by Jane Fallon
‘She’s efficient.’
‘So was Hitler,’ I say. Ian laughs and Anne Marie snorts into her fizzy water.
‘I know she can be a pain in the arse,’ Ian says, unwrapping a bread stick. ‘But she does what I need her to do, so I’m not about to get rid of her.’
‘Or Bea does it for her.’
Ian sighs. ‘They’re not still squabbling are they?’
I nod. ‘But that’s between them. I just think Lucy takes liberties sometimes. I mean, asking Bea to do her work because she was going to the hairdressers? What’s wrong with lunchtime?’
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘Tell her to check with me if Bea’s free before she asks her to cover next time. That’ll shut her up.’
‘I will if you make it clear to Bea that if there’s a genuine emergency she has to muck in.’
‘She always does,’ I say indignantly. I always feel the need to fight Bea’s corner. And actually I know Ian values her as much as I do, he just wants to be seen to be treating all the assistants equally.
‘How are you finding Ashley?’ Anne Marie pipes up. ‘I think she’s fitting in well.’
Ian shrugs, noncommittal, and I say nothing because I can’t think of anything to say.
Crickets. Tumbleweed.
25
Bea
The awards ceremony was in the slightly tragically named ballroom on the ground floor. Since the hotel was clearly built in the eighties and the room had all the charm of a wholesaler’s warehouse I couldn’t imagine many balls having taken place here. They’d made an effort with white tablecloths and red bow-trimmed chairs, though. There were table centrepieces made from twigs with (unlit) candles – health and safety I assume – sitting in the middle. Place-name holders in silver-coloured plastic. It was all a bit budget wedding to be honest.
Thankfully Patrick was sitting at a table in my eye line. A woman in her – I would say – late forties was sitting on his left. Short hair, bad make-up and shoulders like a rugby player in her Grecian draped dress. On the other side was a bloke of about, maybe, fifty. There was no one close to him who seemed likely to catch his eye, unless of course he had a thing for bingo wings and trunky waists. Or middle-aged men in hired tuxedos.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Watching him chat someone else up would have been so much easier than having to make a move myself, but then I’d never really know the truth about what went on. I knew that there was nothing much I could do while the ceremony was going on, though. I made the minimum of polite conversation with the people sitting on either side of me (producer and designer from some interiors show that was up for Best Daytime Series. I forget what it was called. Anyway, God knows what they thought I was doing at their table). They spent most of the first half hour talking over me in loud whispers. I offered to swap places, but everyone else at the table seemed to be from the same production so I still would have felt like a gatecrasher.
By the time the main course arrived (and the host was announcing the third award of the night) they had given up trying to speak to each other and were happily conversing with their colleagues on the other side from me. I took one look at the anaemic lamb chop and soggy mashed potato and decided to duck out for a fag. I checked that Patrick was still safely captivated by the thrilling drama on stage and made my way into the foyer.
One of the waiters let me stand on the fire escape by the bar so that I could still keep an ear on the proceedings inside, although I had no real hope that the awards would be over soon. I knew I was in for a long evening. I smoked my cigarette and then decided, what the hell, I may as well get myself a cocktail and drink it there. The fizzy wine had long since dried up and all there was on the tables was warm Chardonnay.
I bought a Manhattan. Sat up at the counter. Wondered if I should text Tamsin again. I had sent her a jokey message when I’d first arrived – the eagle has landed, something lame like that – but I couldn’t think of what else I could say. I checked my email (nothing), Facebook (168 friends. Two notifications, one from my cousin and one from Ali) and Twitter (73 followers. Nothing). I browsed through my photos. In the other room I could hear another happy winner gush about how thrilled they were.
And then I looked up and Patrick Mitchell was walking right towards me, going in the direction of the main hall, so he must have walked past me once already on his way to – I assume – the loos. I jumped as if I’d done something wrong. Blushed. Smiled. He smiled back. I knew this was a golden opportunity, I just had to think of something witty and flirtatious to say that would properly get his attention. I took the chance that he was as bored shitless as I was.
‘Do you think it’s ever going to end?’
He slowed down. I could feel him checking me out. I sucked in my stomach and sat up a little straighter on my stool.
‘No. We’ve actually died and gone to hell. This is it from now on.’ He indicated my cocktail with a nod. ‘That looks like a good idea, though.’
Here goes. ‘I’m thinking I might have another. You should join me. It’s definitely taking the edge off.’
I waited with my breath held, wanting and not wanting him to take me up on it. If he turned me down then I had no idea how I was going to get up the courage to try again later.
He held out his hand. ‘Patrick Mitchell.’
I reached out and shook it. ‘Cheryl Martin.’
‘Another … what is that?’
‘Manhattan.’
Patrick clicked his fingers and the barman jumped to attention. ‘Two Manhattans.’
I couldn’t help but be impressed.
26
Tamsin
So here we are sitting in Michelle and Patrick’s kitchen, just like it’s any normal Saturday evening. There’s a huge bowl of pasta arrabiata in front of us, a tomato, onion, basil and mint salad made by me, and garlic bread out of a packet.
Patrick is sitting across from me and to the right. His mobile, I noticed as soon as I arrived, is clamped to him as if it’s attached with Velcro. He’s already been to the loo once and he slipped it into his pocket as he left the kitchen. I assume it’s still there now.
I have been on operation ‘Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here, move along’ since I got here. Before even. I practised my smile in the cab on the way over. Obviously, both Patrick and I know that everything is far from fine, that less than a week ago he was, to all intents and purposes, issuing me with some kind of blackmail threat, but apart from the necessity to fake it for Michelle’s sake my plan involves lulling him into a false sense of security. I want him to feel comfortable with me again, to let his guard down. Then I can pounce.
I say ‘my plan’ like I am a criminal mastermind with a foolproof blueprint for the ultimate heist. So far all I have done is think about what might go wrong.
Oh, and I have a new motto. WWCD? What Would Columbo Do?
The only thing I am certain of is that I need to delete that text message and all its possible facsimiles. Objective number one: get hold of his phone. He’s clearly going to be guarding it with his life, so the only thing I can do is bide my time and hope he eventually slips up. It’s important that I make Patrick feel as if I am going along with his deception. So, when I arrived and he opened the front door, I greeted him like the old friend he once was, and when Michelle was out of the room for a moment and he mouthed ‘We good?’ to me, I smiled my practised smile and nodded ‘Yes’. He’s not stupid. He must know I haven’t just forgotten about what’s gone on. But I’m hoping he’ll think I’ve decided on an easy life.
Watching Michelle look at Patrick with her all-out puppy adoration eyes is killing my appetite. She reaches out and puts a hand on his knee and I want to throw up. He puts his hand over hers, looks up and meets my stare as if to say, ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’
I look away. Thankfully something catches my eye.
‘Did you get a new kettle?’
Oh yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you some of the greatest wit of our time.
‘I did! Well spotted.’
‘Did you?’ Patrick says, looking round.
‘See,’ Michelle says. ‘He must have used it five times already and he hasn’t even noticed. I don’t know if that’s the difference between men and women or if he’s just a bit slow on the uptake.’
Patrick laughs indulgently and looks at her as if he loves her as much as she loves him.
There’s no mention of any pressing work commitments that might take Patrick away for the night, no accidental name drops or hastily retracted references to restaurants Michelle has never set foot in. In fact, they tell me they have decided to go on a late summer holiday. Patrick has found them a bargain last-minute villa in Puglia. Their own pool.
‘I hope it won’t be too hot that far south,’ Patrick says to me, and grimaces. He is doing a fantastic impression of a man concerned for the comfort of his fair-skinned wife.
Michelle looks at Patrick lovingly. He squeezes her hand.
‘It’s going to be gorgeous,’ she says. ‘I’ve got a photo on here somewhere.’ She picks up her phone, scrolls through it.
‘Damn, I thought I took a screen grab.’
‘Oh, no, wait, that was me,’ Patrick says, laughing, and produces his mobile from his pocket. And there it is, exhibit A. Taunting me. It’s actually within grabbing distance.
An image pops up in my head – me ripping the phone out of his hand, him snatching it back, Michelle laughing because she assumes it’s some kind of joke, then realizing neither of us is smiling. There is nothing I can do but look at it longingly. Ron when he sees a sausage.
Patrick finds the image and shows it to me, holding tight to the phone, as if he can read my thoughts. There’s no denying the villa looks lovely. White stone, blue skies, olive groves.
‘Gorgeous. When are you going?’
‘October—’
‘If I can get the time off,’ Patrick interrupts.
‘If Pad can get the time off. I literally can’t wait.’ Michelle leans into Patrick as she says this and he scoops an arm around her.
‘Well, that’s not strictly true,’ I say and Michelle pulls a face at me. She knows I have a thing about the word ‘literally’.
‘I’m jealous,’ I say, in an effort to be nice. They glow back at me.
To the uninformed outsider this looks like a happy couple. I imagine to one of the two of them it does, too. It could certainly fool me.
Patrick stuffs his mobile back into the front pocket of his jeans. I’m certainly not going to be digging in there to look for it.
I’m a bit stuck. I daren’t even ask any leading questions because Patrick would be on to me in a second, so in the end I just think, Sod it. I might as well try and have a nice evening and hope that at some point his phone falls out of his pocket and he doesn’t notice. Columbo would light a cigar. I just pour myself another glass of wine.
27
Bea
So, me and Patrick Mitchell, sitting in the bar drinking Manhattans. I was trying to concentrate on the job in hand but the truth is that flirting with him wasn’t difficult. Firstly, as I’ve said, he was – is – hot. Plus he hardly needed any encouragement to reciprocate. And secondly, he was easy to talk to. We found we had so much in common – just stupid things like how much we both loved The Bridge (original Danish version only) and going to table-tennis bars.
‘Is that what you’d usually be doing on a Thursday evening? If you weren’t here?’ he said. ‘Playing table tennis and watching Scandi noir?’
‘Something like that.’ I laughed. ‘Watching Scandinavians playing ping pong on TV would actually be preferable to this.’
‘It’s painful, isn’t it? My face is aching from faking delighted smiles every time someone wins.’
‘If I go back in there I am going to start heckling. That’s the only way this evening could become bearable.’
‘OK, I dare you,’ he said. ‘Actually, no I don’t. It might make it go on even longer.’
‘You should be glad you took that back so quickly. I never say no to a dare.’
‘I bet you don’t,’ he said, which was, I admit, a little bit cringy. ‘Are you here because you worked on one of these shows?’
I changed the subject quickly. Said something about having been involved in one of the nominated programmes in my old job.
‘But in a very menial capacity,’ I said. ‘Even if we win I don’t get to go onstage. They only invited me because someone dropped out at the last minute.’
‘And now you work for …?’
‘Kismet.’
He looked blank, understandably. ‘I don’t think I’ve come across them.’
‘We’re new. And very small.’
After that I tried to steer away from too much ‘Cheryl from Kismet’ talk. I was afraid I’d give myself away for one. And it felt wrong. We were getting on so well, he was being so charming, not at all sleazy, which was what I’d imagined he would be. I liked him. Actually, I both liked and fancied him. And that put a whole other spin on things.
I’m not someone who makes a habit of going off with married men, let me make that clear. I don’t have a big thing about it – it’s got nothing to do with sisterhood or any of that crap, more that I’ve always been level-headed enough to know it will end in tears. For me at least. It just looks like a whole heap of trouble that I don’t want to get into. Sometimes though, as they say, shit happens.
After about an hour or so – the awards were still droning on in the background, ignored by us – it was pretty obvious something was about to go down. At some point my brain stopped reminding me that I had to make my excuses and leave when it became absolutely apparent that Patrick was up for it, and started suggesting that there was no real harm in actually going through with what I’d started. I could never tell Tamsin, obviously, but I could let her know he really was a cheater without mentioning he had cheated with me too. She gets her proof. I have a good time. Job done.
At one point his hand grazed mine when he reached for his glass and neither of us moved for a good couple of seconds. There were a few other people around by this point, mostly losing nominees drowning their sorrows with their cronies, and weirdly it added to the excitement. Just that brief touch of hands. Nothing else could happen in so public a place. I’m not going to deny I felt more than a little turned on.
The moment was broken by someone stopping to say hi to Patrick and then boring on about some programme or other. I could tell that he was trying to get rid of them. The minute they took the hint he smiled at me and said, ‘Would you like to come and have a drink in my room?’
I didn’t even hesitate. By the time I called Tamsin to tell her the awards were finally over and I was going to try and strike up a conversation with Patrick, in reality I was on my way up to 639, him having gone ahead because he said people might misinterpret things if we were seen leaving together.
It felt like the worst, most exciting, most dangerous thing I had ever done.
His room was one of those suites that are like a small flat. Bedroom, living room, bathroom the size of a dance ha
ll. Flat-screen TVs everywhere you looked and a roll-top bath. Tastefully decorated in deep reds, creams and browns. You could have fitted my hovel down the road into it at least three times, maybe four. He had opened a bottle of champagne from the mini bar by the time I got there. Two glasses lined up side by side.
‘I’m glad you came,’ he said, handing me one of them.
‘Me too.’
And then he leaned forward and kissed me, and in all honesty I forgot everything else.
28
Tamsin
Spending the rest of my life waiting for Patrick to slip up while lying to my best friend about her husband’s infidelity is not an attractive proposition. I need to do something to take my mind off it.
Since my encounter with Owen I’ve been a bit scared to log back on to Other Half. What if he’s added a comment by my name? ‘Guaranteed shag within the first hour and a half or your money back.’ I consider signing up with another agency but it all feels like too much effort. And for what? A few glasses of wine and some forced chit chat before either you or he makes an excuse about needing an early night.
I flip through my contacts on my phone, looking for friends I haven’t caught up with for a while. Annie, my roommate from college, is five months pregnant with her third child and threatening to make me be godmother so she’s best avoided for a while; Billie (real name’s Wilhelmina) won’t go anywhere without her crashing bore of a husband so she’s out; Carrie won’t go anywhere full stop because she doesn’t trust anyone to look after her kids; Caz is always so happy to have an excuse to dump her two on her husband that she insists on staying out till four in the morning and drinking her body weight in vodka. Something I have no interest in doing these days.
I go through the list on and on with more of the same. Eventually I hit on Mary, an old mate from my pre-Castle TV days. She’s easy company, funny, straightforward, unencumbered. She’s getting married! she tells me when I call to see if she would like to meet up for a drink. And then she proceeds to describe every aspect of the impending celebration in minute detail, right down to the colour of the petals that the bridesmaids will shower her with when the happy couple leave the church, and the font she’s chosen for the menus.