by Niamh Greene
I didn’t tell him that you had got married and I was in therapy to come to terms with it. There’s no point worrying him. After all, he has enough on his plate trying to keep thirty teenagers from running amok. Mum is up the walls with worry about him – not because of the death-row killers but because Stacey Holby, the school’s religion teacher, is on the trip too. Mum says Stacey isn’t a proper religion teacher at all – she’s never been to Lourdes or even the shrine at Knock. I tried to explain that they don’t really teach religion in the old-fashioned way any more, not now that so many schools are non-denominational. But Mum doesn’t believe in non-denominational. She thinks it’s only a fad. She’s terrified that Stacey is going to lead Mike astray. I told her there was very little chance of that. Mike had been led astray long ago – we all know about his passion for busty platinum blondes. Then she said that it was perfectly natural for Mike to want to sow his wild oats, all young men did, but she knew Stacey Holby’s sort. She was a conniving trollop – one of those girls who are determined to trap a man and get a ring on their finger, no matter how. I thought that was ironic, considering that’s exactly how she trapped Dad, but I didn’t tell her. Bringing that up would make it much worse, even if Mary the therapist thinks a lot of my problems can be traced back to Mum and Dad’s flawed relationship. She says that seeing Dad leave Mum when I was little made me desperate to hang on to our relationship at all costs. Mary says that subconsciously I probably knew that you weren’t being faithful to me all along, but that I was willing to put up with it to keep you, because I didn’t want you to leave me, the way Dad left Mum. I didn’t want my inner child to be abandoned all over again. According to her, this issue is the elephant in the room and I need to discuss it with Mum, tell her how upset I feel about Dad leaving and stop pretending that simply ignoring it will make the pain go away. I didn’t tell Mary that mentioning the words ‘marital separation’ in Mum’s presence is out of the question. Dad’s been gone for years and she still likes to pretend that he’ll be back once he snaps out of it and comes to his senses.
Mary says there must have been signs of your infidelity everywhere but that I chose to ignore them. I tried telling her I didn’t have a clue that you were cheating on me until I came home early that day and caught you and another woman in our bed, but I’m not sure she believed me because when I said that she just scribbled in her jotter and nodded a lot, as if she wasn’t at all convinced. I never found out what her name was. Your lover, I mean. I never found out anything about her – you left too fast to talk about it. But I do know that she’s not your new wife, because her face is imprinted on my memory and she looks nothing like the new Mrs Adler. And that makes me feel even worse, because if you’d left me for the love of your life I might be able to understand it.
That reminds me: I think Johnny the plumber might have split up with his latest conquest. I first suspected when he started playing his heavy metal CDs all night. I like a bit of AC/DC as much as the next girl, but having it thumping through the wall at 1 a.m. is not my idea of fun. So, the other night, after hours of trying to sleep with my head jammed under two pillows, I stumbled into the hallway and banged on his door to tell him to quieten down. When he answered he looked really haggard and pale. It was quite strange, because he just agreed to turn it off and he didn’t even invite me in for a nightcap. You know how he is – usually when he dumps someone he’s back to pestering anything with a pulse to sleep with him within hours, but this time seems different. Then, when I met him in the lift today, he didn’t even leer at me like he usually does. And he wasn’t wearing that awful aftershave either – you know, the one that can make it difficult to breathe if you get within six feet of him. When I asked him if everything was OK he just shrugged his shoulders and looked at me blankly. I recognized the look instantly – I could be wrong, but I think he’s had his heart broken for the very first time. I feel a bit sorry for him, but I am relieved as well. Listening to all his porno moves was really wearing me out. I’d take AC/DC over that any day of the week.
I almost forgot: Derek’s friend Homer has started repainting the flat. He’s nothing like I expected him to be. I thought he might actually look like Homer from The Simpsons – you know, a fat slob swilling a Duff beer. But he doesn’t have a beer belly or brush-over hair; he has a ponytail – a really long one that almost reaches to his waist. When I showed him round he said that Honey Dew would be the perfect yellow to transform the flat – he has it on his own walls and he says it’s a really uplifting colour, especially in the morning when dawn breaks and the sun streams in. I didn’t like to tell him that I never pull up the blinds in the morning, so there’s no chance of sun streaming in anywhere, but once he showed me the colour card and I was sure I could stomach it, I gave him the go-ahead to start. Mary says it’s healthy to take a risk. And at least I won’t have to listen to Anna banging on about beige being the most boring colour in the world any more. It’s bad enough that she keeps lecturing me about my love life, without having her lecture me about wall colours too. Anyway, I’ve been looking at the colour card he gave me in lots of different lights and I’ve decided that Honey Dew is quite a nice shade of yellow, all things considered. It’s bright and modern-looking, and let’s face it, I could do with being dragged into the future. You always used to say I was so old-fashioned and behind the times. Maybe it’s time I got a bit trendier, even if it’s only in the comfort of my own home.
Eve
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Molly
‘I’m sooo excited!’ Samantha squeals. ‘I can’t wait to meet David Rendell!’
We’re in the foyer of the Sheldon Hotel and Samantha is jumping up and down in her seat and clapping her hands together. If she had her hair in plaits she’d pass for an eight‐year-old.
I am trying very hard not to be sick. In fact I’m so nervous about seeing David again that trying not to throw up is all I can think about right now. It’s not helping that the lobby carpet is possibly the most nauseating I’ve ever seen. The mixture of mustard and neon-green pure wool swirls is making me feel even worse. Or perhaps it’s the red zigzag binding round the edges – yes, that could be it.
‘I can certainly see why you went out with him, Molly,’ Samantha goes on, caressing the photo of David that sits on the inside cover flap of his book. ‘Is he as gorgeous in real life as he looks?’
I glance at the photo of David. It’s nice enough, but it doesn’t really do him justice. The photographer hasn’t quite managed to capture the special twinkle in his eye that I used to love. I’ve seen much better shots of him. Like the one I took a few months after we first started
dating. We’d just made our way through the sand dunes and onto the beach, arm in arm. David hated having his photo taken, but somehow that day I’d managed to persuade him and he finally gave in to me with a laugh and posed beside the water. In the shot he’s half turned towards the camera, his gentle lopsided smile playing round his lips, his floppy fringe hanging low in his eyes. It’s always been my favourite photo of him. For a very long time after we broke up I carried it carefully folded in my purse. I used to take it out and look at it every night before I went to sleep.
‘He really is a ride, isn’t he?’ Samantha is still talking. ‘You’re mad to have split up with him!’
Then she seems to remember that I am a newlywed and that maybe talking about ex-boyfriends isn’t such a good idea.
‘Not that Charlie isn’t a ride, mind, he certainly is – he’s gorgeous too,’ she says with feeling, changing direction. ‘You know how to pick ’em, that’s for sure!’
She’s still bouncing up and down on the velvet upholstered Queen Anne chair. Her voice is an irritating buzzing noise in my ear – one I desperately want to swat away.
No wonder Minty rarely lets her out of the office. I thought she might be a welcome distraction today, but now I’m not so sure. If she doesn’t stop talking soon I might have to kill her.
This is all going wrong and David isn’t even here yet. For a start, I never should have trusted Samantha to order the cab. I should have known she’d be so enthusiastic that we’d arrive far too early. And she talked to the taxi driver all the way here. The poor guy was quite cheerful when we got in, but she beat him down so much with pointless chatter about traffic and weather and reality TV that he looked positively haunted by the time he dropped us off at the hotel entrance. He gave me a tight little smile as I was paying him, one that said ‘I feel your pain’, and then he sped off far too fast and almost knocked down a little old lady trying to cross Bridge Street. Now we’re here and nothing is going as I thought it would.
I’d had it all planned. I’d arrive a little late – not too much, just enough to be cool. Then I’d sweep into the lobby looking radiant and composed and glance around distractedly, as if I couldn’t really remember what I was doing here. As if I hadn’t spent endless hours obsessing about the moment I’d come face to face with David again. I’d spot him, nod slightly in recognition, smile lazily and wind my way over to him slowly and confidently, moving my hips sensuously from side to side while maintaining eye contact. Samantha would be panting behind me, carrying my bag and looking like my PA.
I had it all worked out beautifully in my mind. I knew the only tricky bit was the lazy smile – that sounds much easier to pull off than it really is. It’s very hard to do properly and not end up looking like you’ve been possessed or have some kind of weird lip twitch. I knew I’d be good at the swaying-hip thing though – the many times I’d practised my walk up the aisle would pay off there.
But the whole scenario hinged on being in control and making a grand entrance in my own good time, not getting there miles early and sitting fretting in the lobby, feeling powerless and trying not to retch on the vile carpet. If I wasn’t feeling so ropey I’d kill Samantha with my bare hands.
I dig my compact mirror out of my bag to check how bad I look in this light. Of course, because I’m meeting David and want to be at my glowing best, I look absolutely terrible. My face is a road map of fine lines and wrinkles, and the bags under my eyes could carry enough luggage for a month’s holiday. And it might just be the light in the lobby, but my skin has a definite tinge of grey about it.
Why can’t I look good, just this once? Not supermodel good, obviously – I’m not delusional. I’d settle for looking like time has stood still since David and I last met, or, even better, that time has moved backwards and now I look like a dewy eighteen-year-old, not a haggard thirty-three-year-old who could use a small facelift.
I move my head from side to side to get a better view of how bad things really are. I piled on the foundation this morning to try to look presentable, but now it’s settled into every crease and crevice in my face. It’s meant to give a flawless finish – it’s meant to buff away fine lines and conceal age spots. It’s doing none of this. I don’t look buff and youthful. I look like a drag queen on a bad day.
There’s no way David won’t notice the wrinkles. Or the grey skin. Not unless he’s developed sight problems. Or cataracts. They can make your vision really cloudy. If he had a few early-onset cataracts, he wouldn’t notice a thing. Not that I want to wish cataracts on him, of course – that would be awful – it’s just that a bit of impaired vision would be handy right now. Or temporary blindness. Maybe he’ll look into the sun on his way over and burn his retina or cornea or whatever it is – that could work. I look out the window. It’s drizzling. The chances of him getting accidentally blinded are pretty slim.
‘I know exactly what I’m going to ask him.’ Samantha is still talking. ‘I have it all prepared.’
I try to concentrate. If I engage in some sort of conversation with her it could help me, stop my stomach from rolling around like we’re on the ferry to Wales in a gale-force wind and I’m clutching a white paper sick bag like it’s my closest friend.
‘Sorry?’ I force myself to look at her, even though her clear skin and plump cheeks make me feel depressed. I used to have skin like that once. Maybe I should scrap the facelift idea and think about getting collagen injections. Or cheek implants. It probably wouldn’t hurt that much. Or some Botox. Al swears by Botox. He hasn’t frowned in years and says he’s never felt better. Even if his face does sometimes look a little frozen. Maybe that’s the price you have to pay. I wonder if we’d get a reduction if we went in together, like two for the price of one?
‘What I’m going to ask him.’ Samantha patiently repeats herself. ‘I’ve done some research.’
She pulls a sheaf of papers from her bag. She has a blue elastic band tied round the pages, and there are Post-it notes peeping out here and there. I can see that there are lots of handwritten scribbles on the Post-its. And question marks. I’m staring at the pages, horrified. Why does she have all this stuff with her?
‘You see,’ she leans forward to confide in me, ‘I’ve read some of his earlier novels and I noticed quite a few inconsistencies in his plot lines, so I’m going to quiz him about them.’
What on earth is she talking about? Has she gone completely mad?
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, because of my relationship with Steve, I’ve developed a real insight into the criminal mind. For example, when the murderer in David’s Night, Night Killer goes on that killing spree, it’s definitely his mother’s cold attitude towards him that’s to blame. But that’s not really spelled out in the text – do you know what I mean?’
She shuffles her papers.
Oh God, Samantha has lost it. Exchanging letters with a death-row prisoner has unhinged her completely.
‘Listen to me, Samantha.’ I have to take her in hand, otherwise David will bolt, we won’t get our exclusive and Minty will string us both from the nearest ceiling for fun.
‘You are not to ask him anything. Seriously, I mean it. You are to take notes. That’s all.’
Samantha’s face falls.
‘But I thought you wanted me to help?’
She looks devastated. I don’t have the heart to crush her – and anyway, Minty will probably take care of that later. I’ll back-pedal. Just a little. Not so much so that she thinks she can say anything, but just enough so that she doesn’t lose all her confidence.
‘I do,’ I say soothingly. ‘You are being a help already. It’s just…’ I search for something to say. Something that will stop her from sabotaging the entire meeting. Something to stop her talking at all.
‘David is sociophobic.’
I have no idea how this has popped into my head.
Her jaw drops.
‘Yes…’ I’m warming to the idea. ‘He can’t bear being in publ
ic. It scares him. He comes out in the most awful rash. All over his body. And… he twitches. Really badly. Like he’s having a fit.’
‘Oh my God. That’s terrible.’ Samantha’s hand flies to her mouth.
‘Yes, I know. It’s tragic,’ I say. ‘It affects lots of authors. Writing is such a solitary occupation, they can turn a little…’ I twist my finger beside my head to let her know what I mean.
‘Nuts?’ she whispers.
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It’s horrible.’
‘Was he like this when you were, you know, together?’