights dripping off the trellis. Empty Chianti bottles topped with half-melted candles complete the picture. In the day it already looks like a cliché. Once it gets dark you would sack the set designer if this was anything other than the sugariest rom com. It’s so naff it’s perfect. We all order without even looking at the menu. Pasta with pesto for Ian and me, lasagne and salad for Anne Marie. We don’t need to catch up on what’s happening with our shows because that’s what the development meetings are for. Lunches are so the three of us can mull over how the business is working. Iron out any glitches.
‘Lucy is such a bitch,’ I say out of nowhere. My feelings won’t come as a surprise to either of them. In fact, I know Anne Marie feels exactly the same way I do. Ian rolls his eyes.