by Shari Low
‘Never mind, darling, pop over at the weekend and we’ll have lunch,’ her dad offered. ‘Call first, though, because we haven’t made plans yet.’
With that, and a couple of guilt-free hugs, they were off out the door, still holding hands like they were in the first flush of rampant attraction. It was enough to put her off her lunch.
Back out in the car, she sat for a moment and quietly seethed. She and her mum had been a gang of two her whole life. She knew it was ridiculous, but just for a moment, she felt… envious. What was this? Make Lila jealous day?
She checked her watch. Eleven fifteen. She didn’t feel like trying to squeeze in a couple of cold calls today – wasn’t in the mood – so she should probably just head back across to the hotel to meet Ken. It was one of those faceless chain hotels, overlooking the Clyde, near the exhibition centres and concert halls. Not exactly the Dorchester, but she guessed that since he’d suggested it, he was planning to pay. Cash, no doubt. Didn’t want to lay a paper trail that could make the wife suspicious. Lila totally understood that, just as she understood that he couldn’t lavish her with gifts or take her to exotic places, and she’d been prepared to put up with it because she knew the endgame. It would all be worth it when she was Mrs Ken Manson.
But she was sick of being second choice. Sick of it. And what was it they always said on those psychobabble training courses her company sent the reps on every year? Nothing changes unless you make it happen. If you want to be a winner, you have to see obstructions as opportunities. And a dozen more tosh-like phrases that everyone forgot the minute they left the Holiday Inn conference hall.
They had a point, though.
She wanted to be with Ken. But there were obstacles. All she had to do was remove them.
Before she could change her mind, she scrolled through her phone, found the number she was looking for and pressed the green button to connect.
‘Central Hospital, Glasgow, can I help you.’
‘Ward 34 please.’
She knew where Ken’s wife worked. It was one of those details she’d sussed years ago. She’d even seen her once, when she’d persuaded a locum to give her a tour of the ward on the premise of a marketing survey. Short. Dark auburn hair, swept back in a bun. No make-up. Completely forgettable. It blew her mind that Ken could be with a woman like this.
‘Ward 34, can I help you?’
It took her a split second to realise that the thudding sound was her heart beating out of her chest. Was she really going to do this? Was she going to be that cliché – the mistress that told the wife what was going on so she could have the guy all to herself?
‘Yes, can I speak to Sister Manson, please? Bernadette Manson.’
Apparently she was.
‘Sorry, Sister Manson isn’t on duty today. Can I take a message?’
There was a pause as Lila fought to control an explosion of emotions. Disappointment. Annoyance. Despair. Impatience. And yes, perhaps a small tad of relief.
‘No, that’s okay, I’ll call back tomorrow.’
Would she? Would she really?
She hung up, a sheen of sweat popping out above her Revlon Red lipstick.
No, she wouldn’t call back tomorrow. This had to happen today. Right now. Winners remove obstacles. Sure, Ken might be pissed off initially, but the last six months they’d spent apart had shown him that he couldn’t live without her. They were meant to be together, so what was the point in waiting any longer. He’d thank her when she was riding on top of him in a bungalow suite at Sandy Lane on their honeymoon.
She picked up her phone and stared at it for a few seconds, waiting for her heartbeat to return to normal. That last call had been rash. Impulsive. This time, she wanted to think it through, be prepared for what was going to come back on the other end.
Be sympathetic, caring even, but firm.
‘Bernadette? My name is Lila Anderson. I’m afraid I have some news that you might find disturbing, so I’ll come straight to the point.’
Too direct? Too harsh? Too alarming?
‘Bernadette, my name is Lila Anderson. I’m calling to talk to you about your husband, Ken…’
That made it sound like she was about to tell her he’d been run over by a bus. Or that he needed a top-up on his travel insurance.
‘Bernadette, this is Lila Anderson, your husband’s mistress. Yes, he’s a great shag, isn’t he?’
At least that one made her smile and took the heart rate down a notch or two Maybe she should wait. Yes, that’s what she should do. Go, have glorious, earth-trembling sex with Ken, then see how she felt after that. Only, she knew the answer already. She’d feel cheated. Sad when he left. Immediately followed by irritation that he wouldn’t make the move he’d been promising for years.
She snatched the phone up before she could change her mind, then scrolled down to the number that had been sitting there, like an unexploded landmine, since about a month after she met the dashing doctor for the first time. She’d got it from his phone, stored it, knowing there would be a day she might want to use it.
That day was today.
Time to win the end game.
She blocked her caller ID just to be cautious, then pressed the phone call button next to ‘Ken, home’.
It rang.
‘Hello, Bernadette, my name is Lila Anderson. I’m a friend of Ken’s. I wonder if we could meet and talk?’
Yes, that was it.
Still ringing.
Face to face. It would be uncomfortable, but that way Bernadette could see the competition, realise that she didn’t have any chance of winning and she’d walk away. Job done. Obstacle removed.
Still ringing.
‘Hi…’
The shock almost made Lila drop the phone. Ken. His voice.
‘This is the Manson home. Leave a message and we’ll return your call.’
An answering machine. Lila broke the connection and leaned her head back against the leather of the seat.
Fuck. Adrenalin coursed through her veins, closely followed by another dose of that earlier mix of disappointment and relief.
She put the phone down and switched on the engine.
Time to go get laid by her boyfriend.
She could deal with the wife later.
Noon – 2 p.m.
Chapter 9
Caro
So now what? She was here. In Glasgow. A city she’d only visited twice – once when Todd begged her to go with him to a Beyoncé concert, and the second time when she and Jason were flying to New York and the direct flight from Glasgow was the cheapest way to go. Now she was here with no plan whatsoever, on a trip that could only be described as borderline deranged.
Great.
The buzz of her phone made her pause at the end of the platform. A message. Jason. The coincidence jarred her.
Hey, how’s things? Drinks sometime over Christmas?
Her thumb returned the message.
All good thanks.
It wasn’t.
Will call you re: drinks.
She wouldn’t.
He was a nice guy. They’d been together a long time. But the truth was that she didn’t love him and there was no point in keeping it going on false hope and delusion. Wasn’t that what her dad had done to her mum? Mum had spent her whole life loving a guy, believing that he loved her back. Maybe he did. Or maybe he was just a vile, arrogant bastard who enjoyed her devotion and the adoration she lavished on him. Maybe he just needed a place to stay when he was in Aberdeen. Or perhaps he was keeping his options open by maintaining two completely separate lives, and now he’d chosen his preferred option?
She needed to find out for sure.
The streets were packed with shoppers as she left Queen Street station, thick jackets on, hats pulled down against the chill, scarves around their necks, bags dangling from gloved hands. Over to her left she could see a beautiful building she recognised as the City Chambers, while George Square, directly across the street, was a Christ
mas wonderland of lights and stalls, an ice rink in the middle, filled with people getting into the festive spirit. The smell of food from the stalls, and a tightness in her stomach reminded her that, other than the packet of shortbread on the train, she hadn’t eaten since… since… God, was it really yesterday lunchtime? Todd had appeared at her house, bringing a sandwich and a last-minute plea for her to change her mind about this trip. She’d accepted the sandwich.
Something to eat. But where? She crossed the road and began to walk, taking the natural route along the edge of the square, going right, then left, along the other side, until she was standing on the opposite side to the station. This road was even busier, bustling with people, heads down, striding in every direction. It was the smell she registered first, her eyes followed a few seconds later. Tapas. A Spanish restaurant sat just a few yards away, and her feet were already taking her there.
‘Table for two?’ the waiter asked, assuming she’d be meeting someone. Caro almost wished she were. Why hadn’t she let Todd come? He thought it was because she was brave and stoic, but the opposite was true. She hadn’t wanted anyone here with her in case she backed out, couldn’t face it and hotfooted it home without an answer. ‘Just for one,’ she replied, then followed him to a cosy little table in the corner.
She scanned the menu, making up her mind to go for the easiest option. A set lunch. Three tapas.
‘A tortilla, garlic mushrooms, and chicken croquettes please. And a black coffee.’
The waiter took the menu from her with a smile, and went off to make it happen. On any other day, she’d enjoy this. Spain had been her holiday destination of choice for years, Mum’s favourite too. Unexpected tears filled the tracks behind her lower lids, before a jarring memory beat them back down.
Spain. Mallorca. She would have been about fifteen. They had adjoining rooms in a hotel about ten minutes away from the beach in Puerto Pollensa. They didn’t get away every year, but when they did, it was always to the same place. The hotel wasn’t flash but it was nice, maybe a three star, with a buffet restaurant and a swimming pool big enough to do laps if you could avoid the families playing on their lilos. Not her parents. They would lie on adjacent loungers, holding hands across the gap, pretty much inseparable the whole time. Mum didn’t exactly neglect her – they’d still have the odd swim and eat together - but she made it clear she wanted to spend as much time as possible with Dad. Caro always made a point of trying to find another single child on the first day, otherwise she knew it would be a lonely fortnight.
On this morning, though, she knew immediately that something was wrong when she woke up. There were voices already in the other room. That was odd. She was always first to wake, would read a few chapters of her book, before creeping about, getting dressed in silence so she didn’t wake her parents.
She wandered through and saw Mum, face pale, the frown of desolation causing two deep lines between her eyebrows.
A glance to her right told her why. Dad was packing, throwing things in a suitcase. Again.
What was that? The third time? Maybe the fourth?
They’d be on holiday, supposedly for two weeks, and halfway through, Dad would have to leave because of some crisis with his Very Important Job.
Of he’d go, leaving just Caro and her mum to spend the second week alone. If Caro was being honest, she preferred it. At least then she felt like she had some company, albeit Mum would function like she was shrouded in a cloak of… not misery. Pointlessness. It was like there was no point being there, enjoying the holiday, making an effort, if Dad wasn’t there with her, and even Caro’s cajoling couldn’t quite make her smile reach her eyes.
Dad’s absence was a recurring theme that she hadn’t even acknowledged at the time. Her teachers thought she lived with just her mum, because Dad never once went to a parents’ night. Or a school show. Or a sports day. His Very Important Job didn’t allow it.
How many birthdays had he missed? How many bank holidays was he gone? And Christmas…
Another flashback. She was perhaps nine or ten. The house was decorated, the tree was up, Mum was singing along to the Christmas songs that were playing on the music channel on the TV. Dad was on his way back from… somewhere. She couldn’t remember where, but he was going to be home soon and they were going to have a fabulous Christmas together, just the three of them tonight, and then Mum’s family were all coming tomorrow for lunch. Auntie Pearl and Uncle Bob. Todd. Her granny. It was going to be great.
The song changed to that one by Chris Rea, but Mum knew the words to that too, still singing along as she chopped the vegetables for tomorrow’s soup. Then the phone rang. It was before they had a mobile phone – just a house phone, with big push buttons to make a call, sitting on a side table by the couch.
‘Will you get that, Caro? It’ll be Auntie Pearl. She’s probably just remembered she’s to bring pudding tomorrow.’
Caro lifted the big red handset. ‘Hello?’
‘Caro, it’s Dad. Can I speak to your mum?’
The recollection jarred with Caro now. He never spoke to her like he was in the least bit interested. There was no, ‘Hello, darling, how are you? How’s school? What are you up to?’ Nothing. She hadn’t even registered it at the time – it was all she was used to – but looking back as an adult, she could see that it was strange. Cold.
‘Sure, Dad.’ She took the phone away from her ear. ‘Mum, it’s Dad!’
The expression on her mum’s face changed instantly. Her eyes shot to the starburst clock on the wall, then, like a stone statue crumbling, her features began to fold in on each other, her shoulders slumped, her whole demeanour deflated. A few moments ago, she was singing and laughing. Now she was dead woman walking.
She took the phone and Caro could only hear her side of the conversation.
‘Oh, Jack, no. But we’ve got everyone coming and we were so looking forward to…’ Pause, then all her annoyance evaporated, changed to sympathy. ‘No, I know it’s worse for you. I know. I’m sorry. Yes. I understand. I’ll just… miss you. No, we’ll be fine. Really. It’s fine. I love you. Yes, that would be great, even if you can only get five minutes on Boxing Day…’
And then the conversation ended and Caro knew what it meant. He wasn’t going to make it back. Something had happened in his Very Important Job that was going to keep him away for Christmas. Again.
Mum slouched on to the couch. No more singing, now there was just Mum, staring into space, looking like her world had fallen apart. Caro got up and went over to the kitchen area, took over chopping the vegetables for the soup. Mum wouldn’t get anything else done tonight. She’d just stay there, miserable, wishing that he would walk in the door and make it all better. It was only hours later that Caro realised he hadn’t asked to speak to her again to explain he wasn’t coming home, maybe even wish her a Merry Christmas. Of course he hadn’t.
The waiter appeared back, took her dishes and coffee off a huge circular tray and placed them down in front of her with a flourish.
When he’d retreated, Caro realised that she’d lost her appetite.
That Christmas, like many more of the same, had come with a complete façade of merriment. Auntie Pearl and Uncle Bob, Todd and Granny had joined them as planned, and they’d had lunch, sang carols, played board games, sat down together between the main course and the pudding to watch Top of The Pops, but although mum’s mouth was arranged into a smile, she oozed unhappiness. It was liked someone flicked off the buttons marked happy, joyous and engaged in life whenever Dad walked out of the door, and only flicked them back on when he came home. And no matter how much Mum tried to pretend, she wasn’t convincing anyone.
Had it all been a sham? Had that phone conversation been a lie, had everything he’d said and done for the last thirty years been an act to an unwitting audience of two?
It couldn’t be. This was the kind of thing you read about in those magazine that came with lurid headlines. ‘My double life!’ ‘My husband was a bigamist!�
�� ‘One man, two wives!’
That kind of stuff wasn’t in her life. Was it?
And if it was, how was she going to find out? This was madness. Complete madness.
All thoughts of eating now gone, she pushed the plates back and pulled her iPad out of her satchel. The Wi-Fi password was on a blackboard on the wall, so she was logged in within seconds.
Facebook. Lila Anderson. She clicked on to her profile and immediately saw a new pic, only added a couple of hours ago. Lila, her platinum hair falling in a sheet of glossy perfection, her lips bright red, looking like a forties movie star, or that American pop star… what was her name… Gwen Stefani! That was it.
Anyway, there she was, pouting at the camera, announcing to the world that she was having a fantastic day.
Caro contemplated giving her own version of reality.
In a tapas restaurant. Alone. Can’t eat. Shit day. Might be about to find out my dad has lived a lifetime of lies. Oh and I may have a sister that looks like Gwen Stefani.
She picked up her phone, but not to boost her social network profile.
‘Am I mad?’ she said, before Todd even had a chance to say hello.
‘Absolutely,’ he answered, without hesitation.
‘Okay, so I was hoping for something a little more consoling than that. It was one of those instances that required you to humour me.’
‘Ah, right.’ He coughed, then went on, ‘No, you’re not mad at all, I completely understand, I’d do the same thing, as would any sane, rational, human being with a free day and a train ticket.’ He paused. ‘How was that?’
‘Perfect. I feel so much better now.’
‘Then my job is done.’
Caro could see him in her head, laughing as he prattled on, and felt a definite loosening of the vice that was gripping her shoulders. And actually, the smell of the food was making her stomach grumble now. Maybe she could manage a few bites.
‘So, you got a plan yet?’ he asked, not stopping for an answer. ‘I saw that woman’s update on Facebook. I’ve been keeping an eye on it too. She’s gorgeous. Looks nothing like you.’