#Toots

by Linh Le James

  ‘Yes, I would love some tea, Danielle. Emma, good girl! Down! Down!’ I order, to no effect. ‘Isn’t she gorgeous, Nick? I looove dogs,’ I gush falsely, repressing the urge to kick the Labrador in the head.

  ‘Emma’s amazing. Let me go and get changed upstairs and I’ll meet you girls for tea in the reading room.’ Nick pecks his mother on the forehead and rushes off.

  Large bay windows open onto a huge garden with manicured lawns and mature oaks. The furniture is made of exotic polished mango wood, which complements the biscuit hand-weft hemp armchairs and settees.

  ‘Nick tells me you had a wonderful time in Amsterdam. Did you have time to visit Anne Frank’s house?’

  Is Anne Frank a relative or a friend of Nick’s? I’m pretty sure he didn’t bring up the name. Hmm. It might be a local sightseeing must-do. I told Nick I was blasé about art in general and didn’t want to waste my time on museums, which I find incredibly boring.

  ‘No, we didn’t. I heard the art there is very good, though,’ I appreciatively comment.

  .

  ‘Oh, you mean in Amsterdam? Indeed.’ Mrs. Carlson blinks quickly. ‘I love Van Gogh. All Impressionists, actually – neo, post, and in any shape and form.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ I nod expertly. ‘They’re not called Impressionists for no reason, are they? They’re the best at impressing the public and leaving a good impression on people. I am, myself, deeply impressed by Impressionists.’

  Mrs. Carlson seems puzzled and starts to serve the tea. Deflated by my failure at impressing her so far, I wander off to examine the silver frames on the mantelpiece. Old family photos of when Nick was little, and a collection of more recent ones. Nick, arm linked with a classy brunette at a polo game. Nick running along a beach in the sun with Emma the Dog, like a Tommy Hilfiger ad. One with his parents and the brunette in a posh-looking restaurant. The girl seems to be about Nick’s age, and looks as though she models her looks and wardrobe on the Duchess of Cambridge.

  My red sundress and white patent platform pumps suddenly feel cheap and skanky. If only I had on one of my alternative demure outfits! To be honest, being home instead would be great, but Nick asked me if I minded swinging by his parents’ house to pick up Emma right after we landed at Gatwick. Refusing would have seemed rude.

  ‘This one is on the Boxing Day they got engaged, two years ago, at Bentons in Knightsbridge,’ Mrs. Carlson comments, pointing at the frame I’m scrutinizing. ‘I apologize – Nick asked me a few times to remove Sienna’s photos but I never got around to doing it. I guess I always expected them to get back together. Do sit down and have some tea. I have some cantuccini – do you like them?’

  The words send a chill down my spine. Engaged! From Mrs. Carlson’s tone, Sienna is a respected and missed ex-girlfriend – the worst kind. She’s probably also spiritual, enjoys aerial yoga and devotes her spare time doing charity work for children in need. How am I going to compete with the silly cow in Mrs. Carlson’s eyes? Nick’s mother surely doesn’t expect her precious son’s girlfriend to be a beautician and have no clue where Abu Dhabi is (I still haven’t had the chance to look it up). Being a fair-feathered eagle won’t be enough. I’ll have to be a bloody Andean condor to win this game!

  ‘Mother, I hope you’re not showing Louisa the riding photo.’ Nick reappears in the sitting room, having changed his shirt and cleaned Emma the Dog.

  ‘It’s still here.’ Mrs. Carlson puts her index finger on top of a small round frame, ‘Nick hates it. Look, he’s only three years old, sitting on a pony for the first time in his life. It was just before he had his first haircut. How I missed those gorgeous curls.’

  ‘They made me look like a girl! Father said he had to nag you to take me to the hairdresser.’

  ‘It was the day I lost my baby boy,’ she comments gaily as Nick links his arm with hers.

  ‘Those photos of Sienna are still up!’ Nick exclaims as he spots the pictures on the far end of the mantelshelf. ‘Right, I’m getting rid of them if you won’t.’ He reaches for the frames.

  ‘Please don’t, Nick. I will put them away.’ Mrs. Carlson stretches out a hand.

  ‘I think you’re more attached to my ex-girlfriend’s photos than I am,’ he teases, only half amused.

  ‘You were perfect together. It all ended on a misunderstanding.’

  I can’t believe my ears! The old bird is basically throwing me under the bus! I’m tempted to explain to her why old relationships should never be rekindled.

  ‘Sienna and I were not meant to be together,’ Nick says sadly, shaking his head. ‘I know it is going to come as a bit of shock to you but…’ – Nick puts a protective arm over my shoulders – ‘Louisa is the one.’

  We both gasp. Mrs. Carlson is lost for words, but her face clearly says, ‘Are you having a giraffe?’

  Chapter 14

  Red-Headed Slut

  Red-Headed Slut

  Ingredients

  5 cl (one part) Jägermeister

  5 cl (one part) peach schnapps

  cranberry juice

  Combine Jägermeister and schnapps in a glass full of ice.

  Add cranberry juice and fill to top.

  Stir as necessary.

  May also be served as a shooter - chilled and shaken, without ice.

  Jess

  Tuesday. Stansted Airport. 11.45 am.

  The company, being tight arses, paid for the cheapest flight available to Brussels. Basically, a downgraded version of the likes of EasyJet and Ryanair. Cheapo-Air will probably charge for every possible thing. Don’t mention drinks or carry-on luggage; we’re talking about toilet use and oxygen mask allocation per seat.

  The airline operates from Stansted, which for me is a two-hour journey and feels like taking a small trip to Scotland before I have even left my home country.

  I’m running late because Bertha, the new military nanny, lectured me about home safety and would not let me leave until I had gone through a never-ending list of measures to be implemented ASAP, from fitting cupboard, window and drawer locks to fixing the baby gates, both half hanging off the wall from Mia swinging off them for fun.

  ‘Hi, love.’ Albert greets me with a hug which is a good five seconds longer than it should be, while Will gives me a casual wave from his bench. ‘You sit down. I’ll get us a drink. We’re on cider. Will, another one, yeah?’ Albert waves his empty pint glass in the air.

  I was wondering about meeting up in Giraffe, but family-friendly restaurants are the best places to have alcohol without remorse early in the day. There are always bleary-eyed parents binge-drinking in order to get psychologically ready for a horrible flight where they’ll have to pacify/entertain/rock to sleep their children while putting up with other passengers’ daggers and tutting. It’s not even noon, and a father on the next table is draining his third pint. He does have three small kids in tow and three Trunkis piled on top of his rucksack in manner of mule. I’ m exhausted just looking at him.

  The ladies from the table across from me are also already on the wine. Wherever they’re going it’s most likely already booze o’clock, and wherever they have come from the bars haven’t closed yet. Airports are the only magical places in the world where hard spirits are acceptable with breakfast. It’s 4 am in LA and already 9 pm in Sydney, after all.

  ‘I’ll have an espresso instead, Albert, please.’

  I had such a rough night. Molly was teething and didn’t settle down till late. Mia woke me at four in the morning to tell me she had bumped her head (When? Why? How?) and I never managed to get back off to sleep.

  Besides, there were too many unanswered questions milling around in my head. I picked up Scott’s phone to snoop through it while he was showering yesterday evening, but I couldn’t get in. He changed the lock on his phone. Then I found in his drawer a welcome letter from MBNA for a new credit card. Scott doesn’t need a new card. He is a creature of habits and mostly uses cash and his debit card. What spending does he plan on hiding from me?
>
  Albert tries to impress me with his retelling of past darts tournament exploits. Will bores our small party with football premiership ranking stats. Shneck from the office calls me on some work-related pretence to ask for news of Albert. What a nutter. There is nothing to be jealous of. Albert is gangly with a jiggly paunch, sports a Great Gatsby-esque moustache straight from the 1920s, and is balding in a weird pattern – more pronounced at the temples than on the forehead. I would rather eat bull’s rectum and testicle soup (apparently popular in the Philippines) than kiss him.

  The flight doesn’t get any better.

  I’m stuck between Albert and Will in an incestuous father–son type sandwich in a row of three seats.

  Will is soon absorbed in his latest puzzle app and feels the need to explain to me every intricacy of the game, including how to move the main character through stairwells and doorways to progress the game and earn points. Albert jousts for my attention by bragging about the rest of his sporting achievements from his bowling scores at the latest company get-together to his golf handicap. The men both order drinks as if there’s no tomorrow.

  ‘Why don’t you drink with us, love? We’re putting the lot on expenses.’ Albert belches loudly. ‘Ahh. A good Leffe. The water of life. Ha! I know something in French – I’ll use that in Belgium. Une blonde. It means a lager. It’s the same word for a blonde. Imagine, at the knocking shop, you could just say, ‘Une blonde. And une blonde please!’. Hey, the drinks trolley’s coming around again. It’s the fit one. Let me practise on her. Madame?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur?’

  ‘Une blonde.’

  ‘No problem,’ the hostess replies, picking up on his dreadful English accent. ‘What would you like with that, sir?’

  ‘Un bag of crisps, please.’

  ‘Seven euros, please.’

  ‘Crikey! Good job we’re charging it to the company! Can I have the receipt, love?’

  Albert imitates the air hostess in a high-pitched voice as soon as she’s out of ear reach. What would you like with that, sir? Did you hear that, mate? She fancies the old Alberto-lovo-dovo she does. Get in there.’

  Albert calls her back afterwards to ask what time we’re landing, whether she knows of any good pubs in Brussels, and to purchase a Smirnoff Blue Label vodka from duty free, all the while flirting in the most obvious tactless manner.

  The macho banter going back and forth between Albert and Will on either side of me annoys me so much that I pretend to sleep for the rest of the flight.

  Jess

  Brussels Expo. 4 pm.

  The conference is both busy and boring. I spend most of the time in the toilets making calls to the Indian call centre of Scott’s bank to request paper statements of his bank account, but can’t get past the security questions, getting stuck at their request for his memorable word.

  There’s now Tinder and Ashley Madison downloaded on my phone in order to look for Scott’s potential presence there. I have uploaded my imaginary profile and given myself a location around the corner from Scott’s office. I used a photo of a buxom blonde I pinched on the internet.

  I received an email confirming the despatch of the Desktop Calculator with Hidden Voice Recorder this morning. My package should be at Emily’s by the time I get back to London. The Shadow Tracker is out of stock and back-ordered, with a three-week lead time. Bummer.

  Bertha has been in touch twice already today, texting me a list of must-read parenting books and some sanitary home advice. She would have a heart attack if she knew I sterilize the girls’ dummies by sucking on them after they fall on the floor, and I use whatever liquid is available (bit of lemonade, beer or saliva) to clean snot or other offending dirt off their faces when I’m out and about and forgot to pack wet wipes.

  Jess

  The Dive Hotel. 8 pm.

  The hotel near the convention centre has been nicknamed the Dive. The rooms are sparsely furnished in a style reminiscent to prison cells. The curtains and walls are paper-thin, and the bathroom toiletries are condiment-style sachets of shampoo and body wash. Good job it’s only for a night.

  Will and Albert bullied me into joining them at the bar downstairs.

  The boys knock back the drinks and top up my glass non-stop. I’ve already had most of a bottle of wine on my own on an empty stomach. Is it warm in here? Or is it the sauvignon blanc? Maybe my uneasiness at Albert’s constant flirting. Have I been showing too much cleavage? I discreetly try to pull my top up to cover myself. My fuzzy brain is thinking hard. Why is he hitting on me? I need to eat something to sober up.

  Will drains his glass and gets up.

  ‘Right, guys, I’m going to Skype Leanne before bed. Don’t let the bugs bite.’

  ‘A bit of video action with the girlfriend, eh, mate?’ Albert laughs, flicking his half-closed fist up and down in a rude gesture to which Will gives an army salute.

  I can’t believe I’m left to Albert’s mercy. Dispirited, I lunge at the bowl of nuts on the counter and grab a handful which I shove in my mouth.

  Albert remarks, ‘A woman who likes her nuts.’ He pops a peanut between his teeth and gives me a meaningful wink.

  Horrified, I cough and splutter, spitting half of my mouthful of nuts onto my lap. There is no option but to grab the closest drink, my glass of wine, and down some more to wash down the bits stuck in my throat.

  Some of the girls in the office call him Albert the Pervert. Shite. Visions of #MeToo.

  Albert lays a concerned hand on my arm and pats my back from the shoulder blades down, getting dangerously close to my bottom. ‘There, there. Are you all right, love? Shall I get you some water?’

  I recoil but force myself to stand still. Head spinning. Not good. Can’t move head. Need to eat something to soak up the alcohol. Not nuts.

  I stutter, ‘B-bread.’

  He laughs, his paunch rippling. ‘Sure, love. We should go and get some nice food, the two of us.’

  My instincts kick in in alarm at the suggestion of a cosy dinner with him. Albert the Pervert. Need to leave. Where is bag?

  Bending down to pick up my Mulberry from the floor without losing my balance is a feat of concentration. Albert uses the opportunity to grab me around the waist under the pretence of steadying me. I focus on his hand. Albert the Pervert is wearing a gold signet ring on his fat pinkie finger. Disgusting. Fuck, I’m gonna be sick.

  I gag and spew into a paper serviette. Albert looks distressed at the prospect of our romantic meal disappearing in front of his eyes.

  ‘Look, love, why don’t we go to my room? I can order us room service. Whatever you fancy. We could open that bottle of Smirnoff I got on the plane. You can have a little rest then. I’m going to be honest here. I’ve seen Ashley Madison on your phone. I know you’re married, and I’m cool with that. I’m happy to be your little bit on the side. Like they say in France, your five to seven. Although any time would work for me.’

  He slowly drags his index finger across my forearm. Wish I had an axe to brutally chop his finger off. And the one with the signet ring. Sadly, lack of hatchet and steadiness prevent me from acting out my plan. Feel nauseous. Need to go to crouch by toilet in own bathroom and lie down head on seat. Need to remember to put towel on germ-infested hotel toilet seat before putting head on it, though. Need to chuck Albert the Pervert.

  I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and enunciate clearly, doing my best not to slur the words and loud enough for him to feel uncomfortable about other customers overhearing me, ‘Albert. No. I’m tired. I’m going to my room now. On. My. Own.’

  Jess

  Wednesday. Brussels Airport. 3 pm.

  Excusing myself from Albert and Will’s company is essential for my sanity. They were both advised I need to be alone when hungover.

  I’m sitting far away from the departure gate and plan on making a last-minute dash to the plane to minimize the time I have to endure in Albert’s proximity. On my lap is a bag of recovery foods from Boots: some paracetamol, a large bottl
e of Lucozade, a sarnie, crisps and a Twix to get my energy levels back up.

  The quest for truth continues. Logged into Scott’s Facebook, I scroll down. Something grabs my attention. A photo of a sushi bento box #Japanese #yummy which Scott liked a mere minute after it was posted. It’s by one of his colleagues, a Rosie Turnbridge. From her profile a pretty red-haired twenty-something who jets off to exotic destinations for scuba diving and adores her Dogo Argentino. Slut. Every single picture she put up has been liked or commented on by Scott minutes after it was posted. From a simple burger and chips (#feelingnaughty), to her stupid dog running on the beach (#puppylove), to moronic fishes underwater (#malaysiascuba). He must have some alert for her posts, or else he stalks her Facebook, waiting for new posts. He even commented on her scuba photo: Wish I was there!

  The fucking bastard.

  I posted loads of photos that Scott hasn’t liked or commented on: a new thriller hardback just delivered by Amazon, my favourite frozen yogurt brand finally stocked at the local Co-op, Herbal Essences reduced to half price. He’s happy to ignore his wife’s photos but makes sure he likes all of Rosie the Ginger Dinner.

  This is the confirmation I was looking for.

  It was under my nose all along. How could I have been so naïve?

  Should I crumble on the inside? Strange. I only feel outraged. Nothing else. We pledged devotion to each other in front of family and friends at our bloody wedding. We have children together, for God’s sake! If he’s going to throw all of that away for the ginger trollop, fine – let him have his way. I can stand on my own two feet. I would rather be a single mum than spend any more time in a marriage built on dirty lies.

  Trying to put on a brave face, I take a photo of a departure gate and post it with the comment Flying home! Can’t wait! This is the last test to confirm what I already know. See if Scott comments on my photo.