by Jane Fallon
‘You know I’m joking, right? Have I upset you?’
‘No. Of course not. I’m fine,’ I say as a pair of large tears plop onto the table. What the hell is happening to me?
Adam looks horrified. Puts his hand on my arm. ‘God, Tamsin, I’m so sorry. I was just being stupid. I thought you’d laugh.’
‘I know. It was funny. I’m just in an odd mood, that’s all.’
‘Is this still about the mugging? I can see you home tonight by the way.’
‘Don’t be daft. It’s the other side of London. And I’m not worried about that. I’ll get a cab and ask the driver to wait till I’m inside.’
‘What then?’
‘Nothing. Just ignore me. I feel really stupid.’
‘I should have censored myself. It didn’t even occur to me you might not find it funny.’
‘I did! I do. Please don’t start thinking you have to edit what you say to me.’
‘It’s the Michelle thing, isn’t it? It’s all got too much?’
‘Yes,’ I say, deciding on the path of least resistance. Although, to be fair, if I dwelt too much on the Michelle/Patrick situation it probably would bring me to tears.
‘You don’t have to speak to her at all, you know. You could decide to just forget you know anything. Let them all sort it out themselves.’
‘You know I can’t do that. I’d still lose Michelle anyway because I can’t bear to go round there any more. At least this way she might not waste her whole life married to someone who doesn’t even care about her.’
‘Just get it over with. The stress is going to finish you off.’ He puts his hand on my arm when he says this. I look down at his stupid sausagey fingers with their stubby nails and another tear edges its way out of the corner of my eye.
‘I know.’
56
Tamsin
This is it.
I have chosen to do it at Michelle’s house on a night when I know Patrick is away. I agonized about the venue. Ultimately I came down on the side that dropping this particular bombshell in public wouldn’t be the kindest thing to do. It’s not going to be pretty.
I deliberately picked an evening when Patrick would be gone for the whole night. I have no idea where he is going, obviously. The official story is Manchester. But I know he’ll be holed up in a London hotel somewhere with Bea. At her flat even. Safely out of the way. And I even thought maybe it would give her a chance to check up on him. To do some detective work before he started to cover his tracks.
I just have to hope she trusts me enough to believe what I’m telling her. Oh the irony.
I call Adam while I’m in the cab on my way to Highgate. I need someone to reassure me I’m doing the right thing. Plus I need a diversion to stop the cabbie droning on at me about his family. There are lots of them, that’s all I can tell you. I tuned out early on, but even the effort of grunting in a non-committal way every time he leaves a pause is exhausting. It takes him a moment to cotton on to the fact that I am making a call so, at the point I say, “Hi, it’s me,” he is saying:
‘… with some geezer lives on the Old Kent Road …’
‘Are you at a Chas and Dave concert?’ Adam says.
‘I wish. I’m on my way.’
‘Like I told you last night, just get it out there. Once you’ve told her, the rest is up to her.’
Adam had called me on the way home from his date with Jordan’s mum who, it turns out, is called Mel. I don’t know if he knew that I’d be hunched over my mobile waiting for a debrief like a crack addict over a pipe. I hope I haven’t given myself away that much.
I had spent most of the evening trying to imagine how it was going between my unlikely crush and my doppelganger. I poked myself with images to see if it really did hurt. And it did. Not majorly. Just a little. Just enough to confirm that my feelings for Adam have morphed from friendly to something entirely different. I pictured him making her laugh, teasing her in the same way he does me. Asking her about herself, because he’s genuinely interested in other people. Seeing her home, because he’d learned his lesson on that one.
Her inviting him in.
When he phoned at quarter past ten I breathed a sigh of relief that nothing too newsworthy must have happened. Unless he’d given her a quick one up against the pub car-park wall. Adam didn’t strike me as the up-against-the-wall type, though. Unless she’d insisted. Then he might have been too polite to say no.
‘So, how did it go?’ I said as soon as I answered.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘She’s nice.’
‘Wow! Don’t get a job as a reviewer, will you? Don’t you teach English?’
Adam laughed. ‘OK, it was an enjoyable evening. She’s edifying company.’
‘Better. OK, I need a step-by-step account.’
‘Not now. Now we need to go over what you’re going to say tomorrow.’
‘Are you seeing her again, though?’
‘Yes. Probably. Right … hold on, I’m just getting off the bus …’
I heard the doors open and the whoosh of the wind through his phone. Back in Clapham already? I did a quick mental calculation. His date must have ended by quarter to ten at the latest. Surely not an auspicious sign?
‘So …’ Adam said. ‘It is still on for tomorrow, right?’
‘It is. Apparently Patrick is in Manchester for the night.’
‘Tell me what you’re going to say.’
Adam and I had worked this out in detail. I had even written notes so that I could revise. The whole story is a minefield that requires careful negotiation. Firstly I had to make up the reason I knew any of this in the first place. We had decided on a combination of industry rumours that were hard to ignore followed by Adam and I spotting Patrick and a woman coming out of the Covent Garden Hotel together on the night when I knew he was supposed to be playing football. It wasn’t too much of a stretch of the truth. A bit of a glitch in the timeline that had Patrick and Bea leaving together rather than separately.
The big issue was, did I tell her it was Bea? I had been there when she met Bea just the other day. I had watched them chat (and Bea patronize Michelle) and said nothing. Plus I didn’t even want to skirt near the question of how Patrick and Bea might have met in the first place. On balance we decided I should say nothing. Maybe make the point that while Adam had seen her I had only caught a glimpse. Like I said, fudge it.
I was banking on her being too distraught about the big picture to focus too much on the details.
Then I would just wait. Be there for my friend and duck when Patrick threw the big grenade. By then I hoped she would be so convinced of his guilt that she wouldn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth.
As plans went it was hardly the Hatton Garden robbery.
‘OK, good,’ Adam said when I had run through the whole thing again. ‘The secret is to stick to your guns. Don’t deviate.’
‘I feel sick,’ I said. ‘I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Try and get some sleep.’
‘I’ll try. So … you’re definitely going to see her again … Mel?’
‘I think so. Yes.’
‘Great. Where are you going to go next time?’
‘Stop trying to avoid going to bed. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Night, Tamsin.’
Today he phoned me again on his lunch break. I was in Anne Marie’s office going through a budget, but I knew that if I missed him the chances of me getting hold of him later were slim to none. He would be on lunch d
uty or overseeing detention or in the middle of asking someone if they’d do whatever they were currently doing in their own home. So I told her it was important and I ducked out and into my own office, shutting the door behind me.
‘Ring me the second you get out of there. The second. I don’t care how late it is.’
‘I was thinking I might even stay the night. If the dog walker can have Ron.’
‘If you do, let me know. I’m going to be sat there all evening by the phone like a saddo.’
‘I will. I promise. Wish me luck.’
‘It’ll be fine. Well, it won’t, but it’ll be over.’
I had been avoiding Bea all morning. I couldn’t look her in the eye. I knew she thought I was behaving oddly, but I couldn’t seem to do anything about it. Once Adam had given me another pep talk I handed a pile of filing to Ashley on my way out to get myself a salad.
‘Do you mind?’ I said, chucking the whole stack on her desk, where it teetered ominously. ‘It’s not urgent.’
‘Of course not.’
‘Thanks,’ I called over my shoulder as I headed down the stairs, keen to get out before my assistant caught me giving her work to someone else.
‘I’m staying over at Danny’s,’ Bea said when she saw me clock her overnight bag as she was leaving for the day. I’d exhausted myself trying to avoid talking to her for the past eight hours.
‘Wow! That’s a big step, isn’t it?’ I said, trying to disguise the fact that I knew she was lying through her straight white teeth.
‘Epic,’ she said with a cat-that-got-the-cream smile.
‘Well, have fun.’
‘Are you OK?’ she asked, and if I hadn’t known better I would have thought her concern was genuine.
‘Sure. Just … PMT. I’ll be fine tomorrow.’
Now I’m sitting at Michelle and Patrick’s kitchen table. Somewhere I have sat countless times before over the years. My home from home. I suddenly wonder who’ll get to keep the house. I remember when Michelle first saw it. She took me along with her for a second opinion before she even told Patrick about it. We both fell in love with it on sight. A cosy two-storey, plus a basement kitchen terrace with a tiny walled garden out the back. A ‘real’ gas fire burning in the original Victorian fireplace. A full wall of fold-back patio doors. The perfect blend of period meets modern. Two bedrooms. I could read what Michelle was thinking – this is the perfect place to start a family.
By the time she took Patrick round to see it it was a done deal. I remember thinking how touching it was that he would go along with whatever would make her happy. It made me think that maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible if she married him after all.
She plonks a mug of Salted Caramel Green Tea down in front of me. She is still on her conception health kick and I don’t want to risk the effects of alcohol. She sits on the chair opposite.
‘Everything OK?’
I breathe in slowly. Throw myself off the cliff.
‘Actually no. Mich … there’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
57
Bea
A whole night away. This is only the fourth time this has happened. To say it’s a big deal, a milestone, would be an understatement on a par with announcing Kim Kardashian’s back end is a little on the full side.
A whole night means ten times the intimacy. By which I don’t mean sex, I mean teeth brushing and morning breath and waking up with no make-up on. Grown-up stuff. The meat and potatoes of relationships.
It was me who pushed for it. It wasn’t a big romantic gesture on Patrick’s part. I have been feeling a tad insecure since our fight about me wanting a job, I’m not going to lie. It brought it home to me that I am never going to be the number one priority in his life. So I whined a bit. Stamped my foot and said I felt I was being used. For a while I thought I’d pushed him too far and that he was going to decide it was all too much hassle. That what he had with me was meant to be fun, not hard work. So I backed off a bit and the next thing I knew he’d booked a room – an executive suite, no less – at The Langham.
It was a victory. One I could only share with Ali, who I had finally confided in because, despite Patrick’s insistence that no one must ever know, I was desperate to let someone into the secret to make it seem real. I thought she would be disapproving – she has a tendency to lecture on about the way women treat women, but she has a new boyfriend, so she’s mellowed out a bit lately. Until it all goes wrong again, that is. And she actually laughed and said good for me if it was making me happy.
Which it was until Tamsin told me about him and Michelle trying for a baby.
I mean … listen, I’m not thick. I know he has to carry on as if everything is normal and that, I suppose, includes sleeping with his wife every now and again. But there’s a world of difference between that and ‘they’re trying to get pregnant’. Trying to get pregnant means envisioning the future together. It means happy families and let’s be mummy and daddy. It means commitment.
And, according to Tamsin it means they’re at it like a pair of virgins in their first week at university. Now they’ve started they can’t stop. And the thought of that literally makes me feel sick.
So now I’m on my way up to the fourth floor of The Langham, not fizzing with anticipation, not with the rush I usually get as I approach his room that’s a combination of anticipation and fear of being spotted. I’m feeling pissed off, used and taken for granted. I want to know where I stand. I want answers.
‘Hey,’ he says, when he opens the door a couple of millimetres to check it’s really me.
‘Hi.’
He lets me in. I’ve noticed that a few times lately we haven’t spent the whole evening in bed. We’ve talked. I’d put it down to the fact that our relationship was evolving into something more serious. We cared about each other. It wasn’t just the sex, we had a connection. Yeah, right. Or maybe he’s just been so knackered from his marathon sessions with Michelle that he hasn’t got the energy. Perhaps I should suggest we skip the bedroom altogether and just have a nice cup of tea and a catch-up.
It’s as if he picks up on the atmosphere. I’m not surprised, it’s oozing out of me like ectoplasm from a ghost. ‘You good?’ he says, and for the first time it irritates me that he has a tendency to use a kind of cod American way of speaking sometimes. I used to find it sexy. Now it’s grating. Same with the hipster clothes. Suddenly they seem too self-conscious, too studied. I want to shout, ‘You’re not from Brooklyn, you know. You’re an over-privileged English grammar school boy from Epsom.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, clearly not fine.
He rolls his eyes. He’s got with the programme. We are on the same page. ‘For fuck’s sake, Bea, what’s up now?’
‘Nothing,’ I say huffily, thus giving away that there most definitely is something.
‘Oh no. I am not going to play this game. If you’re upset about something say so, but don’t do the whole “everything’s fine” martyr act.’
He sits down on the edge of the bed. The champagne cork remains unpopped. I’m dying for a drink actually. I think about opening it myself but it doesn’t seem appropriate at the moment. This is not going well. I have two choices: cave in as usual and accept my second-class status, or have it out with him. It’s about time.
‘OK.’ I sit on a chair opposite him. ‘Tamsin told me you and Michelle are trying for a baby.’
I lean back, let him take in the full weight of what I’m saying – which he does pretty quickly, it seems, because he laughs. Not the reaction I was anticipating.
‘That’s it? That’s the reason you’re in such a shit mood?’
‘Well, are you?’
‘What if we are? I’ve told you before she’s always wanted kids.’
‘What do you mean “What if we are?” You’re going home every night for shag-a-thons and I’m supposed to think that’s OK?’
He laughs again and it has a hollow, mean sound.
‘Hardly. And even if I was, she’s my wife. What do you want me to say to her? “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind, but my girlfriend will be upset if I have sex with you?”’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do you know what, Bea? I don’t.’
‘You’re really going to have a baby?’
‘Ah, so, are you upset about the fact that you think Michelle and I are at it like rabbits, or are you upset about the fact that we might have a baby? I’m confused.’
I try to ignore the sarcastic tone. I can’t bear it when people try to win arguments on technicalities.
‘If you have a baby, what happens then? For us, I mean.’
‘Nothing happens. We carry on as normal.’
I don’t know how I feel about this. I do know, however, how I feel about the other half of the picture. And even though I know I should probably keep my mouth shut, I can’t.
‘So, is it … I mean … Tamsin basically said Michelle told her you can’t keep your hands off each other …’
‘And Tamsin is so trustworthy.’
‘Why would she make that up, though? Michelle must have said something to her.’
‘I really don’t want to talk about this, funnily enough.’
‘But what if I do? It’s not fair that I’m kept in the dark about everything …’
‘You want me to tell you all about mine and Michelle’s sex life?’
That stings. They don’t just have occasional sex, they have a sex life.
‘No. You know what I mean.’