by Jane Fallon
‘Serves her right. Although I don’t think we can pull that off twice.’
‘I’m going to work on her to give it up as hopeless,’ I say.
‘Good luck with that.’
He’s nearly at his destination, he tells me, and he rings off. I practically skip down the street. Everything’s OK.
I sail through the evening in a haze of happiness. I don’t even care that Sarah blasts out Katy Perry at a volume that would usually make me feel murderous (which is pretty much any volume really), or that Ali comes in pissed at midnight and falls over the hall table, waking me up. Patrick and I are OK. I have a clean slate.
And you know what they say. It isn’t over till it’s over.
48
Tamsin
Michelle and I are staring into our drinks. We’ve been sitting like this for at least two minutes. The noise of the bar goes on around us. It’s one of those places where they encourage shouting. The music’s too loud, the staff too familiar. There’s a foosball table right in the middle of the room, where rival teams get ironically excited as they compete. It’s my idea of hell, really, but today we need the distraction.
Next to us is a boisterous after-office party who think they’re hilarious, except that all they seem to do is repeat what one of the others has just said, but in a high-pitched voice. That passes for humour in these parts apparently. Ordinarily they’d irritate me so much I’d probably suggest moving somewhere else. Tonight I’m just glad something is filling the silence.
I can’t think of anything to say. Nothing. I’ve been finding this more and more with Michelle lately. There are so many subjects I have to avoid. So much shit that I have running round in my brain that she is blissfully unaware of. I’m terrified of giving something away. Both terrified and tempted, an explosive combination. I still think she needs to know exactly what her husband is capable of, I’m just not sure I can begin to explain to her how the person he ended up having an affair with is the woman I’ve been telling her is a saint for the past year. I’ve thought about nothing else all weekend.
I take a too long swig of my wine. Make myself cough.
‘Are you OK?’ Michelle is looking at me with concern.
‘Fine. It just went down the wrong way.’
‘No, I mean generally. Is something up? You don’t seem like yourself.’
If only she knew. I know I can’t get away with out and out denial. She knows me too well. ‘Just a bit knackered is all. Stressed at work. We need to get something else commissioned quickly. The usual.’
‘It’s not something I’ve done? You seem a bit … distant.’
‘No! God, no. It’s nothing. Those people are doing my head in.’ One of the lary office crowd brays a laugh that could break glass.
Michelle pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sizes me up. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘There really isn’t. Let’s change the subject. What’s Pad up to tonight?’
‘Working. I forget what. I feel as if I hardly see him at the moment.’
My ears prick up. Is there the tiniest crack appearing? ‘Really?’
‘I’m exaggerating. But he does seem to work late a lot these days.’
I have to play devil’s advocate, much as it pains me. That’s what I would usually do in a situation like this. ‘It comes with the job.’
‘But late late. Not just a meeting at seven or whatever. He gets home at, like, ten. Later even.’
‘And you’re worried about …?’ I can’t put words into her mouth, but I can’t deny I feel a flicker of excitement that Michelle might be starting to question Patrick’s behaviour.
‘It can’t be good for him. He’s exhausted half the time. His moods are up and down. I wish I could get him away on holiday.’
Of course. In typical Michelle form she isn’t worried that Patrick is up to something, just that he’s working too hard. The hotel receipt she found is a long forgotten MacGuffin, thanks to me.
‘It’s probably just a busy period. I’m sure it won’t last.’
‘I should have just told him it was too late to cancel the week in Italy. Then he would have had no choice.’
‘He cancelled?’
She nods. ‘We got our deposit back, it’s OK.’
I stop myself from saying that I assume he felt he could no longer afford it with all the money he’s been spending lately.
‘Try telling him he has to slow down a bit. When he says, “Do you mind if I work on such and such an evening,” say yes.’
‘He’ll just think I’m a nag. Part of me wonders if he’s making a special effort to impress Dad. I think he quite fancies taking over the new documentary channel they’re talking about setting up.’
Ah yes. The big jewel in Peterson Media’s still evolving crown. Of course Patrick would like that job. It would have way more kudos than running a channel about decorating.
The barman catches my eye. Gestures to ask if we’d like another.
‘I think I might call it a night if you don’t mind,’ I say to Michelle, even though it’s still only ten to seven. ‘I’ve got an early start.’
‘I’m giving her all the jobs I know she hates doing. That’s my pathetic little revenge.’
Adam chuckles into his beer. Luckily for me he was at a loose end when I called from the toilet of the bar, and happy to meet up. He even agreed to come up to Belsize Park so that I could share a cab home with Michelle as I usually do. It dropped me off on Haverstock Hill – I made the excuse that I needed to pop into Budgens – and Michelle hugged me goodbye.
‘Get some sleep,’ she said. ‘And ring me tomorrow and tell me you’re OK.’
I watched as the taxi pulled away and then headed up the road to the Roebuck. Adam hadn’t arrived yet so I bought us two lagers and found a table in the corner.
‘It’s the small things that count,’ Adam says now. ‘You might as well amuse yourself while you work out what to do. What are you going to do by the way?’
‘I have to make sure the time is right. Get all my ducks in a row.’
‘Do you have any ducks?’
‘Not really. I just like the expression. To be honest I think part of me is hoping Michelle will find out on her own. That I won’t have to be the one responsible.’
‘Well, that’s a plan. To be honest, it’s going to get ugly either way,’ he says, and I know he’s right. And the longer I wait the more Michelle and I are going to drift apart. It’s inevitable.
My phone makes it’s tinkly ‘you have a text’ noise. I dig around in my bag and find it. Michelle. What I see makes me smile. I read it aloud for Adam’s benefit.
‘Pad is meant to be playing football on Friday but I’ve put my foot down. We’re going for dinner instead xx.’
I don’t doubt that playing football really means an assignation with Bea. Now he’ll have to cancel. It’s almost too perfect.
‘Good for you,’ I text back, saying it for Adam’s benefit as I type. ‘Make sure you book it before he can change his mind xx.’
‘And I always tell my pupils that revenge never makes you happy.’ Adam laughs.
I drain the last of my beer. ‘You must be a crap teacher then.’
‘Oh, I am. I didn’t say it was a valuable lesson I was teaching them.’
‘It would be a sickener if Patrick managed to get the big job, wouldn’t it?’ I say as we walk down Haverstock Hill; Adam to the tube station, me on my way home. It’s turned cold. I pull my jacket in tighter. ‘And Julian’
ll give it to him too.’
‘Unless Michelle finds out what he’s up to first.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I wish I had a father-in-law who could nepotize me into a great job.’
I laugh. ‘So do I. Although Julian did give me a foot in the door when I was first starting out.’
‘Different,’ he says as we stop at the corner of my road. ‘Do you want me to walk you to the door? I don’t mind.’
‘No, it’s fine. It’s still early.’
‘I’d feel awful if you got mugged on my watch.’
‘But then I’d have to walk you back here again in case you did. It could go on all night.’
‘Good point.’ He kisses my cheek. ‘Call you tomorrow.’
49
Tamsin
Of course this is the night that one of the local muggers decides to do his thing down Belsize Avenue. Despite the fact that there are people around and it’s still only ten o’clock, my big red tote acts as a beacon he is powerless to resist. I’m making light of it. Actually it was the scariest, most shocking thing that has ever happened to me.
It must have only been two minutes since I said goodbye to Adam. I could still see the main road behind me if I turned around. I hear footsteps but I take no notice because there’s a couple up ahead, a woman beyond them. A pair of cars pass me. People on their way home for an early night.
The rest is a bit of a blur. The footsteps break into a run. My tote – which is over one shoulder and tucked under my arm – suddenly moves as if it has a life of its own. I go flying in the other direction. It’s over in a second and I’m left lying on the pavement with my face in a bit of stray grass, surrounded by miscellaneous items that have escaped the bag as it arced through the air, attached to a strange man’s hand.
I think I scream as it’s happening. I hear some kind of noise that sounds like a hysterical pig anyway, and I assume that’s me and not him. I doubt ‘shouting to draw attention to yourself’ is in his MO. I don’t even think about running after him. He’s way off in the distance and I am too busy lying on the ground.
I haul myself up into a sitting position. The couple have turned around and are now scrabbling about to pick up my stray possessions.
‘Are you OK?’ he says as he hands me a screwed-up reusable shopping bag that I’m not even sure is mine. His girlfriend – young, maybe early twenties and teetering on huge platforms – sits down next to me and rubs my arm.
‘Fine, I think.’
‘You didn’t hurt yourself?’ Girlfriend says.
‘Not so as I can tell,’ I say, and then I burst into tears.
‘Oh God, you poor thing,’ she says and she rubs my arm a bit harder. ‘You’ve got a cut on the side of your face.’ She points it out and I feel its raspy edges.
‘We could probably give the police a description,’ Boyfriend – also early twenties, off-the-peg suit – says. ‘A bit of one, anyway. Young bloke. White.’
That’ll nail him, I think. ‘It’s probably not worth it, but thanks.’
I scrabble to my feet as Boyfriend hands me a roll of Mentos and my Oyster card.
‘Do you live near here?’ Girlfriend says. She’s having as much difficulty getting to her feet as I did, platform shoes sliding out from underneath her like a fawn on ice.
‘Right there,’ I say, pointing up ahead. ‘Thanks for your help. I’ll be fine.’
‘Oh no, we’ll walk you,’ she says. ‘Won’t we, Ryan?’
‘Of course. Oh wait, did he take your keys?’
Thankfully my keys and phone are in the pocket of my coat, a habit I’ve had for years since I left a previous handbag on a train once. I try to do a mental inventory of what swag the robber must now be salivating over. My wallet. Only about fifteen pounds thankfully, but my bank cards. I’ll have to cancel them when I get in. Umbrella, jumper, used tissues, lip gloss. I think there may be a clean pair of knickers in there somewhere, so that’ll be nice for him. Marks & Spencer. Size 12. A notebook I’ve never used. ‘No, I have them.’
‘Do you want us to call anyone?’ Girlfriend says as we stumble up the road.
‘No, thank you. You’ve been really kind.’
They take me right to the door. Wait while I go inside. I feel like giving them both a hug they’ve been so sweet, but I restrain myself. Once I have shut the door, waving to them as they doggedly stand there until they know I’m safely inside, I run up to my flat, fling my arms round Ron and sob into his fur.
I’m feeling horribly alone. It’s not that I’m scared the mugger is going to somehow find out where I live and come and have a look to see if I have anything else worth having (hold on … I mentally scan through my missing possessions again for anything that might have my address on it. Nothing). It’s more that I feel vulnerable and stupid and like I never want to go outside again.
I don’t want to phone Michelle. She’ll be with Patrick. Bea, of course, is out of the question. The only other person is Adam. He’s probably on the tube, wending his way back to Clapham, but I try him anyway.
He answers almost immediately. ‘I’m still sitting on the platform. Are you sure you really have trains this far north?’
‘I got mugged,’ I stammer and, of course, he laughs because he assumes I’m joking.
When I don’t join in he says, ‘Not really?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m coming round.’
‘No! It’s fine. I’m not hurt. It was more of a bag snatch really, but he pushed me over …’
‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘Be careful,’ I say as he ends the call, as if Belsize Park is now teeming with people who want to knock you about and steal your stuff.
Four minutes later the doorbell rings. I check that it really is Adam before I buzz him in.
‘Oh my God, you poor love,’ he says as soon as he sees me. ‘Are you really OK. Did you hit your head? Do you want me to clean that cut up?’
I shake my head. ‘I’m fine. I’m just a bit wobbly. I didn’t expect you to come round, honestly.’
‘Have you got any brandy?’ he says, looking round my messy living room. ‘If you did have, would you know where to find it?’
‘No. I mean, no I don’t have any. I think there’s some vodka somewhere.’
I move a few things out of the way and find a nearly full bottle of vodka and an unopened whisky I bought once when I thought I should try to drink like a grown-up. Adam pours two glasses and hands me one.
‘Knock it back,’ he tells me authoritatively, and I suddenly feel like one of his pupils. I bet he’s a well-liked teacher. ‘It’ll be good for the shock.’
I do as I’m told. I still can’t stop shaking, though. Adam leads me over to the sofa and sits me down. He plonks himself next to me and puts his arms round me.
‘It’ll take a few minutes to work its magic,’ he says, so we sit there. Ron licks one of my hands helpfully.
After a few moments I calm down. And then I realize that I like this feeling, sitting here with Adam holding me. I feel safe.
God knows where that came from.
Adam insists on staying in the spare room. To be honest I’m grateful. I don’t want to be in the flat on my own. I feel uneasy there for the first time ever. Afraid of I don’t know what, but afraid nonetheless.
We sit there on the sofa for what seems like a long time. There’s no awkwardness. No subtext-loaded fingers rubbing my arm or stroking my hair. It’s like being held by a giant teddy bear, that’s the best way I can describe
it.
When he finally lets me go and offers to help me find the phone numbers to cancel my bank cards I feel a bit self-conscious. This isn’t how our friendship is supposed to develop. We tease each other and joke around. He’s light relief. Although the truth is that I already don’t know what I’d do without him in my life.
While I explain what happened to three different people on the phone (‘Have you informed the police?’ ‘No, I don’t think there’s any point.’ ‘You need to inform the police.’) Adam makes up the spare bed.
‘Or would you rather I slept on the sofa so I’m right outside your door?’ he says when I end the third call and start googling the police non-emergency number.
‘No. Spare room is fine. I really appreciate it. Just knowing someone’s here …’ At that point I start to cry again. I haven’t cried this much since my childhood cat, Tilly, went missing. He turned up three days later, by the way, suspiciously fatter than when he’d left and wearing a pink collar with someone else’s phone number on it. He became an indoor cat after that.
‘Shit, sorry.’
‘Stop apologizing. If you didn’t break down a bit after someone basically attacked you in the street there would definitely be something wrong with you. I knew I should have walked you to the door.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’ll have to leave pretty early,’ he says as he steers me towards my room. ‘I need to go home and change. I can’t have my class thinking I’m doing the walk of shame.’
‘God, of course. I didn’t expect you to stay over at all.’
Later I lie in bed replaying the mugging in my head over and over again. I think about how Adam went out of his way to come back and look after me. That’s what friends are meant to do. Go the extra mile for each other. Wasn’t that why I had a duty to Michelle not to let her be taken in by a serial cheater?
When I get up after a fitful night’s sleep, there’s a note on the coffee table. ‘First time I’ve ever slept with a dog burping Winalot in my face all night. I like it. Hope you’re feeling better. Call you later xx.’