Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  ‘April fourth,’ she says chirpily ‘Save the date.’

  ‘Gosh. Yes … thanks. I’ll put it in my next year’s diary …’ Shit.

  I wonder whether it’s still worth suggesting we meet up. Maybe she’s just been dying to fill me in on everything and now she has she could go back to being her normal non-bridezilla self. But then she says, ‘Actually I should go through the seating plan with you, see if you spot any screaming gaffs!’ and I make an excuse that I’m in a hurry and I’ll call her again soon and end the call before she can object.

  I chuck my mobile down on the sofa. Back to Other Half it is then.

  I arrange to meet ‘Paul, forty-two, divorced, two kids’ for a meal at China Tang in the Dorchester. It’s his suggestion. He looks pretty good in his photo – dark-haired and dark-eyed. He’s pitched it just right, too. Smiling but with a closed mouth so it’s not too cheesy. No collar up or comedy tie to show off what a laugh he can be. He sounds confident and friendly in the brief conversation we have on the phone. As usual, I hold out little hope, though. But at least I’ll get to eat nice food.

  The restaurant is dimly lit and tasteful. Paul is already at the table, I’m told when I arrive. They lead me over and a man I recognize from his picture greets me with a smile. I actually do a double take. He’s even better looking than in his photo, something that is almost unheard of in the online dating world. OK, so he’s definitely passed the first test. I can’t imagine why he feels he has to go on the internet to meet women. Which, of course, means that I think I’m a loser along with the rest of Other Half’s clientele.

  ‘Tamsin,’ he says, standing up. I’m relieved he doesn’t try to come round and pull my chair out for me. That would be overkill.

  ‘Lovely to meet you. Gorgeous dress. Vivienne Westwood?’

  ‘It is,’ I say, surprised.

  ‘I only know because my ex-wife was a big fan of hers.’

  Oh God, he’s brought up the ex-wife already. This is clearly going to be his ‘issue’.

  ‘Now I sound like one of those divorced men who bang on about their exes all the time. I’m not. Just so you know we divorced seven years ago. It was awful for everyone concerned at the time but it’s fine now. Civilized.’

  ‘How old are your kids?’ I ask. I might as well find out now if I’d be expected to play mummy every other weekend if we hit it off.

  ‘Twenty and eighteen. Both at uni. I’m not looking for a nanny. Or a stepmum.’

  I laugh, relieved. ‘You should put that on your profile.’

  ‘I seriously considered it. Didn’t you find writing your profile excruciating?’

  ‘Torture.’

  We talk about work – he’s an A and R man at a record company I have actually heard of – and he doesn’t hog the conversation or big himself up. I find myself relaxing. I think I might like Paul.

  It seems he might like me, too, because towards the end of the meal – which was delicious by the way, tiny dim sum parcels of gorgeousness and subtle spicy dishes of prawns and scallops – he mentions an exhibition at the V and A of rock god stage clothes from the 1980s that sounds amazing, and drops in that maybe we should see it together.

  ‘That’d be lovely,’ I say, and I find myself gazing for just a moment too long into his near-black eyes and coming over a bit lustful. Too much wine. I look away, reminding myself that I do not want a repeat of the Owen experience, or to get a reputation as the Other Half bike. I can’t imagine why Paul has been single for so long.

  He accepts my offer to pay my share, which I’m grateful for. I hate it when a man comes over all patriarchal and starts to insist he’d be insulted if a woman paid for her own dinner. He walks me outside, to where the taxis are waiting.

  ‘Shall we talk in the next few days and make a plan?’ he says and I say yes, let’s.

  I can feel a kiss on the horizon. It’s as if we both know it’s out there and we’re trying to edge towards it without being too obvious. It’s brighter out here than it was in the restaurant, and I notice that Paul’s eyes have a flicker of orange amber in amongst the brown.

  He’s looking at me intently. I feel a bit ridiculous with the doormen hovering around and a black cab driver looking at us expectantly. I want it to happen, though. I actually think I’ve met someone I’m attracted to.

  Paul smiles a lazy smile. I almost go wobbly at the knees, and then something jolts me back into the real world.

  His teeth.

  It’s not that they’re crooked. I like crooked teeth so long as they’re clean. Paul’s are … green. Well, dark yellow anyway, and sort of furry. I think about how long you would have to go out with someone before it would be OK to suggest they visit the dentist. And how many times you would have to kiss them in that period. I feel myself gag.

  He’s leaning in towards me. I make a decision, swerve to avoid his lips and give him a peck on the cheek. Hopefully he just thinks I have strict morals. I catch a whiff of the not-so-pleasant tang of his breath.

  ‘Thanks for a lovely evening. I had a great time.’

  ‘Me, too. Shall I ring you tomorrow?’

  ‘Lovely,’ I say, jumping into the back of the taxi before he gets any more ideas.

  Great. Now I’ll have to avoid his calls or make up excuses about why I can’t see him again. I suppose I could just tell him. People today are always advocating the ‘say it to their face’ approach. Meanness dressed up as honesty. But he’s a lovely bloke. He doesn’t deserve to be insulted. He just has personal hygiene issues.

  Does this make me shallow? Maybe. Answer me that question when you’ve been presented with a rancid germy pond and asked to put your tongue into it.

  29

  Bea

  I’ll leave it to your imagination what happened next. Suffice to say we didn’t get any sleep. There was none of that ‘sex with a new person’ awkwardness, I think because we both knew that was all it was. Sex. Neither of us was looking to impress the other with our sparkling wit or deep compassionate side. We just wanted to pack as much action into eight or so hours as we could. We didn’t even pause for breath. At least, not until about three in the morning. I looked over at my glass of champagne and saw that it was still full. That’s how fast everything had happened.

  It was during this lull – lying there wrapped up in each other, dripping with sweat – that I dropped the M bomb. It was a complete accident. In retrospect I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid, but I had let my guard down so far I’d forgotten why I was there.

  It was only afterwards that I realized what a stupid mistake I’d made. Patrick had uttered something romantic and Mills and Boon-esque like, ‘You do know I’m married,’ and I – completely unsurprised, relaxed, in a post-multi-orgasmic haze – said something along the lines of, ‘Yes, don’t worry, I know all about Michelle.’

  The aftermath, I remember all too clearly. Patrick sat bolt upright, looked at me and said, ‘How do you know my wife’s name?’

  I thought about lying, thought about trying to dig myself out of the hole to protect Tamsin. Ultimately, though, I thought that I really wanted to see Patrick again, and if that was the case I needed to come clean. It was a risk. He could have got straight on the phone to Tamsin and accused her, but I took a gamble that he wouldn’t want to risk her finding out what had just happened – was still happening, to be fair – with me.

  I told him about the honey trap. About Tamsin’s mission to find out the truth. About the rumours that were swirling around about him. It felt like an agonizing eternity before he said anything. />
  ‘So what are you going to tell her?’

  ‘That I tried my hardest but you were irresistible to my charms. That you passed her test with flying colours.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he said, snaking his arm round my shoulders again, his hand finding my left breast. ‘She is unbelievable.’

  ‘I can steer her right off the scent,’ I said.

  ‘And none of this has come from Michelle? So far as you know?’

  I actually felt a little prick of jealousy that he seemed concerned about his wife while I was lying there next to him. I knew it was irrational, though. Ridiculous even.

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Good. You need to know now, Bea, that if we carry on with this I would never leave my wife.’

  What could I say? How many women starting relationships with married men have agreed to that clause? All of them at some point, I imagine. We’d only just met, I was hardly going to start planning how I could prise him away from the love of his life.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I really want to see you again. I’d hate to think this was just a one-night thing …’ he said, pushing my hair back from my face. And, like an idiot I said, ‘Me too.’

  I really liked him – like him – I couldn’t help myself M’lud.

  ‘But it has to be a secret. It’s not just Michelle, it’s work – everything.’

  ‘You have a reputation already,’ I said. ‘That’s not good.’ In all honesty I think I said this because I wanted to know I would be the only one. Goomah number 1. I thought maybe I could scare him into having me as his bit on the side and no one else, and that that would be enough. At least I could keep a bit of self-respect that way.

  ‘I know. Shit. And there I was thinking I was always so careful.’ He leaned down and kissed me and I knew I’d pretty much go along with whatever.

  ‘I can help you diffuse it,’ I said when we came up for air. ‘People will forget after a while if there’s nothing new to gossip about.’

  ‘Not Tamsin,’ he said.

  And that’s when we came up with the plan – that he would go crying to Tamsin about some woman called Cheryl and how he thought Michelle must have set her up to test him. He figured that by doing that she would be so taken aback that she would believe him. Why would he be telling her otherwise? She would be racked with guilt although, obviously, unable to admit to that to him. He would lay it on thick, he said. He was pretty sure she had always had a soft spot for him.

  I wasn’t entirely happy with the fact that the whole thing was going to hinge on him passing on my incompetence, but the truth was that I had accidentally dropped Michelle’s name, so I couldn’t really argue. I knew that Tamsin would be pissed off with me, but I also knew that my pro-Patrick testimonial would go a long way towards placating her. Her only worry would be that her own part in the whole thing was about to be revealed, and I could put her mind at rest about that.

  When we finally said goodbye at about eleven in the morning we made a plan to meet up the following week. By the time we saw each other again Patrick was satisfied he had convinced Tamsin her suspicions were wrong.

  ‘It was hilarious,’ he told me as he popped the cork on a bottle of champagne in the room he’d booked at the Mandarin Oriental. Not that we would be staying the night. Patrick’s cover story only involved a bit of working late. ‘She came up with this whole scenario about how “Cheryl” must have been sent over as a bet by someone at the awards to freak me out.’

  ‘She believed you, though?’

  ‘One hundred per cent,’ he said, smiling. ‘She obviously feels terrible.’

  I know I should say it hasn’t been easy lying to Tamsin – and at times it hasn’t – but it hasn’t exactly been hard either. The point is that she never should have started this. She should never have got involved. She knows that too now, I think. Sometimes you should just leave well alone.

  When she told me Michelle had found proof that Patrick was seeing someone I almost had a heart attack, though. We should have been more careful. I don’t want to lose my job. I thought maybe Patrick would want to cool things down for a while, but he was surprisingly calm about it. According to Tamsin he’s put pressure on her to help bail him out. According to him he pleaded with her and she agreed. I don’t really understand why. I don’t really care, so long as she does.

  PART THREE

  * * *

  30

  Tamsin

  This is getting ridiculous. It’s been weeks. Weeks of me sitting in Michelle and Patrick’s kitchen laughing away, drinking and chatting like I haven’t got a care in the world, all the time with my eyes fixed beadily on whichever pocket he has his mobile in, willing him to lose concentration for just a second. No chance.

  One night I couldn’t see where he was stashing it, so halfway through our meal I pretended I had to go to the loo and I had a quick scout around in the living room. I thought maybe he’d plugged it in to charge, so I scoured the sockets, picked up a few cushions. Nothing. When I took my seat at the table again – having flushed the toilet for authenticity – he produced it from somewhere with a flourish, supposedly to check his email, and I wondered whether he had been toying with me. It was hard to tell. Our relationship now is built on so many falsehoods and artifices that I don’t really know who I’m dealing with any more. I’m beginning to think this is an impossible task.

  Other things of note that have happened include: Michelle and I took Julian and Miriam out for tea and cake for their wedding anniversary and Julian told us about Petersen Media’s plans for a new highbrow documentary channel that they were hoping would be the jewel in their crown, hinting – I thought – that he might be looking to Patrick to have some involvement.

  ‘He’s only ever worked on lifestyle programmes, though, hasn’t he? I mean … not that that … um …’ I said at one point in my best innocent voice. Michelle shot me a look.

  And Patrick’s relationship, or however you want to label it, is still going strong in so far as I can tell. At least, I assume this is still the same woman. Funnily enough I haven’t asked. He’s had quite a few late nights ‘working’ or playing football, plus one overnight ‘work trip’ anyway. Thankfully he hasn’t asked me to vouch for him again, although the threat is always there:

  It’s business as usual with a touch of fucked-upness.

  ‘How’s things with your friend Michelle?’ Bea asks as we sit on our favourite coffee-drinking bench on the green eating our sandwich lunch. The summer is still going strong, even though it’s now September. It’s hot, dry and dusty and there has been a hosepipe ban in place for several weeks now. The flowers in the park wilted to a crisp before they had a chance to die a natural death. The grass is a stony shade of beige. We both have suntan ennui and so we are hiding in the shade.

  I roll my eyes. Don’t know what to say. ‘It’s still going on, I think. I don’t really know to be honest.’

  ‘Shit.’ She takes a bite out of her tuna and avocado roll. ‘I thought he said he was going to finish with her.’

  ‘Clearly he was lying. Or maybe he tried but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.’

  ‘What? You think he really likes this woman?’

  ‘God knows. Maybe.’

  ‘He must do. I mean, if he knows you know and he’s willing to risk it—’

  ‘He’s not risking anything, though, is he? He’s confident I’d never want Michelle to find out that I lied for him before …’

  ‘If he likes her that much then perhaps he’ll end up going off with her anyway.’

 
I have thought about this. Recently I’ve even thought that it might not be a bad thing. Michelle would be devastated for a while but, with my help, she’d get over it. And she’d be happier in the long term, whether she knew it or not. I just had to erase my place in Patrick’s history first.

  ‘Who knows? Stranger things have happened.’

  ‘You don’t sound as bothered by the thought of that as you were.’

  I shrug. ‘Sometimes you have to accept you’re fighting a losing battle.’

  ‘Why has he stayed with Michelle for so long? That’s what I don’t understand. I mean, I guess he must have loved her once but …’

  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately too. Patrick clearly doesn’t love Michelle. He can’t. But he’s decided to settle. She looks sweet on his arm and she can get on with anyone. She gives him an easy life. He’ll stay with her, give her the child she so desperately wants one of these days, and do whatever he pleases on the side. I couldn’t fathom out why that would be an acceptable choice until, of course, I remembered that Michelle’s dad, Julian, is his boss. And Julian has big plans for expansion. One day Patrick will inherit the earth. But not if Michelle kicks him out first.

  I change the subject.

  ‘How was your date last night by the way?’ Bea met a man at a club the other week and she seems quite smitten. They’ve seen each other – on my reckoning – four or five times since, which is a bit of a record for her. Usually she murders her relationships before they die. Before there’s even time for them to be diagnosed with anything. She’s a classic self-saboteur. That’s one thing we have in common. All I know about this one is that he’s called Danny, he works as a web designer and he’s got a flat with two mates in Ealing. Oh and he’s ‘funny and smart and fit’ – her words when I asked her to describe him.