#Toots

by Linh Le James

  Jess

  Emily’s flat. 6 pm.

  I’m knackered by the time I get to Emily’s.

  ‘So glad you’re home, Em!’ I was in such a rush I didn’t even ring her to make sure she was home. ‘Took me ages to get here from Stansted; some trains were cancelled. I’m just picking up my box. I’ll use the loo and get out of your hair.’ I dump my suitcase and my handbag on the floor and scuttle off.

  ‘Jess. Sit down,’ Carla calmly orders after I return to the lounge.

  With my box on her lap, she solemnly declares, ‘We know everything. It’s OK. We love you and we’re here for you. To support you.’

  I am silent for a minute, my bottom lip quivering. How is this possible? It’s like a bad movie, where the wife is the last one to be privy to her husband’s whereabouts. Everybody else around knows he’s playing away. How long have the girls suspected? Were there clues in his behaviour that my own sisters picked up on and I missed? Have they all been talking between themselves about his cheating behind my back? It is beyond humiliating. I could just die.

  ‘We’re not judging anybody here. People can make mistakes. Even good people. You and Scott have been together for a very long time. You have kids, which everybody knows is testing. Mid-life crises are common in relationships, especially for parents. It doesn’t mean your marriage is over. We can help you get through this. If you want to. Nobody’s perfect,’ Carla states soothingly.

  Nobody’s perfect? Why are they defending the cheating bastard? They’ve waited all this time to tell me. To the very day when I find out on my own. I’ve been betrayed. By all of them. By my husband and my own blood. I’m fuming. I cross my arms in defiance and shake my head.

  ‘Jess! Talk to us. Have you guys tried counselling yet?’

  ‘No,’ I grumble. ‘When affairs happen, it usually means the marriage is dead.’

  ‘Dead! Dead!’ Emily, typically unable to handle any kind of family drama, covers her mouth in shock.

  ‘Em! Please just go make us some tea,’ Carla orders. ‘Jess, are you sure it can’t be saved? For the sake of our nieces?’

  ‘Affairs are lies and deception. When it goes that far, it can never be the same again,’ I reply gloomily. ‘Once the trust has been broken, it can’t be put back together. There’s no glue for that. Having children is a renewal of your vows. An affair, in our situation, is cheating three times over – once on the other partner and on each of our daughters.’

  Emily returns with a tray of steaming cups. We sip our tea in a dark silence.

  ‘So, can you tell us?’ Carla finally ventures timidly. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He?’ I ask, confused.

  ‘Yes. We’re not asking for an introduction. We would just like to know who he is.’ Carla sounds as if she’s talking to a slow person.

  ‘You mean who is she.’ I correct.

  ‘She! She!’ Emily exclaims in consternation. ‘Are you g-gay? I mean, lesbian?’

  ‘What on earth are you on about? Who is she, as in who is the slut Scott is shagging behind my back!’ I clarify with exasperation.

  ‘Scott? Are you both cheating on each other?’ Carla asks, dumbfounded.

  ‘Both? He is! I’m not!’ I interject.

  ‘B-but you’re having an affair!’ Emily stutters. ‘Your phone – there’s Tinder and Ashley Madison apps on it! We saw it when you were in the toilet! And you just got a text from your lover!’

  What is it with people snooping on other people’s phones? Do I have no right to privacy anymore? Emily dramatically thrusts my phone at me, displaying the message I just received.

  ‘Last night was too short. Let’s do this again soon. Can’t wait to see you, my love. Albert xxx’

  A slug has just left a slimy trail travelling up my arm.

  ‘Albert is a creep from work. We went to the conference in Belgium together. Nothing happened, I promise. And I only downloaded the apps to check if Scott has a profile on there.’

  ‘How do you explain this, then?’ Carla waves a receipt in the air, scowling. I recognize my spa bill. She must have pulled it out of my handbag when I was in the loo. ‘A receipt from the Whitney Hotel – it says half-day package. It’s the only hotel around here where you can book a room for a few hours only. I heard Ryan from work brag about taking some married woman there just last week and how it’s perfect for a quick lunchtime shag.’

  ‘Your filthy minds! It’s a receipt for a spa day package. I took a daycation. I needed some pamper time. And the spy calculator you have on your lap, it’s to check on Scott,’ I add, pointing to the opened box on Carla’s knees.

  ‘Right, let’s start at the beginning. When did you find out that Scott was seeing someone else?’

  ‘I had my suspicions for a while. He has been distant and working late. He stopped wearing his wedding ring,’ I explain, crestfallen.

  ‘It is not actual proof. Did something else happen?’ Carla probes diplomatically.

  ‘Yes! Lots!’ I exclaim, hurt at the doubt in her voice. ‘I found an H. Samuel receipt a month ago. And he hasn’t given me anything. He never buys jewellery for anybody; it’s just not his thing. And he has a new credit card.’

  ‘I always apply for new credit cards. There’s nothing weird about that,’ Emily pipes up.

  ‘Don’t you have a couple as well? Carla points out.

  ‘He hates credit cards.’ I reveal. ‘He’s not good at managing his bills and he knows it. He doesn’t need a new card. Unless he has some spending to hide. Besides, he changed the lock on his phone.’

  ‘There might be an explanation for that. Why don’t you just ask him?’ Carla counsels, not batting an eyelid.

  ‘Yes, why don’t you just ask him?’ Emily repeats futilely.

  ‘No, I can’t.’ I rub my brow in frustration. ‘I need to catch him in the act. That’s what all my spy equipment is for. Then I can confront him. In any case, I got the confirmation I needed today. The slut is called Rosie Turnbridge – they work together.’ I call up her Facebook page on my mobile and show it to my sisters. Carla studies it for a full minute, shoots a meaningful glance at Emily and gently asks, ‘No offence, but what would she do with Scott? And how do you know it’s her?’

  ‘He still has a decent enough body, and he’s a manager now. Women are attracted to power. Scott has liked every Facebook photo she’s posted minutes after she posts them. He hasn’t even commented on the photo I posted earlier today!’ I well up.

  Emily hugs me. Carla, frowning, examines the picture I posted at Brussels airport.

  ‘Jess. Maybe there’s nothing to like or comment on about that photo. It’s blurry and dark. I can just make out it’s somewhere in an airport. I personally wouldn’t take any notice of that on my Facebook feed.’ Carla replies in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Let’s calm down. Why don’t you talk to him? He might have the answers you need. You’re both going through a bad patch and you might be dramatizing—’

  ‘-You’re suggesting I’m imagining things! Trust me, I’m not. There’s more! Listen to this. He never replies to my WhatsApps right away. It’s like he doesn’t give a damn. I sent him a WhatsApp before bed yesterday, even though I was plastered, just to say goodnight. This morning I checked. He was last seen at 8:15 and didn’t reply to me. I kept track of it all day. He checks in on his WhatsApp basically every hour. Only after lunch did he message me, asking what time I’ll be home. I bet he makes sure he responds to each of that trollop’s messages.’

  ‘No way. What do they say to each other?’ Emily’s mouth hangs open in dismay.

  ‘Never seen anything. Yet.’ I screw up my nose. ‘He’s not stupid. He must be deleting them right after he sends them. But I just know. Call it female intuition. I have more spy gear coming. I will confront him once I have proof. Don’t worry. It’s all under control. My toots, I love you, but I have to go. He’ll be wondering where I am.’

  Jess

  Friday. My flat. 7 pm.

  The Desktop Calculator with Hi
dden Voice Recorder has been a disaster so far. Being a little technically challenged, I took four hours to set up the fiddly machine. Unfortunately, it hasn’t recorded anything dodgy since its set-up. Incessantly moving the calculator from one room to another without raising suspicion is not possible so it’s been left in the lounge. I avoid spending time there to leave Scott the opportunity to make incriminating phone calls.

  ‘Babes, you OK?’

  Scott asks Alfie the dog how he is more often than he asks me. I’m walking on eggshells here. I pray he doesn’t have any suspicion of my spying activity.

  ‘Yes, why?’ I reply airily, dismally scrubbing the blue mess Mia has left on the oak coffee table. Washable markers. What a load of bull. I wish I had time to sue the manufacturers for false advertising.

  ‘I don’t know – every time I come to the lounge, you take Molly to go and play in her room. You’re not stropping about something, are you?’

  What could I possibly be stropping about? The fact that you’re shagging Rosie the Ginger Dinner behind my back, you fucking bastard? Just wait until I receive my Mains Socket Voice Recorder.

  ‘No, just loads to tidy up in her room.’ The words catch in my throat. I pour another dollop of bleach on the stain and wonder about supergluing a placemat on top instead of trying to clean it. I change the subject deftly. ‘Bertha thinks we should stop letting the kids watch TV before bed and engage in imaginative unstimulating play instead.’

  ‘Huh?’ Scott is only half listening, as usual. Bet Rosie the Ginger Dinner’s conversation covers more interesting subjects other than children’s appetites and bowel movements.

  ‘I translate: Stop letting them watch Peppa Pig and read books instead.’

  ‘Read Peppa Pig books? Yes, sure. We have some, don’t we?’ Scott doesn’t take his eyes off his laptop.

  ‘Bertha means do some quiet activity to wind them down. Like read a book. Any book! Not necessarily Peppa Pig!’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.’

  Something has caught Scott’s attention on the computer. His expression changes from bored to amused. His smile arouses my suspicion. I retreat to another room to check his Facebook activity on my mobile.

  How predictable. He has just liked a photo Rosie posted of her stupid dog with a stupid bowler hat and the caption ‘I am not a dog’.

  Vile grovelling pathetic rat.

  He’s going to pay.

  And the Ginger Dinner.

  They’re both going to pay.

  Chapter 15

  Suck, Bang and Blow

  Suck, Bang and Blow

  Ingredients

  30 ml vodka

  90 ml tequila

  30 ml Triple Sec

  60 ml Goldschlager

  30 ml Hypnotiq

  30 ml Jägermeister

  30 ml citrus vodka

  30 ml orange gin

  30 ml rumple minze

  1 cup sugar

  1 (peeled) lime

  2 cups cranberry juice

  150 ml strawberry daiquiri mix

  Add all ingredients to a blender with ice, and blend until smooth. Pour into a hurricane glass and serve.

  Louise

  Thursday. Carlson Residence. 4 pm.

  What a bloody nuisance. Nick suggested we take Emma the Dog for another stroll to stretch her legs before we head back to London. There is no choice but to pretend nothing would please me more than dragging myself through sheep-shit dotted fields.

  I exchange my pumps for my strappy wedge sandals, the only other pair of shoes I have in my suitcase, after I realize my stiletto heels sink into the soft ground with each step, while Nick and his mother saunter about in their sensible Barbour wellies.

  Emma the Dog capers around the fields, only stopping to lick Nick’s face or hand, sniff a cow turd or stick her muzzle up my bum as I totter along in my high heels, cursing the earth, cows, flies, dogs and Nick.

  ‘Emma! Good girl! Go and run!’ I command in the high-pitched voice I normally reserve for babies, pets and people abroad who do not understand English. I fight the Labrador’s snout off my backside with as much dignity as I can muster.

  A stroll! What a flipping joke. It must be Mrs. Carlson’s idea of the new girlfriend baptism of fire. We trudged through the fields and woods for over an hour with no sign of turning back. The afternoon heat is fierce. I would normally relish the alluring look created by my dress clinging to every inch of my sweaty skin, but I couldn’t care less right now. I have a huge blister bubbling on my right heel, and a nasty nettle rash on my left calf.

  Luckily, I convince Nick and his mother to walk ahead of me by pretending I want to wholly enjoy the experience and admire the natural miracle of each blade of grass and trees at my own pace. There is no need to mention I only want to steer clear of Emma the Dog’s inquisitive nose.

  Crouched behind a tree, I smoke a cigarette from a pack of Belinda Lights I purchased on the sly in Amsterdam. I make a mental note to buy all fags from abroad in future. Warning labels don’t feel half so threatening when they’re in a foreign language. Roken is dodelijk could easily mean ‘Broken in Doodle Pick’ rather than an all doom-and-gloom ‘Contains cancer’.

  I luxuriate in the brief respite and practise different intonations of ‘Yes’ for when Nick will propose, from an emotional whisper to an excited shout, when a branch suddenly cracks behind me and makes me jump out of my skin.

  ‘There you are! We were getting all worried about you. We turned around and you were nowhere to be seen. What are you doing?’ Mrs. Carlson asks, taking in the smoke I frantically wave away.

  ‘Nothing, Danielle! Just having a meditation break. I was burning some relaxing incense sticks!’ I interject, stamping wildly on the cigarette pack. ‘But I think I’d better stop because it might be a fire hazard.’

  ‘It smells like tobacco. Were you burning sage?’ Mrs. Carlson sniffs and wrinkles her nose. ‘Or cedar?’

  ‘Yes indeed! Sage and cedar!’

  ‘Nick gave me a box of those smudge sticks to clear negative energy from the house. Never got around to using them. Shall we stop at the Falcon Inn for a drink? It’s half a mile down the lane where we came from. Emma could do with a bowl of water. Come along, my dear.’

  We finally stop at the quaint country pub. I could cry with relief.

  Nick and his mother settle in the beer garden. Emma the Dog is lying down obediently, panting in the sun. Her wagging tail hits my legs, but I’m too exhausted to move them.

  ‘I found Louisa smudging in the woods earlier. You have brainwashed this young lady, haven’t you?’ Mrs. Carlson teases, tying the lead to the table.

  ‘Smudging!’ Nick beams at me as if I were his precocious child. ‘She is indeed a fervent follower of my teachings. Look, Louisa! The Falcon Inn. My favourite local pub.’

  He points at the pub’s old wooden hanging sign, which portrays a falcon with its wings spread, against a mountain backdrop. I stare at him blankly.

  ‘The eagle follows me everywhere,’ he explains with a wink.

  ‘The eagle, right.’ I force a weak smile and push Emma the Dog’s tail, so it hits the table leg instead of my own. ‘You both sit tight and enjoy the sunshine. I’m going to get us refreshments.’

  Limping into the coolness of the pub, I take my shades off and order at the bar. ‘I’d like a cider please, with lots of ice. A cloudy lemonade and an elderflower. And three glasses of water, please.’

  ‘No problem. That’ll be fourteen pounds ninety-five, please. Shall I take the drinks outside for you?’ The young barman enquires after taking payment.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m going to the loo. Please make sure you leave everything right here. I’ll come back for it now. I’ll be two ticks.’

  I nip to the toilets and return after a few minutes to an unmanned bar. What is it with people who don’t listen? Through the opened back double doors, I can spot the barman with my tray of drinks at Nick’s table on the terrace. Summoning w
hatever strength I have left, I half hop, half dart outside.

  I arrive as the barman distributes the drinks.

  ‘A glass of water each. Cloudy lemonade?’

  ‘Mine, thank you.’ Nick raises his hand.

  ‘Here you go, sir. Elderflower?’

  ‘That would be for me.’ Mrs. Carlson moves the pack of doggie snacks so the barman can put her drink down.

  ‘Here you go, madam. And the cider for yourself then,’ the barman concludes, placing the pint glass in front of the third seat, which is mine.

  ‘Uh uh. I didn’t order cider.’ I shake my head, showing off my supposedly newly found sobriety.

  ‘How strange. I am pretty sure you ordered a cider back at the bar. You even requested it with lots of ice.’ The barman blinks rapidly.

  ‘You must have misheard me. It is OK to get confused. Or to have bad hearing.’ I give him my most sympathetic look and for good measure give him a little pat on the hand as I would an elderly person.

  ‘I apologize, but I am convinced you said a cider. You even pointed to the one you wanted,’ the barman argues with fading conviction.

  ‘Louisa stopped drinking alcohol a month ago,’ Nick proudly announces to his mother.

  ‘I said Appletiser,’ I correct, suddenly inspired. ‘Appletiser. Not apple cider. Appletiser, the non-alcoholic sparkling apple juice.’

  ‘No worries. I’ll swap it for you now.’ The barman picks up my pint of cider, defeated.

  Phew. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. That was close. Two of my favourite vices were almost found out in the space of two hours by Nick and my potential future mother-in-law.

  ‘We’re being spoilt with this wonderful weather. Would you two like to stay for supper? We could dine in the garden. I have some veggie burgers in the freezer for you, Nick, and for the rest of us a few beef fillets from the butcher. I just picked some lovely rocket from our vegetable patch too.’