by Ruth Jones
‘He’s a teacher, by the looks of things.’
‘Or a very well-turned-out school caretaker,’ the photographer added, and she hit him playfully on the arm before continuing the call.
‘And they’ve been staying at the McKinley Hotel … Yes, very posh … OK, I’ll see what we can get you.’
She ended the call and turned to her colleague. ‘Right. You up for this?’
After pressing the intercom buzzer at the school reception, Melanie heard the officious voice of the school secretary, Mrs Crocombe, come booming out: ‘Can I help you?’
‘Hi, yeah, we need to contact the owner of a green Ford Mondeo, registration M235 KSO.’
‘Are you the police?’
Melanie looked at the photographer, shrugged and crossed her fingers. In for a penny!
‘That’s right.’
And Mrs Crocombe buzzed them in, the photographer hiding his camera under a jacket thrown over his arm.
They waited a few seconds in the foyer till Mrs Crocombe came bustling out. ‘That’s Callum’s car you’re talking about.’
‘Callum …?’
‘MacGregor. He’s on his way.’
‘Thanks.’
‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’
But before Melanie could answer, sixty schoolkids aged five to seven burst through the doors on their way to assembly, Brian Boyd not far behind, and two other teachers shepherding them into the hall. The noise was deafening and Melanie had to raise her voice to be heard.
‘Callum MacGregor?’
‘Yes?’
And with lightning speed the photographer whipped out his camera and started snapping away.
Callum was confused and the flash from the camera caught the children’s attention, shutting them up in an instant. Melanie thrust her Dictaphone at Callum and launched in with a barrage of questions.
‘What’s it like living with a TV star, Callum?’
‘What? Sorry, who are you …?’
‘We know all about you and Kate Andrews, Callum, so you may as well give your side of the story. Don’t you feel guilty breaking up her marriage like that? She’s got a little girl, after all …’
‘It’s none of your bloody business!’
Brian Boyd had put two and two together, realizing that his fear of press intrusion had been well founded. He stepped forward to intervene.
‘I’m Brian Boyd, Headmaster. You have no permission to be on school premises and are therefore committing an offence. Please leave immediately, or I shall call the police.’
Mrs Crocombe was mortified. ‘I thought they were the police!’
Melanie ploughed on, ignoring Brian’s warning. ‘Are you in it for the fame, Callum? Looking for a little mid-life adventure?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Actually, Carol, call the police,’ Brian said, frustrated.
But Mrs Crocombe was rooted to the spot. ‘In fact, I think they told me they were the police!’
‘GET ON THE BLOODY PHONE, WOMAN!’
At which point, the gobsmacked pupils, thinking this was some kind of game, started egging each other on.
‘Sir said “bloody”!’ began to spread, gaining momentum and turning into a playground chant: ‘Sir said “bloody”! Sir said “bloody”!’
Alarmed by the mounting chaos, Brian Boyd summoned up his leadership skills from deep within, yelling firmly and concisely at the children to ‘BE QUIET!’, which instantly shut them up. Then he turned to the photographer, took him by the arm and manhandled him out of the main door. The photographer continued to snap away through the window.
Next Brian went for Melanie, who wouldn’t go down without a fight and as she was bundled out shouted, ‘Are you married yourself, Callum? Have you got any kids? Should think yours are pretty much grown up by now, aren’t they? Wonder what the governors and parents will think about your lack of morals, Callum?’
Brian turned around and gathered himself, addressing the children in the calmest voice he could muster.
‘Right, show’s over, everyone. Into the hall, please. Recorder group on the stage – Ellie Fairfax and James McBride give out the song sheets.’
Then he turned to Callum. ‘Mr MacGregor, can I see you in my office, please?’
Callum decided to jump before he was pushed and handed in his resignation on the spot. He told Kate it was a relief, and that he couldn’t have carried on working there anyway, having everyone knowing his business, making comments on the way he lived his life.
Kate struck the hot iron and suggested that it may be a blessing in disguise, that a clean break might be the answer – would he consider moving to London? She’d caught him when his defences were down, and he agreed.
Within a week she’d found them somewhere to live – a riverside apartment in Lambeth, with spectacular views of the Thames, three bedrooms and a parking space. It would do them for now, until the divorce settlements were sorted.
She’d been optimistic Callum would get supply work within days, and that living in London would be the best option all round. It had cost them their privacy, of course – a double-page spread in the News of the World exposing their affair and displaying some fairly uncomplimentary photos of Callum at the school. He was mortified, but Kate said it sadly went with the territory and the best thing was to dust themselves down, pick themselves up and get on with the rest of their lives. Together. At last.
68
Valentine’s Day was unavoidable from the moment Matt woke up. On Capital Radio, listeners were phoning in and dedicating songs to loved ones; even when he switched to Radio 4 there was a discussion underway about the real St Valentine. Who, it turned out, was an advocate for monogamy and a big believer in marriage. How ironic.
He couldn’t help but think about Kate waking up that morning, Callum spoiling her with breakfast in bed and a dozen white roses. Callum would, of course, know by now how much she loved Valentine’s Day – more than any other day of the year, in fact – and that she loathed red roses but adored cream and white.
‘Right. That’s your lot!’ he said to himself, which he did most mornings after indulging in his daily ration of self-pity and series of ‘what-if’s about Kate. He leapt out of bed, pulled on his tracksuit and trainers and headed downstairs to fill his water bottle. Matt was going for a run.
He was into his fourth week. Dervla the therapist had suggested it. Apart from the endorphins physiologically fighting the depression, it also gave him some routine to his day. The first time he did it was horrendous, his lungs giving up on him within five minutes of starting, and his legs only managing a couple of circuits of the block. After staggering home, wheezing and purple-faced, he decided there and then to ditch the cigarettes.
And gradually the daily slog became a gentle jog until two weeks later he was running 4 or 5K every morning, followed by some weight training in Kate’s abandoned gym.
Only now, nearly two months after the break-up, did he feel he might be capable of mending. He no longer felt tempted to stay in bed all day after downing a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, or that life was utterly meaningless and bleak. It had taken eight sessions with Dervla – still ongoing – and a lot of tough love from his mother and Hetty to pull him out of the hellish pit into which he’d so heavily fallen.
He’d been shocked by his own reaction to what had happened. Having always prided himself on being a pragmatist, with a hardy Yorkshire spirit, he’d imagined he might handle it so much better, especially as he’d known for some time that things weren’t right between him and Kate.
But Kate’s affair had floored him. He was overwhelmed by the magnitude of her love for Callum MacGregor – and the fact that he’d been part of Kate’s life long before Matt had even met her. He felt that Callum, weirdly, had some sort of claim over Kate that superseded his own, even though he was married to her! And on top of everything, his ego had taken a bashing – because Callum, at fifty-six, was an astonishing twenty years older than him. What th
e fuck, Kate? What the fucking fuck?
And then the thought struck him.
Like a punch to the stomach.
Of course! He should’ve realized: Kate’s baby – little Luca, born, she’d said, in 1986 …
Callum must have been his father.
He stopped running and caught his breath, pausing to take in the enormity of it all. He wondered if Kate had ever even told Callum of Luca’s existence. Kate’s mind and the madness of her world made him shudder, and he thought with crippling sadness how little he had ever really known his own wife. It hadn’t stopped him loving her though, and he couldn’t envisage a time when it ever would. He continued with his run, comforted by the steady thud of his feet upon the ground and the regularity of his pace, telling himself over and over that everything was going to be alright.
Having Tallulah back – albeit part-time – had made a massive difference to his recovery. It had taken a good three weeks before he felt able to see his little girl again, and when he finally did it filled his heart with joy.
By now, Kate and Tallulah had moved down to London with Callum, where they were living in some riverside apartment. Tallulah told him she could ‘look out of the window and see the big clock! And the giant wheel!’
If Matt had felt strong enough he would have put up a fight, insisted that Tallulah would not live in the same place as a man he’d only met once, in very sordid circumstances. But Kate was too powerful a match for him, and when he’d voiced the weakest of objections, she’d told him he was being ridiculous, that Callum was her partner now, that she’d known him over seventeen years, and this was not up for discussion. She was happy for Tallulah to spend half the week with Matt – they just needed to arrange collection and drop-off. Like Tallulah was a parcel at a post office.
Although Matt was getting stronger by the day, he still didn’t want to see Kate in person when it came to picking up Tallulah. So he’d enlisted the help of his mother Sylvia, who in turn enlisted the help of her best friend Peter, who in turn wanted to enlist the help of his partner Julius, but Sylvia put her foot down, saying she didn’t want them turning up to collect her granddaughter mob-handed. Julius was the most disappointed by this as he’d secretly planned to give Kate Andrews a piece of his mind – the disloyal, hedonistic, self-centred, callous, marriage-wrecking, hard-hearted harlot, who, whilst he was at it, was highly overrated as an actress. Especially in that thing she did on ITV set in Gloucester.
When Sylvia and Peter had arrived at the apartment building for the first time, it took them a while to locate the correct doorway and intercom. Which made them slightly late. Which added to Sylvia’s stress. Kate buzzed them up, her voice bright and breezy as if they’d arrived for afternoon tea.
‘Hi Sylv! Hi Pete! Come on up!’
Kate opened the door eleven floors later, and Sylvia was shocked to see Callum there too. Peter squeezed her arm for support, knowing it would knock her for six seeing her daughter-in-law’s lover standing there bold as brass as if butter wouldn’t melt. (‘And what she sees in him I will never know! The man’s the same age as me if he’s a day!’ she’d whispered to Peter later when they were getting in the car. Peter thought Sylvia was pushing her luck with that one, but he didn’t feel it appropriate to point this out, given his friend’s distress.)
‘Sylvia, this is Callum,’ Kate said firmly.
Callum held out his hand, but Sylvia refused to take it.
‘Let’s not make this difficult, shall we?’ Kate warned. ‘For Tallulah’s sake.’
‘Didn’t think about Tallulah when you were jumping into bed with a man old enough to be your father, did you?’ Sylvia hissed, and Peter rapidly changed the subject as he spied Tallulah peeping round the corner, her faithful Panda in tow.
‘Is that Princess Tallulah-bella Mozzarella Fenton I see?’ he exclaimed like a character out of a pantomime.
This made Tallulah giggle. It was a game she and Peter always played and he was grateful now for the ice-breaker. She came running out to see them, shouting, ‘My name’s NOT Tallulah-bella Mozzarella!’
‘Erm, I think you’ll find it is!’ he teased.
Kate picked up Lula’s overnight bag and handed it to Sylvia. ‘There are a few things in here, but all her stuff is at the house, of course.’
‘Well, of course it is, that’s her home.’
‘Sylvia, we can’t have this sniping every time, OK? We’ll see you back here on Wednesday night.’
Sylvia bit her lip. It was challenge enough for her not to unleash all that was in her head, and she managed to remain silent, turning her attention to Tallulah instead.
‘Come on then, sweetheart, shall we go and see Daddy?’
‘YEY!’ she squealed and Peter picked her up, teasing her all the while to make the transition as smooth as possible as he carried her through Kate’s front door.
‘Bye, darling!’ Kate kissed her on her head. ‘Say bye-bye to Callum!’
‘No!’
‘Tallulah, don’t be silly now!’ Kate said with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, sensing Sylvia’s smugness.
‘NO!’ she shouted even louder, not because she was upset, but because she was playful, and Peter was her best friend right then, not Callum.
‘Tallulah! Don’t be so rude!’ Kate was feeling really stupid now.
‘Leave it, Kate,’ Callum said quietly. And Kate looked suitably admonished.
‘I’ll say that for him, Matt, he’s not afraid to stand up to her!’ Sylvia had told her son when she’d brought Tallulah over that first night.
And he’d turned to his mother, tired from all the sadness, and said, ‘You don’t need to tell me anything about Callum, Mum. Or Kate. All I care about is my little girl.’ And that’s what was keeping him going right now. Patching himself together until he couldn’t see the joins, getting fit and looking to the future. A future without Kate, but a future that would always have Tallulah in it. He didn’t need to think about anything else. Not for a while, anyway.
69
Glenda McCloud had an irritating habit of taking sharp intakes of breath as she read, as if being intermittently electrocuted. She was looking through Belinda’s case notes whilst Belinda sat opposite her, patiently waiting for Glenda to speak.
Sue’s sister-in-law Josie had recommended Glenda as ‘the best divorce lawyer in Scotland’, which Belinda found annoying for two reasons: firstly, how could Josie possibly know that? and secondly, she didn’t need the best divorce lawyer in Scotland. She just needed someone to fill out the forms, send them to the court and get the whole thing done and dusted as quickly as possible.
The decree nisi had come through yesterday. Now it was just a case of sorting the settlement whilst awaiting the decree absolute in a few more weeks.
‘So. He’s happy for you to stay on in the house till Ailsa is eighteen, but then you’ll have to sell and divvy up the profit.’
Belinda could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘Afraid so. I have to say, this lawyer of his …’ – she looked at the name at the bottom of the page – ‘Emmerson Shaw – nasty piece of work. Has Callum used him before?’
‘Of course not. It’ll be her solicitor, won’t it? He wouldn’t have a clue. But I know one thing, Callum wouldn’t want me to sell the house.’
Glenda looked at Belinda long and hard, biting the inside of her lip as her mind raced ahead of itself.
‘He’s got every right to make the request, I’m afraid. Of course, if you spoke to him, you could maybe get to the bottom of—’
‘No way,’ Belinda interrupted before Glenda reached the end of her sentence. She hadn’t spoken to Callum since the day he’d told her he was moving to London.
Since then, they’d communicated either via Ailsa or their solicitors. And that’s the way she wanted it. She knew Callum was desperate to see her, to try and make things a bit easier between them. But Belinda was rock solid in her determination never to cont
act him ever again. She simply didn’t trust herself: because she would either scream her head off at him for ruining her life, or she’d crumble and beg him to come back to her. Neither was an option, so she wouldn’t take the risk.
‘OK, that’s your prerogative. And, of course, Ailsa’s not eighteen for another six months, so you’ve got a bit of time. But unless you can come to some mutual agreement, he’s every right to insist on the sale of the property.’
It was Belinda’s third visit to Glenda McCloud. Each time she’d left there feeling low in confidence and high in stress.
She headed to the patisserie nearby, where she ordered a massive choux bun and the biggest coffee they made, sat in the window and caught her breath.
She knew she was going to have to contact Callum. She didn’t have a choice. Apart from anything else, she wanted him to know what antics his solicitor was up to on his behalf. There was no way the man she’d married would want to sell that house, the place his three children had been raised, the home that had witnessed so much love and laughter, that had been at the heart of their long and lovely journey as a family – well, long and lovely until last December.
She knew from his letters and his emails – to which she’d never replied – that the guilt he felt was already crippling him, and she knew he’d find it impossible to increase that burden by forcing her to sell their home. Unless he’d changed, of course. Maybe he’d been with ‘Hated Kate’, as the kids called her, for long enough now to be influenced by her ruthless mind. Maybe she’d persuaded him that You paid most of the mortgage on that house, Callum, and the kids are practically all grown up now, don’t be a wimp, fight for what’s rightly yours. She wouldn’t be surprised.
Bitch.
Belinda caught her reflection in the mirrored wall of the patisserie. She didn’t mind looking old. She was fifty-five now, after all, and she’d never been one of those women who worried about age. ‘Comes to us all,’ she used to say, ‘if we’re lucky!’ She’d put on weight since he’d left – mainly due to seeking solace in choux buns and no longer playing tennis. Ha! The irony of that – she’d lost not only a husband but a tennis partner to boot.