Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  A look of pure bliss passes across her face. ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Where did you go?’ I spent yesterday evening round at Michelle’s vegged out in front of the TV while Patrick – apparently – talked shop over dinner with a couple of his deputies. I made a half-hearted search for the phone when I got the chance but I knew there was no way he wouldn’t have it with him. A supposition that was proven when he rang Michelle to say he was on his way home at nine forty-five. I left before he arrived.

  ‘That pub near mine. Where you came, remember?’

  ‘Wow. Lucky Danny.’

  She laughed. ‘I didn’t invite him there because of the ambience. I invited him there because it’s close to my place. Ali and Sarah are away.’

  ‘Aaah!’ I already knew this wasn’t the first time. They had slept together the night they met, she had told me. But up to now they’d always gone to his flat. ‘Sounds like progress.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s early days. It probably won’t go anywhere.’

  ‘You never know. Give it a chance. Where is it he works again?’

  ‘Near where he lives.’

  ‘Well, that’s a result then, that he came all the way over to Islington.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘Shit, it’s twenty to two. I’m going to pop to the shops. Need anything?’

  ‘Oh yes. Can you go into Tesco? Ron needs Winalot. Beef flavour. Get him a couple. And pick me up a newspaper. Oh, and I’ve got a card needs posting but I left it on my desk. Would you mind nipping in and getting it?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, smiling. ‘Skinny latte on the way back?’

  ‘You read my mind,’ I said, standing up and leaning over to put my rubbish in the bin. ‘As usual. Thanks.’

  31

  Bea

  Jesus, the whole Danny thing is exhausting. When I started it it seemed like an easy way to be able to tell Tamsin half the truth. She’s so frigging nosy. She asks me practically every day where I was the night before and how my love life is going. I sometimes wonder if she’s living vicariously through me because her own dating thing seems like a bit of a non-starter. At least I get to go on dates with real-life people that I meet, not virtual men who end up looking nothing like their photos. Not that my track record is any more successful, to be fair. It’s just more active.

  Anyway, I was terrified she would catch me out, so I figured if I told her about what me and Patrick had been doing, more or less, but substituted Danny’s name and a few other crucial details, then I might get away with it. But now, of course, she wants to find out more about ‘Danny’. She’s obsessed with how ‘Danny’ could be the answer to all my prayers.

  And, actually, it was a bit of a milestone when Patrick came to the flat. Up to now we’ve been strictly hotels. I tend to leave it to him. He tells me where and when and I pretty much go along with it. He’s the one who most needs to cover his tracks, after all. So, when I mentioned that both my flatmates were away I wasn’t really expecting him to suggest we meet there. Maybe he just wanted to save a few quid. The hotel bills must be mounting up. But he made it sound as if he was actually interested in seeing where I live. And that struck me as progress.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not starting to fantasize about us becoming a proper couple or anything like that. I don’t want him to come to mine so I can put a pinny on and bake him an apple pie. In all honesty I have no interest in settling down with anyone just yet, despite what Tamsin seems to think. I’m enjoying myself. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something gratifying in knowing he feels this comfortable with me. That he trusts me this much.

  I did a serious amount of tidying up before he came round. By which I mean I shoved a load of my stuff into Ali’s room and shut the door. I only left out the things I thought projected the image of me I wanted to project. Basically I got rid of all the Made in Chelsea DVDs and Twilight books. Not that he spent a lot of time looking at the décor.

  We didn’t really go to the pub, of course. What would be the point in sitting there politely making chat when we only have a couple of precious hours together? I headed home straight after work, had a shower, tidied some more, put some Pinot Grigio in the freezer because I’d forgotten to put it in the fridge before I left for work, and changed clothes twice. When I opened the front door to let him in he was looking round furtively, as if he was terrified of being spotted.

  ‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ he said, taking in the communal hall with its peeling paint and piles of old mail addressed to people none of us has ever heard of.

  ‘We can’t all earn the big bucks,’ I said. I didn’t take offence. I know I live in a bit of a shit hole. But I also know it won’t be forever.

  ‘Its utilitarian ugliness just emphasizes how beautiful you are,’ he said in a hammy voice and I pretended to gag.

  He slid his arms round me from behind as we headed up the stairs. Traced my ear with his lips. Something – as he already knows – guaranteed to reduce me to jelly.

  The outfit I had picked out so carefully didn’t stay on long.

  This morning I was knackered because after he left last night – at about quarter past nine – I drank another half bottle of wine and watched three episodes of Borgen back to back. I didn’t feel like sleeping. Consequently I had a mad rush after the alarm went off and I hit snooze twice before I could face getting out of bed.

  Lucy was an absolute bitch when I got to work, making a point of looking at her watch when I walked in ten minutes late. Ian was hanging around in our office trying to summon up the courage to ask her to do something for him, so it was for his benefit, I imagine.

  ‘Tamsin said I could come in a bit late today because I had something on …’ I said sounding, I thought, fairly convincing if a little defensive. I knew Tamsin wouldn’t mind the white lie.

  ‘Oh,’ Lucy said, an annoying fake innocent look on her face, ‘that’s funny because she just asked me to photocopy something for her and she didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Maybe she doesn’t think it’s any of your business,’ I snapped before I could stop myself.

  ‘Anyway. I haven’t had a chance yet because I was too busy doing my own work,’ Lucy said, making it sound as if she had been finding a cure for cancer. ‘Here.’

  She shoved a pile of papers at me.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you were. Thank you so much for your support.’

  ‘For God’s sake, ladies,’ Ian butted in, sounding exasperated, and I wanted to kick myself for behaving so unprofessionally in front of him.

  ‘Sorry, Ian. I obviously should have mentioned I might not be in first thing.’

  ‘There you are, Bea! I was looking for you. It’s not like you to be late,’ Tamsin’s voice said, and I turned to see her standing in the doorway.

  Great.

  32

  Tamsin

  It’s finally happened. After two weeks and six days there it is in front of me. Unaccompanied and unguarded. Patrick’s mobile.

  I’m frozen in my tracks looking at it. Now I have my chance I’m not sure I can go through with it. What if one of them comes in and catches me? What if I mess it up somehow and he realizes what I’ve been doing?

  I know I’ll never get this chance again in all probability. I need to woman up and grasp this opportunity. Shit, my hands are shaking.

  Here’s how it happened. It’s Saturday. I know that Michelle – always an early riser – gets up at the crack of dawn even at weekends, even though there’s no need to, and she creeps around the house for hours because she doesn’t want to distur
b Patrick, who likes to sleep in on his days off. I know that they both leave their phones to charge overnight in a little cupboard in the living room that has a socket inside especially for the purpose. And now, after a couple of weeks of studying his fingers on the keys, I also know Patrick’s password. Two, three, six, seven.

  So, I came up with the genius plan for me to appear on their doorstep at 7 a.m. this morning, dressed in my running gear (bought years ago in another of my short-lived attempts at fitness. Worn twice. Put in a cupboard), claiming to have run all the way across the heath from Belsize Park to Highgate (something I have never even attempted before, let alone achieved. I actually got a cab to just around the corner, running the last few minutes, which was quite enough to leave me out of breath and sweaty).

  I called Michelle from the doorstep and told her I was there, but that I didn’t want to ring the doorbell and wake Patrick. She was delighted, as I knew she would be. Michelle hates being on her own. She never knows what to do with herself. I waited and she opened the door, still dressed in her pyjamas (as I would have been on any normal day). She took one look at me and laughed.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you awake this early unless it was still part of the night before,’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Let alone in workout gear. What on earth are you doing?’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Fitness drive. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf. Were you up? Shall I go away again?’

  She opened the door wider. ‘No! I’ve been up for hours. I’m bored stiff. Just don’t wake Pad.’

  That I had absolutely no intention of doing.

  We went into the kitchen and she made tea and teased me about how sweaty, red-faced and generally done in I looked, which given I had barely exerted myself for more than thirty seconds was a bit of an insult to be honest. I laughed along.

  ‘I walked part of it. Most of it really.’ I had suddenly started to worry that she might suggest we meet up to jog together sometime.

  She looked up at the clock. Still only five past seven. ‘God, what time did you go out then?’

  I shrugged, having no idea how long it would have taken me. ‘Too early.’

  She set a mug of tea down on the table in front of me. ‘Be careful on the heath, won’t you? I’m not sure it’s safe when there aren’t many people around.’

  ‘It wasn’t too bad. Lots of dog walkers.’

  Michelle yawned and stretched, arms above her head. ‘Well, I’m happy to see you. I got up at half five and I’m bored stiff. Do you want to eat something?

  ‘I’ll have some granola or something if you are,’ I said, deliberately picking a food that wouldn’t waft enticing smells to the sleeping lion upstairs.

  ‘I’ve got loads of fruit. We can chop some up to put in it. Fitness drive.’

  ‘Lovely,’ I said, seeing my opportunity. I was already shaking at the thought of what I had to do. ‘I’m desperate for the loo, though. I’ll help you when I come back.’

  I left her unloading cartons from the fridge, knowing she would be gainfully employed for a while. Heart pounding, I slipped into the living room. I listened for the sound of knife on chopping board, then crept over to the cupboard. A part of me didn’t even expect to see Patrick’s mobile there. Paranoid as he was, I thought he might have started sleeping with it under his pillow or slipped into the pocket of his pyjama trousers. I knew Michelle would have found that odd, though. She had always had a ‘no phones in the bedroom’ rule. Mind you, she also had a ‘no phones at the table’ rule, but neither Patrick nor I had ever taken any notice of that one.

  I opened the cupboard. Saw it. Grabbed it. Tapped in the password and prayed that he hadn’t changed it in the past few days. I almost dropped the thing when it worked. Was I really going to do this? Snoop through someone’s phone?

  Yes. Yes I was. I went into texts. Scrolled down till I found my name – which took a while. Funnily enough I hadn’t been sending him any messages lately. Found it. Found the offending text. Cringed as I read it. Pressed delete. Gone.

  I felt sick at the thought of what I’d done. If Patrick looked he would know exactly what had happened. That would take our conflict to a whole other level – defcon one – although hopefully he would now be unarmed.

  I could still hear Michelle moving about in the kitchen. I looked for the photo icon. I had to check if he had taken a screen grab. I scrolled through countless happy pictures of Michelle, of them both, of random bits of countryside and ducks on the river. And there it was. Twice, in fact. I wiped it out.

  I shoved the phone back in the cupboard, knowing I needed to get back to the kitchen before she started wondering where I was. Now I actually did need the loo but time wasn’t on my side. I started to shut the cupboard door and then a thought hit me. There were bound to be messages from HER on there. From whoever Patrick was seeing. I told myself it was no longer any of my business. I had saved myself and that was all that mattered now.

  Still, I was almost bursting with curiosity to know who she was. It would only take a second to look. And maybe that would give me some ammunition when he came after me.

  I couldn’t pass up the chance. I could probably get away with a few seconds more before Michelle sent out a search party. I picked it back up before I could talk myself out of it. Found my way to text messages again. Michelle. Verity. Mark (Patrick’s best mate and once best man), Ben (no idea). Mum. Michelle. Ben. Tom (someone in his department). Clare (ditto. I checked a few of her messages just in case, but they all seemed to be work related). Aiden (Patrick’s brother). Dentist. Ben. Michelle. Michelle. Ben again. Mum. Someone anonymous telling him he had won a thousand pounds’ compensation if he would only go onto this website and type in all his bank details. Ben. Ben. Whoever Ben was they seemed to be in constant contact.

  I glanced at one of Ben’s texts as I scrolled past. It just said ‘OK’ in response to a message from Patrick reading, ‘Tues 6.30 Dorchester’, which I assume was the time and venue for a business meeting. The next one of his I came across also just said ‘OK’, as did the next. One in reply to ‘6.15 on Weds. Haymarket?’ and the other to ‘6.15 Tues. Charlotte Street’. His was the only name I didn’t recognize. I wondered whether he was a temporary assistant in Patrick’s department setting up meetings for him. I kept clicking on his name to see the whole stream. I don’t know why, there was just something odd about the repetitive and terse nature of the texts.

  It seemed they texted each other once or twice a week. Always the same format. Patrick would say a day, a time and a place and Ben would acknowledge. There was never any more detail. Never any embellishment. Once Patrick had sent ‘Need to change to Thurs’ but that was it. A series of appointments.

  My heart started to pound. I knew for a fact that Patrick wasn’t having an affair with someone called Ben. He might have turned into someone I didn’t recognize, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t changed that much. It was hardly a plan worthy of a master criminal, but assigning whoever it was a man’s name and keeping the messages short and to the businesslike point would be enough of a cover should Michelle ever glance over as he was reading his texts.

  I quickly scrolled up to the top, to the more recent missives. Patrick had been out on Wednesday night. A couple of days before he had texted ‘Ben’ ‘Weds 7. As discussed.’ Whatever that meant. I looked at the most recent exchange. An ‘OK’ from ‘Ben’ on Friday in response to a message saying ‘Mon 6.30. Soho?’

  I jabbed at the phone to get it to go back to the home screen. Shoved it back in the cupboard and closed the door. Headed back down the hallway. Remembe
red I hadn’t flushed. Ran into the bathroom. Yanked the chain. Made a big deal of opening and shutting the door. Went back to the kitchen.

  Michelle was sitting at the table, two bowls of granola, a jug of what I knew would be almond milk (unsweetened) and a bowl of diced fruit in front of her.

  ‘You OK?’

  I rubbed my belly. Grimaced. ‘I don’t think running agrees with my stomach.’

  Nice.

  ‘Oh God, do you need anything? I have Imodium I think.’

  I sat down. ‘No, I think I’m all right now. That’ll teach me to be healthy.’

  I tried to eat my cereal, but my stomach really was in knots now. Assuming what I already knew about Patrick’s modus operandi I was pretty sure ‘Soho’ meant the Soho Hotel. I knew where Patrick and his bit on the side were meeting next. I just had no idea what to do with that information.

  33

  Tamsin

  Common sense would say I should cut my losses. Tell Michelle what her husband is up to now that I have removed any evidence of my own involvement in his bad behaviour – I’d scoured his laptop for a copy of the photo, too, on a second visit to the loo, and found nothing. A much easier prospect as it wasn’t password protected. Thank God he hadn’t signed up for iCloud. This is what this is all about, right? Giving Michelle the whole (yes, yes I know, whole-ish) picture and then supporting her through whatever she decides to do next.

  But what if I can get actual proof? A photo of Patrick and his mistress maybe. An idea of who she is so that I can try and get her to admit what’s been going on? Faced with that Michelle would never believe whatever arrows Patrick tried to fire off at me as he went down. It’s worth a try now that I have had this gem of information fall into my lap.