by Jane Fallon
‘Why do you think I had so many kids?’ she says, laughing. ‘They’re an instant unpaid workforce.’
‘Damn. I knew there was a reason I should have had some.’
‘It’s the only reason. How’s work?’
‘Oh, you know, we’re surviv—’
‘Surviving. Yes, Ian said it’s a bit quiet at the moment.’
‘Well. You know what the summer’s—’
‘Exactly. That’s what I said. All the commissioners are probably in Tuscany.’
‘It’ll be a relief when we get one more thing—’
‘Off the ground. I know. Oh look, here’s Adam.’
She reaches out a hand and grabs him by the arm as he walks past.
‘You two have met before, obviously.’
‘Is Fiona letting you get a word in?’ Adam says. ‘Sometimes I make up random nonsense just to see if she’ll run with it.’
‘Ha!’ I snort before I can stop myself, and then quickly look at Fiona to check she’s not offended – I would never dream of picking her up on her bad habit – but she’s laughing away happily.
‘Very funny. This is why I thought you’d get on,’ she says, looking at Adam affectionately.
‘Well, don’t ever start a dating agency, will you?’ I say, taking a chance that Adam will take the joke, and he obliges by chuckling. Actually what I say is, ‘Don’t ever start a dating—’ before Fiona jumps in with ‘Agency! Damn, I just did it again. Sorry. I won’t do it any more. Promise.’
‘Sometimes I like to talk really slowly just to watch the agony on her face while she waits for it to be her turn. Look!’ Adam says. ‘Look at her trying to stop herself … from … finishing … the … sentence … for … me.’
Fiona is displaying the body language of an eager dog when its owner is teasing it with a frisbee. She’s like a coiled spring waiting to pounce. It actually looks as if it hurts.
‘See!’ she says when he grinds to a halt. ‘I didn’t interrupt you! I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Adam grabs her in a big hug. ‘You know I love you.’
Fiona pushes him off. ‘I have to go and look after my other guests. The nice ones.’
‘You’ll be back, you can’t resist me,’ he says.
Left alone I wonder what Adam and I are going to talk about, and whether I should make an excuse myself and hunt down Anne Marie or Ian to hide behind. After our previous excruciating evening together that would seem a step too far in terms of rudeness, though, so I stay where I am and try to come up with something to say. But then a wonderful thing happens. Adam opens his mouth and he’s hilarious. I start laughing at the first thing he says – which is, ‘She really should learn to speak up for herself that woman!’ – and I don’t stop till we say goodnight four and a half hours later.
It’s like therapy. After a few minutes we’re busy chatting away like people who have known each other for years. I can’t believe I didn’t notice what good company he was the last time we met. We both get quite drunk and forget about even trying to interact with the other party guests. I realize that I’ve barely given Patrick a thought all evening. After about the fourth glass of wine I say, ‘Would it be weird for us to meet up again given that we clearly don’t fancy each other?’
Adam pulls a faux crestfallen face. ‘How could you say that? I just texted my mum when I went to the loo to tell her to buy a hat for the wedding.’
‘Oh we can still get married. Just not … you know. Thousands of people do apparently.’
‘OK. So long as you promise not to jump me in my sleep. I’ve been told I’m pretty irresistible.’
‘I’ll try,’ I say, lunging for the nearest bottle and topping up both our glasses. ‘No promises, though.’
‘Actually, I need to retain my single status. It helps with the online dating.’
‘I do online dating!’ I say, way too loudly. I think I must be a little tipsier than I thought. ‘I’m on Other Half.’
‘God, me too,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘I was going to say it’s a wonder we haven’t ever seen each other on there but, you know, I put “attractive” on my list of must haves.’
‘Yes, I put “must work out” on mine.’ Too much? Apparently not because Adam chuckles.
For some reason – because I like him, because I don’t feel as if he’ll judge, because I’m drunk? – I end up telling him the whole sorry Patrick/Michelle story, and he listens to the entire sordid tale without comment. He doesn’t even tell me I’m crazy for getting involved or that I should leave well alone.
‘Wow!’ he says when I get to the end. ‘I’m thinking that if you’ll sleep with your best friend’s husband I’m definitely in with a chance.’
And I laugh about it for the first time since it happened.
‘One, I didn’t actually sleep with him. And two, I thought we agreed we had no interest in each other that way.’
‘Granted I’d have to force myself, but I haven’t had much action for a while so …’
I punch his arm. Not in a cutesy, flirty way like Meg Ryan might do to Billy Crystal, but so it hurts.
‘Ow!’ He rubs at the spot.
‘Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.’
‘So, what are you going to do. About your “problem”?’
‘I have no idea. Now I’ve told Bea I feel like we can come up with a plan. Something. God knows.’
‘I will dedicate my life to thinking of something.’
‘You, me and Bea should all meet up and plot,’ I say, suddenly feeling as if it’s important we have a plan to meet again.
‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘I like the sound of Bea. Is she single?’
‘God, you’re already on to someone else. I’m devastated. But actually no, she’s not. And anyway, she’s picky. She wouldn’t just go for any old loser.’
‘I like a challenge,’ Adam says, smiling, and a part of me thinks, Yes, if Danny doesn’t work out I could fix Bea up with Adam. Who knows, maybe she’d go for it.
‘See, I told you you’d like him,’ Fiona says when she comes across me waiting to use the bathroom. ‘My instincts are never wrong.’
‘They are this time, I’m afraid. He’s a lovely bloke, just not—’
‘Your type? I never thought Ian was my type until I gave him a chance.’
‘I’m off in a minute,’ I say, to get her off the scent. ‘It’s been lovely. Thank you.’
By the time I leave it feels like Adam and I are old friends. He certainly knows more about me than my actual friends do. I throw myself in a taxi, feeling upbeat for the first time in ages.
40
Bea
Patrick and I have a scheme. It’s partly to entertain ourselves and partly to fuck with Tamsin. It won’t so much throw her off the scent as waste her time and energy and make us feel like we have the upper hand.
Next time Tamsin is round at theirs he is going to let me know and, out of nowhere, Ben will call him in the middle of her visit. Patrick will make a show of saying to Michelle that Ben is on the phone and then take himself next door to answer the call. His hope is that Tamsin won’t be able to resist following him to listen in and will overhear him making an assignation that’s miles away from our chosen meeting place of the Covent Garden Hotel. On the Thursday she’ll schlep across town hoping to catch him out (encouraged by me if she confides in me, which I have no reason to believe she won’t) and we can meet free from any fear that she’ll be hiding behind a pillar somewhere.
Half
of me thinks Patrick wants to forget our date altogether and follow Tamsin instead – the hunted stalking the hunter – to see how long she waits to catch him out. He actually calls me from his office – an unprecedented event – just for a chat, and we spend ten minutes batting back and forth more and more ludicrous scenarios about where we might send her on a wild goose chase – Glasgow! Wembley Stadium when a football match is on! The top of The Shard! (Tamsin hates heights.) We’re actually getting slightly hysterical, having a laugh like a normal couple, when he suddenly says, ‘Shit. Verity’s back,’ and ends the call without saying goodbye. I deflate like a day-old birthday balloon.
When the strange ringing started in my bag and I remembered that I now had a second phone – pay as you go, number given to one person and one person only – I had headed down to the street to avoid being overheard, flapping my hand at Lucy as if to say I had bad reception. It had never rung before, so I’d forgotten there was even a possibility it might make a sound. I tucked myself round the corner, in the entrance to a block of flats, just in case some random person should overhear. Tamsin is out of the office today, trying to fix the problem that is Michael the wayward producer on Rooms With a View. I haven’t heard from her since about eleven, so I’m hoping that for once I can take a proper lunch break. Get a sandwich. Sit on a bench.
‘Lucy went out,’ Ashley says as I make my way back through reception. I look at my watch. It’s half twelve.
‘Already?’
Ashley does a slight eye roll. Not enough to give away that she’s taking sides, but I see it. ‘She had to go to Westfield.’
‘Probably starting her Christmas shopping early. After all, there are only about a million days left.’
Ashley snorts. Then she looks apologetic. ‘She asked me to ask you if you’d sort out Ian’s lunch, though. I offered but she said you know the way he likes things, so …’
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Ian’s lunch order is always like a shopping list. A sandwich from one place, a drink from another, a cake from the bakery. Mayo but no butter if it’s chicken. Butter but no mayo if it’s tuna. Both with egg. Brie but only so long as you check how ripe they have it first. Ditto avocado. If not then cheddar. But only if they have extra mature. It’s exhausting.
‘Honestly, I can get it if you tell me where to go.’
‘Thanks but it’s OK. It’d probably take longer to explain all his stupid idiosyncrasies than for me to get it myself. Is he in?’
She shakes her head. ‘Due back about quarter to.’
My dream of a full lunch hour all to myself fizzles and dies.
‘Let me know as soon as he’s here, will you? Meanwhile there’s a pile of photocopying Tamsin needs doing on my desk. If you get the chance.’
‘No problem,’ Ashley says.
‘Don’t mention I got you to do it, will you? You know what she’s like.’ Just covering myself.
During our phone call Patrick warned me that Tamsin was due over at theirs this evening. He instructed me to call at half past eight. Any earlier and they’ll still be eating and she might not feel she could get up and leave the table to follow him.
If the time isn’t right, or if Tamsin has left already or is in the loo or whatever, he won’t answer. We’ll try again another evening. While he’s still finding the idea of sending her miles in the wrong direction hilarious he doesn’t want us to take any risks.
And neither do I. Of course I don’t.
So, at twenty-five past eight I’m up in Sarah’s room, leaning out of the window, waiting. She’s not home thankfully. I think I’d find it difficult to pull it off with an audience. Sitting here on my own I start to think that maybe this is a stupid idea. The whole thing hinges on Tamsin not only being intrigued enough to follow Patrick and stay within earshot, but being in a position to do so, while he makes out he is trying desperately not to be overheard.
At exactly half past I punch in his number and hold my breath. After about four rings – presumably while he does his ‘It’s Ben, I’d better take it’ performance – he answers.
‘All right, mate.’
As instructed I say nothing. Can’t risk Michelle hearing a woman’s voice wafting from his handset.
‘Hold on,’ he says. ‘You’re breaking up. I’m taking it through to the other room.’
He’s good at this. Lying. Deception. But then I knew that already.
41
Tamsin
‘It’s Ben,’ he says, holding up his phone as if to prove what he’s saying. And there it is on the screen for Michelle and me to see: Ben.
‘I need to take it,’ he says and he doesn’t even look at me. I stare at him in disbelief. If I hadn’t seen the name for myself I would almost think it was a joke. Candid Camera. A Gotcha.
‘Of course,’ Michelle says and smiles at him.
‘All right, mate,’ Patrick says into the phone. I strain my ears. I can’t hear anything. Surely he’s not going to have a conversation with his mistress right here in front of us?
‘You’re breaking up. I’m taking it through to the other room.’
He raises a hand – ‘sorry’– to us as he goes. I hear him still talking as he heads for the stairs, towards the front room. ‘Hold on a second. The reception’s shit here.’
‘His football friend,’ Michelle says by way of an explanation.
‘Right.’
‘They have some grudge match coming up …’ she starts to say. I’m not listening. I’m practically making my ears bleed trying to pick up the odd word of his conversation.
‘Hold on. I’m dying for the loo,’ I say, using my tried-and-trusted excuse. After all, who’s going to argue with that? I’m a woman of a certain age. My bladder isn’t what it used to be. I run upstairs before she can say anything. ‘Won’t be a sec.’
The door to the front room is open but pulled to. I hear Patrick’s low tones coming from inside. ‘OK but don’t ring me again,’ he’s saying. ‘Stick to the texts.’
I hover, fully aware that he could come out at any moment and catch me. I creep to the side of the door nearest the toilet, so that I can make a run for it if I hear him coming out.
‘Where is it again?’ he says quietly. And then, after a moment: ‘I don’t know how early I can get to Canary Wharf. I’ll try for quarter to seven but it might be seven o’clock. OK … OK … the Radisson … I’ve got to …’
I don’t hear the rest because I hotfoot it down the stairs again. Have I just heard the details of their next assignation? I have no idea what day they’re talking about, but it’ll be easy enough to find out from Michelle when he’s likely to be home late. I congratulate myself on my quick thinking.
By the time Patrick reappears in the basement kitchen I am back sitting at the kitchen table, and I’m quizzing Michelle about how much she had to pay for a bunch of coriander in the local grocery store.
‘Everything OK?’ Michelle says as Patrick takes his seat again.
‘Great,’ he says, flashing her a big smile. ‘But I’m going to be out Thursday night. They want to get in an extra training session before the “big match”.’ He does quote marks with his fingers as he says ‘big match’ to show he’s being ironic.
‘They’re playing their main rivals next week,’ Michelle offers up. ‘A team from Channel 5 isn’t it? They got beaten eight–nil last time so it’s become very serious.’
‘My old colleagues. It’s got very personal,’ Patrick says to me as if he really believes what he’s saying. Maybe he does. Maybe there’s an element of truth in there somewhere
. I have no idea if he even plays football at all now. If he ever did. Or whether he made it all up as a smokescreen. I don’t know what’s truth and what’s lies any more.
I do know he’s not training on Thursday night, though. And I know where he’s going to be instead.
Canary Wharf is a hell of a long way from Brook Green, I’m not going to lie. I have to walk to Hammersmith tube station, take the Piccadilly Line to Green Park and change to the Jubilee. And it’s rush hour, so I’m bound to spend most of both journeys pressed up against someone’s armpit. It’s amazing the variety there is in the aroma of perspiration coming out of Londoners after a hard day at work. You could write a book. Don’t though.
I leave work early. I told Bea about my mission earlier in the day. Even tried to persuade her to keep me company.
‘Oh no. You’re on your own with this one,’ she said, laughing. ‘And besides, I promised Danny I’d cook him dinner.’
‘God, he’s brave.’
‘I’m doing a lasagne followed by apple pie. I don’t think there’s much there that could kill him.’
‘Still going well then?’
She smiled. I was glad to see Bea so happy. Being in love obviously suits her. ‘Still going well. Are you really going to go all the way over to Canary Wharf to try to catch them out?’
‘I’ve got nothing better to do. That’s how sad my life is.’
I even thought about asking Adam if he wanted to come along. With company it would be a bit of a laugh, an adventure. On my own it really does seem a bit tragic, even to me. We’ve exchanged a couple of emails since the party and he’s asked me how my quest is going. On balance I decide it would be weird. I hardly know him. I make a mental note to make the effort to take him up on the offer of another drink that he made as we said goodnight though.
‘I’ll ring you if I have anything exciting to report,’ I say to Bea as I leave at five.
‘Definitely,’ she says. ‘Although you know what my reception’s like at home.’