Strictly Between Us

by Jane Fallon

  It’s raining when I leave the office, for what seems like the first time in forever. Luckily I always have an umbrella squirrelled away at the bottom of my big red tote bag, part of a survival kit that could probably keep me alive for several weeks on a desert island. I really must clean that bag out one of these days. I scrabble round underneath tissues, a thin jumper, breakfast bars, a bottle of water, packets of Nurofen and Piriton, and pull it out.

  I’m sitting on the tube at Green Park when a thought hits me. How can I have been so stupid? This is too easy. What are the chances that Patrick’s girlfriend would call him at half past eight at night, knowing that he must be at home with his wife? When I happened to be there. That he would make a big point of saying it was Ben, knowing full well that I know Ben is code for HER. And that I would overhear him spelling out where they were meeting up next.

  It was all for my benefit.

  I push my way through the crowd and onto the platform just as the doors close. I assume that the plan was to send me halfway across London – of course they wouldn’t be meeting up in Canary Wharf. Why would they? – and then they could spend the evening laughing about what an idiot I was, safe in the knowledge that they weren’t about to get caught out. I actually blush, I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment that I’ve been taken in so easily or anger that Patrick thinks he’s getting one over on me.

  I am not going to let him get away with it.

  As I emerge back into the world I dig out my phone and try to call Bea. She’ll know what I should do. No answer. She always leaves her mobile on silent when she’s in the office, so unless she is standing looking at it she wouldn’t even know it was ringing. I stand on Piccadilly with commuters swarming round me and no idea what to do.

  I try Bea again. Once. Twice. Leave her a message to call me back. Pace backwards and forwards. I’m defeated. I may as well get back on the underground and head home.

  My phone rings. I jump. Thank God. Finally. I answer it without checking who it is, so convinced am I that it must be Bea responding to my message. A man’s voice I don’t recognize greets me matily. I hesitate just for a second, giving away that I don’t know who is on the other end.

  ‘It’s Adam,’ he says, just as I realize. ‘Have you forgotten me already?’

  I’m not really in the mood.

  ‘Adam! Hi. Listen, can I call you back in a bit …’

  ‘Of course … any time. I should have known you’d be busy at work.’

  ‘I’m not … oh God, Adam, I feel like such an idiot …’

  I don’t know what makes me say it. Desperation most probably.

  ‘What? Are you OK? Am I still hanging up and you’re calling me back later because I have to say I’m going to find it hard to concentrate now.’

  I tell him the quick version. How I think Patrick deliberately fed me that information to show that he’s in charge. How I was on my way to the fake meeting place when I had an epiphany.

  ‘I’m not being flippant, but your friend sounds like a right git.’

  ‘I stopped thinking of him as my friend some time ago. If it wasn’t for Michelle I wouldn’t have done in the first place, to be honest.’

  ‘Well, I can see why you want to expose him.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  I feel incredibly buoyed up by this. It’s not just that I’m being vengeful and want to get Patrick back. Normal, rational people with no vested interest in the situation feel as if I’m in the right. One normal, rational person anyway.

  ‘So, what now?’

  ‘I have no idea. There’s no way he’s ever going to let me near his phone again.’

  ‘Where’s his office?’

  ‘Holborn. Why? Don’t say I should follow him because even I know that’s a shit idea.’

  ‘What else have you got?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ Adam says. ‘I was actually phoning to see if you fancied a drink tonight, but this sounds much more exciting. I’m only in Shoreditch so I’ll meet you there. What’s the address?’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  Adam laughs. ‘This is the most excitement I’ve had in years. He doesn’t drive in, does he? Because that would make it hard.’

  ‘No, he gets the tube. But he might get a cab to wherever it is he’s going.’

  ‘Oh my God, I have always wanted to say “follow that cab” to a taxi driver.’

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘This is crazy.’

  ‘What else are you going to do this evening? Cry into your frozen shepherd’s pie for one?’

  ‘I’m a pescatarian.’

  ‘It’ll be a laugh. If we miss him then so what? We’ll go to the nearest bar and drown your sorrows together.’

  ‘OK … I can be there by about ten to six.’

  I give him the address and, at his insistence, a description of Patrick so he can watch out for him leaving if he gets there before me.

  ‘Don’t go following the wrong person, will you?’

  ‘If I see anyone likely I’ll take a photo and text it to you.’

  ‘You really are unhinged, do you know that?’ I say, but I feel a huge wave of relief that I’m not going to have to do this on my own.

  Patrick’s office is in a large glass-fronted building on High Holborn that not only houses the Home Improvement Channel but also several of its sister channels, all under the umbrella of Petersen Media. All chaired by Julian Franklin. I’ve been here before obviously – several times, in fact – under the guise of work, so I know that Patrick’s office is at the back on, I think, the fifth floor. As far as I’m aware everyone arrives and leaves through the same ground-floor foyer.

  Adam has texted me to tell me he’s nursing a beer outside a pub on the other side of the road. I spot him immediately. He’s wearing a blue baseball cap with Miami written on it, and holding a copy of Metro in front of his face and peering over it. Why, I have no idea. Patrick doesn’t even know he exists, let alone what he looks like.

  ‘Subtle,’ I say and he starts.

  ‘Jesus! I have a heart condition, you know.’

  I laugh, and then I think maybe he’s telling the truth. I barely know him after all. ‘Shit. Do you?’

  ‘No. I might have after this, though.’

  I sit next to him. Take the paper off him and hold it up in front of my own face.

  ‘I’m the one who needs this.’

  ‘I’d go and get you a drink but I’m scared I’ll miss the action. You can have mine.’ He hands me his glass and I take a long swig. I pass it back.

  ‘Here. We can share.’

  ‘God, I love a cheap date,’ Adam says.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ I say.

  ‘We wait,’ he says and raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Don’t take your eyes off that door.’

  42

  Bea

  Today’s venue is the Covent Garden Hotel, a boutiquey shabby-chic place on Monmouth Street, off Seven Dials. Lots of dark wood. Very stylish. Very discreet.

  I’m getting to know the smart hotels of Central London well these days. I could write a guide. Of course, it would only cover the reception areas and the bedrooms, with special emphasis on the mini bars and the comfort of the beds themselves. A small subsection on bathrooms. I never get to see the lounges or restaurants.

  We know, of course, that Tamsin listened in as Patrick hoped she would. He says he heard her coming up the stairs after him, and I have been able to confirm that she picked up all the relevant information a
nd is at this moment en route all the way over to Canary Wharf.

  The funniest thing was that she wanted me to go with her. Funniest. Saddest. I’m not sure which actually.

  Soon after she left I noticed that she’d called me a couple of times. One message: ‘Call me.’ I tried ringing her back, but she must have been on the tube because it clicked straight through to voicemail. I leave a message of my own:

  ‘Did you need me? I have my ringer turned up now so try me again. I’m around all evening.’

  I can turn it off when I’m with Patrick. Blame bad reception. She knows my flat is like the Bermuda Triangle of mobile signals.

  I’ve come to a big decision. I’m going to have to look for another job.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that my position is precarious to say the least now. One slip with Patrick and I’m out. And finding employment when I’m a little inexperienced certainly beats trying to persuade someone to hire me after I’ve been sacked. Not that I think Tamsin would really have grounds to sack me. There are laws. But still. Why take the chance?

  So, I have a plan. How can I find a job that adequately reflects my capabilities and not my experience? Who do I know who is in a position of power? Who ought to feel, in a sense, protective of me? To feel a bit responsible that I might be burning some bridges?

  No prizes if you got the answer.

  Because we’re not meeting till half six I don’t need to leave work early, but I do spend most of the last half hour getting ready. Making an effort. I’m sure he has enough of dressing gowns and saggy old M&S knickers at home. Being with me should be special. Something he looks forward to when Michelle is asking him whether he’d rather she bought cod or haddock fillets on her next trip to Tesco or if he’s taken the recycling out.

  I change out of my jeans and into a cute black and white Warehouse knee-length pencil skirt and skyscraper heels. I hate not being able to have a shower, but I do what I can in the little sink that is, thankfully, inside the toilet cubicle. I have a very unfashionable tan, so that means I don’t have to worry too much about make-up, I just pile mascara on my lashes and slick on a bit of lip gloss and I’m done.

  I collect my bag from my office. Lucy has already left for the day but the post sits on my desk waiting to be stamped and dropped into the post box. I sling it on Ashley’s desk as I pass.

  ‘Could you do this? I’m in a bit of a hurry.’

  ‘Of course,’ she says. No hint of an edge in her voice. She’s too nice for her own good, that girl.

  ‘Have a good evening,’ she trills as I head down the stairs.

  At the Covent Garden there’s nowhere really to wait outside, so I hang about in the foyer, sitting on a bench seat that’s in between the front door and the reception desk. I play with my phone, trying to look inconspicuous. Patrick will have to walk right past me to check in. He’s late, of course. I know to expect this now, but I’m always afraid that this will be the time he manages to arrive at the appointed hour, so I get there early and just resign myself to waiting.

  Bang on five minutes late – which by his standards means on time, I see his bordering-on-cocky walk out of the corner of my eye. I keep my eyes fixed on the screen. Even though I know Tamsin is halfway across London by now you never know who else might be around. Patrick has drilled this into me time and time again. It’s one of the Ben Rules. I’m well trained.

  He walks right past me and I catch a whiff of his cologne. Some kind of figgy concoction from Jo Malone. That smell will forever conjure up memories of illicit sex in hotel rooms for me. One day in ten years’ time some poor unsuspecting computer repair man will pat that on his pressure points in the morning with no idea that the merest hint of it will result in me throwing myself at him, unable to resist as he tries to rid my laptop of a virus.

  I hear him talking to the receptionist. Mr Charming. Patrick Mitchell, room for one night. No paper in the morning, thank you. I often wonder what they think when he leaves again at nine in the evening. What excuse does he give? Or do they just tip him a knowing wink, completely aware of the situation? Maybe hotels are full of people (or empty of people, depending on how you look at it) occupying them for only a couple of hours at a time. They should set up a rota.

  She gives him the slip of plastic that passes for a key. I wait. A man sits on the seat opposite me, starts fiddling with his phone too. Probably doing the same thing I’m doing.

  I wait the required three minutes. The rules state it’s supposed to be five but it gets too boring. Thankfully Patrick doesn’t seem to time me. Then I walk up to the reception desk, as confidently as I can, and ask to be put through to Patrick Mitchell’s room.

  ‘Hi,’ is all I say when he answers.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, and then ‘Four, two, four.’

  ‘OK, see you in a bit.’

  I replace the receiver. Smile at the woman behind the desk. ‘Thanks.’

  I know where the lift is from the last time we were here, so I make my way to the fourth storey. One last check that no one is about and I tap on his door.

  Patrick opens it and smiles widely.

  ‘Hi gorgeous,’ he says, and even after a couple of months, I go weak at the knees.

  I return the smile. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  He pulls me towards him, arms round me, presses his lips on mine.

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he says when we come up for air eventually.

  On the coffee table are a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket and two glasses. Pre-ordered as ever. Patrick pops the cork and starts to pour.

  ‘How long do you think Tamsin will wait?’ he says with a wicked smile.

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why?’ he says. ‘She started it.’

  ‘I know, I know.’

  We don’t say much for a while after that. We never do. Talking comes later.

  43

  Tamsin

  Adam and I are chatting about his work, which seems to be as much about crowd control and self-defence as actually teaching anything.

  ‘My greatest achievement is to get through the year alive,’ he says, taking a small sip of our shared beer. ‘Anything else is a bonus.’

  ‘Are they scary?’ I ask. My idea of hell is to be trapped in a room with a load of angry fifteen-year-olds.

  ‘Terrifying.’

  ‘So why do you—’ I start to say, and then I see him out of the corner of my eye. Patrick. I hide behind my Metro again.

  ‘That’s him! Jeans. Grey jacket.’

  ‘Brown leather computer bag?’

  ‘Exactly. Let’s go.’

  We stand to leave. Patrick is heading in the direction of the tube station.

  ‘Don’t risk him seeing you,’ Adam says. ‘If it gets hairy you drop out and I’ll phone you when he gets to where he’s going. I can sit right next to him and he won’t have a clue.’

  ‘You’re good at this. Do you do it all the time?’ I’m slightly out of breath already. Patrick is up ahead, about to head down the escalator. I flap my Oyster card at the machine and Adam does the same. We’re in danger of losing him in a sea of commuters. I catch sight of his grey jacket up ahead. ‘There.’

  ‘I’m going to get really close,’ Adam says and dashes off, leaving me behind. I can just about make out Patrick moving towards the Piccadilly line, so I go in that direction and then have no idea whether to make for the south or northbound platform. I stop in my tracks, no idea what to do. People behind me bang into me, effing and blinding.

  My phone rings. I fumble to answer it. Adam
.

  ‘South,’ is all he says, so I hurtle towards the southbound platform just as a train rumbles in. I can’t see them anywhere, which – hopefully – means Patrick can’t see me either. So I just force my way into a carriage and stand up against one of the partitions, keeping my head down. I put my phone up to my ear, hopeful that Adam will still be on the other end, but the signal has gone.

  Looking at the tube map I see that Covent Garden is the next stop. Followed by Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus and Green Park. All places chocker with smart hotels. Not for the first time I think that what we are doing is ridiculous. In fact, so much so that it makes me laugh out loud.

  You know that mad woman, chuckling to herself on the underground? The one that you avoid standing too close to? Apparently that’s me.

  As we pull into Covent Garden I edge towards the doors. When they open I peer left and right, all the while trying to stay as hidden as I can. All I see is a wave of jostling bodies. Briefcases, handbags, elbows, umbrellas. It’s hopeless. The doors start to close, sealing me in. As they bump together I spot a familiar rolling walk and, hot on its heels, a somewhat less familiar but still recognizable blue baseball cap. I might have lost Patrick, but Adam still has him in his sights.

  There’s nothing I can do but wait till Leicester Square, run across to the platform on the other side and jump on the first train going back the way I came. I arrive at Covent Garden maybe five minutes after I left it, push my way up to the pavement – my phone beeps gratifyingly almost immediately.

  ‘Cvt Gdn Hotel’ the message says. I know where that is. I’ve passed it many times. Never had an excuse to go in, even though it looks so welcoming. Deep brown wood and black paintwork. I hotfoot it round to Monmouth Street. Arrive red-faced and sweating. Adam is doing his sitting-opposite trick again. I assume that Patrick has gone inside, that it’s safe for me. Adam would have told me to be cautious if not. This time he’s ordered a beer for me, too, and I wait for the waiter to place them in front of us, and fuss around with nuts and olives before I say anything.