by Cate Woods
I don’t expect or particularly want Rudy to comment or pass opinion on my ramblings, I just find myself wanting to talk; in a funny sort of way it’s a relief to tell someone totally impartial about everything that’s happened. I guess that’s why people go to see priests. Rudy nods in places, makes the occasional remark, but is otherwise silent, and I presume as we get back in the car that there’ll be no further mention of my confession.
‘Thank you for listening,’ I say, as he puts the key in the ignition.
‘You’re welcome.’ Rudy checks his mirrors and then pulls away. ‘And for what it’s worth, I think you did the right thing.’
Well, that’s a surprise. But does he mean having a baby? Leaving Luke? Moving in with Jessica? When it’s clear he doesn’t intend on elaborating, I ask: ‘In what way?’
‘Getting a job. I think it’ll help.’
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘That’s nice to hear.’
And it is. Coming from Rudy – the real Rudy, not the RADA-trained performing Rudy – it means a lot, and I almost believe it more than when my friends told me the exact same thing.
15
As it turns out, Fi was absolutely right: after working with models, photographing houses is a piece of piss. Houses don’t turn up late for work, complain about the coffee or lock themselves in the toilet in tears because their boyfriend ran off with a Victoria’s Secret Angel. I’m really enjoying taking photos again, Dot has stopped crying when I drop her off with Helen the childminder and Karl seems to be happy with what I’ve produced so far: all-in-all, this working-mum lark is going pretty well – touch wood. I’m sure Mr Antiques Roadshow Rudy would be able to tell exactly what sort of wood this is that I’m touching – ‘ah, a superb rosewood bureau, early eighteenth century, with exquisite walnut herringbone cross-banding’ – but to me it just looks old and expensive, like everything else in this house I’m photographing this morning. It’s magnificent, decked out like a baronial Scottish castle, and the only people living here are an elderly couple and their Jack Russell. Who knew there were so many gazillionaires living in my neighbourhood? I’ve never given much thought to what might be behind the high fences and security gates that you pass in some of the nicer streets round here, but these last two weeks working for Curtis Kinderbey have been quite the eye-opener.
My friends – and Rudy – were absolutely right about me feeling better about myself now that I’m taking proactive steps to sort my life out rather than just sitting and waiting for it to happen to me. I’m currently working three days a week and plan to increase my hours over the next few months. Luke is insisting on paying for the childminder – even though I know he still strongly disagrees with me getting a job – which I’m grateful for, because without his help my wages would barely cover Helen’s fees.
And despite my worries that I’d be out of my depth, the job itself is proving remarkably straightforward. I turn up at the property, the owner gives me a quick tour – or, even better, I pick up the keys from the Curtis Kinderbey office and give myself the tour – then I measure up the floor plan using a laser gadget and photograph each room.
Although the brief for these marketing photographs is pretty simple – 1. Make the space look as big/light as possible; 2. That’s it – there is some scope for creativity in how I stage the room. As I find my feet, I’m becoming more confident about moving furniture around to get the perfect shot. Depending on the size of the property, I can be in and out within an hour, although I imagine this morning’s mansion will take a little longer. Quite why anyone needs six toilets I have no idea – especially when you’re only a two-bum household – though I’m discovering that when you’re loaded, such matters have little to do with need. Rich people have six bathrooms simply because they can.
Another interesting thing I’ve learnt from doing this job is just how nosy I am. It’s actually quite addictive, the thrill you get from peeking inside wardrobes, opening drawers and looking through the private clutter of a stranger’s life. And these people have such amazing stuff! Wood-fired pizza ovens built into the kitchen. Hand-embroidered silk wallpaper. Full-sized trees growing out of onyx-tiled atriums. Sauna and steam complexes in the garden. Ooh, and the shoes! I now get where the expression ‘well-heeled’ comes from: walk-in wardrobes with floor-to-ceiling shelves of colour-coordinated footwear appear to be de rigueur for the truly posh.
I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve started to take photos of some of the more beautiful things that I’ve come across during my work. It happened first in the second house that I was sent to photograph: I was measuring the floor plan in the kitchen when the sun suddenly came out, pouring through the skylight and lighting up an arrangement of dark red roses that sat on the Italian marble counter, next to a quilted Chanel handbag that had been casually abandoned. The composition was flawless, the lighting perfect: the artist in me could see what a stunning photo it would make; so before the light changed I got out my iPhone and took a quick snap.
For the rest of the day I kept sneaking a look at the picture. At first I felt guilty, as if I’d stolen something, but there was also a rush of excitement and pride at having captured something beautiful. This may sound wanky, but for the first time in years it felt like I had created art.
I honestly had no intention of taking any other photos of clients’ possessions, but in the very next house I went to, there was a shelf of antique crystal perfume bottles in the master bathroom that looked like something out of a Victorian apothecary. Before I could talk myself out of it, I quickly took a shot – and, if I do say so myself, it was another beauty.
For a few days afterwards I half-expected to get an irate phone call from Karl about my flagrant snooping, but once again I got away with it, and since then I’ve sneaked one or two photos at each property I’ve visited. I’ve got pictures of sculptures, designer furs, a bed piled with a rainbow of silk pillows and even the inside of one of those mega-fridges which contained only champagne and caviar. My iPhone photo feed looks like it belongs to the wife of a Russian oligarch; whenever I look through the photos, I get a vicarious thrill of living a life of luxury and beauty – and they also satisfy my growing creative urges.
With my floor plan and marketing photos of the baronial Scottish castle complete (with a bonus arty snap of a full-sized stuffed stag for my private collection) I have a couple of hours to kill before my next appointment, so I decide to head into town to get some new clothes for Dot, who is straining at the poppers of all her Babygros. I’m waiting at the bus stop, sheltering from the drizzle, when my mobile starts vibrating in my pocket. As always, my first thought is automatically to wonder whether it’s Luke. I can’t help it; old habits die hard. I do miss him – at times so deeply that I wonder why I don’t just put this whole mess behind me and move home – and Luke seems so desperate to make things right. He’s stopped messaging me quite as much now, but he still phones or emails most days for Dot updates, and he always finishes by telling me how much he loves me. I guess you could say that my feelings towards him are, well, mellowing. For now, though, we’ve arranged that Luke will have Dot every other Friday night and Saturday, with tonight being our inaugural Daddy Day Care session. I’ll miss Dot, of course, but . . . Oh, who am I kidding, I am massively looking forward to a night off. I quite fancy spending it having a bath, a takeaway and then a blissful, undisturbed night of sleep, but the girls and Tabby are taking me out for dinner instead – which will of course be equally lovely. Plus I’ll still be able to have a lie-in tomorrow.
When I check my phone, however, the caller is not Luke. I don’t recognise the number; it’s probably a client, or someone from Curtis Kinderbey.
‘Hi, this is Annie Taylor speaking.’
‘Annie, please don’t hang up.’ The soft voice is instantly and nauseatingly familiar. ‘It’s Sigrid.’
I freeze with the phone clamped to my head, opening and closing my mouth like a just-hooked trout, an alarm pounding inside my brain. Actually, it’s
not an alarm: it’s my heart, thumping away as if I’ve just done a HIIT workout.
‘Annie, are you still there? I know I have no right to ask you for anything, but I’d really like to talk to you.’
I take a moment to compose myself before answering, resolving to deal with the situation calmly and with dignity.
‘What the fuck do you want?’ Well, a bit of dignity.
‘Annie, there are some things I need to say to you and I’m hoping your heart will allow you to hear me out. I think it might help start the healing process – for both us.’
‘Sigrid, I don’t give a shit about your healing process, and there’s nothing you can say that will make me feel any better about what you’ve done.’
‘But I think there might be. I’ve been meditating on my actions and I really want to share some of the lessons I’ve learnt. I’ve already spoken to Luke about this and he . . .’
‘Wait, you’ve been talking to Luke?’
There’s silence at the other end of the line.
‘Sigrid? When did you speak to him?’
A long pause. ‘I didn’t call to upset you.’
‘I’m not upset, I just want to know what’s going on between you and Luke.’ Deep breath, Annie. Calm and dignified.
Sigrid gives a little huff of frustration; the conversation clearly isn’t going the way she intended. ‘Well, when I saw Luke a few days ago, we—’
‘You met with him?’ I choke the words out, my stomach twisting.
‘Annie, I can hear how much pain you’re still in and I’m truly sorry, but even if I spent the rest of my life apologising, it wouldn’t change what happened. Talking about it just might, though. It’s vital we keep lines of communication open so that all parties can grow and . . .’
I’m tense with the effort that it’s taking me not to cry, but there’s no way I’m going to give Sigrid the satisfaction of hearing poor, unenlightened Annie lose her rag. Swallowing my tears, I wrench the phone from my ear and jab at the screen to end the call. I realise that I’m shaking. Luke can’t have done this to me, surely? Not after promising he’d never see her again. But Sigrid has no reason to lie, and it’s not as if Luke hasn’t betrayed me before. That bastard. There I was starting to think I should just forgive and forget, and all this time he’s been meeting up with Sigrid and . . . and what? Having sex? It’s certainly not out of the question. He lied to me about seeing her, so God only knows what else he has been lying about.
Before I have a chance to calm down, I phone Luke.
‘Hey you!’ He sounds delighted to hear from me. ‘I was just going to call you to discuss plans for this weekend. I can’t wait to see our little girl later.’
‘Luke, have you been meeting up with Sigrid?’
The silence at the other end of the phone tells me everything I need to know.
‘God, you really are pathetic. Just couldn’t keep away, could you?’
‘Annie, you need to calm down and listen to me.’ Luke’s voice has a hard edge. ‘You’ve got this all wrong, I promise you.’
‘What, so you haven’t been meeting up with her then?’
‘Sigrid turned up at my office last week and asked to see me. I got Vicky to tell her I would be in meetings all day, but she insisted on waiting. She wouldn’t leave, Annie! In the end I said I would give her five minutes. She started telling me some bullshit about meditation, I said I wasn’t interested and then she left. That was it, I swear.’
‘And why the hell should I believe anything you tell me?’
‘Because if I wanted to be with Sigrid, do you really think I’d be trying so hard to win you back?’ He sighs, exasperated. ‘Annie, I love you, all I want is for you and Dot to come home. Surely you can see that?’
I hesitate, trying to get my thoughts in some sort of order. I’m such a jumble of emotions that I find Luke’s calm, rational manner infuriating. ‘You could have refused to see her,’ I mutter.
‘You’re right, and perhaps I should have, but she was there for hours, and it was starting to get embarrassing. I just wanted to get rid of her. But apart from that one time, I’ve had nothing to do with her.’
Despite my turmoil, I have to admit that he does sound like he’s telling the truth – and I can certainly believe Sigrid is capable of such stalker-ish behaviour.
‘Would you have told me any of this if I hadn’t found out from Sigrid?’ I ask.
‘Of course I would!’
‘Bullshit.’
A pause. ‘Fine, I probably wouldn’t.’
‘Luke!’
‘But only because I knew how much it would upset you, and because I didn’t do anything wrong!’ Another sigh; he clearly thinks I’m making a fuss over nothing. ‘Annie, please stop trying to look for more reasons to hate me. All I want to do is to make things right with you. You need to start trusting me again.’
‘Easier said than done.’ And I end the call.
16
I stand at the bus stop, staring at my phone, jittery with adrenaline.
‘Arsehole,’ I mutter at the now dark screen, swiping away a tear.
The drizzle has now turned into a downpour, the skies so gloomy that passing cars are switching on their headlights. I need to find somewhere to calm down, get a hot drink and clean up the mascara that’s probably smeared across my cheeks. Like war-paint, I think grimly – although I’m not exactly acting like a warrior right now. How I hate the person I become whenever I have anything to do with Luke. Despite my fears, I’m actually coping pretty well as a single mum: the job is working out okay, Dot’s happy and although I’m tired all the bloody time I do feel quite proud that I’m making the best of a shitty situation. But one wrong word from Luke and I instantly turn into a needy, snivelling wreck.
I peer through the rain for a glimpse of the comforting glow of a Starbucks or Costa, but I’m in a residential area and the sole option within umbrella-less dashing distance is a pub at the far end of the street. Although it’s only late morning, it looks like the lights are on, and so, tucking my camera bag under my jacket for protection from the deluge, I pull up my collar and make a run for it.
The Admiral Nelson must be one of the few remaining pubs in the area that hasn’t been converted into luxury apartments or had a Millennial makeover. Give it a couple of years and it will have an onsite micro-brewery and vegan brunch options; for now, however, it is the epitome of an old man’s boozer: dark wood panelling, flickering fruit machines, Stella on tap and a carpet so gratuitously patterned it could hide an industrial waste spillage. The ghosts of cigarettes past still linger in the air, years after the smoking ban. I’m guessing a soya flat white will be out of the question.
There are only three other customers – all male, all seated at separate tables – who have the look of men who still rue the day that women got the vote. Suddenly, the idea of getting soaked to my knickers doesn’t seem quite so unappealing: I think I’ll use the toilets and then take my chances in the rain.
There’s a bloke behind the bar restocking the fridge with tiny bottles of Britvic orange juice.
‘Excuse me, which way to the Ladies?’
‘Facilities are for customers only,’ he says, without turning round.
Great. Well, I suppose I might as well be miserable here as anywhere else.
‘Fine, I’ll have a lime and soda, please.’
The barman gets up, clearly miffed at the inconvenience, and pours my drink. ‘Anything else?’
I hesitate. The way he’s looking at me I can tell he’s thinking: you don’t belong in here, love. God, I am so sick of being patronised by bloody men! I glance at the clock behind the bar: just after 11 a.m.
Fuck it.
‘And a double vodka.’
‘In the lime and soda?’
‘Yes.’ I boldly return his stare. ‘Please.’
He turns to the row of optics with a shrug; he obviously thinks I have a drinking problem. Perhaps I should order some food as well . . .
‘Could I please see the menu?’
‘Kitchen doesn’t open until midday.’
‘Okay then, I’ll have . . .’ I look around for a suitable snack and spot a jar at the other end of the bar. ‘What’s in there?’
‘Pickled eggs.’
‘I’ll take two. Early lunch.’
He looks dubious, but it’s probably a nourishing choice. They sell hard-boiled eggs in snack pots in Pret, after all, and isn’t pickling the latest health trend? Something to do with microbes . . .
I choose a table as far away from the other customers as possible and sit staring at the vodka and two pickled eggs on the little round table in front of me; what seemed like a sensible choice a moment ago now seems utterly bizarre. Why didn’t I just leave here when I had the chance? There’s probably a friendly café just around the corner: I could be smothering my sorrows right this minute with a hot chocolate and a buttered bun. Instead, I’ve stumbled into 1956 and a potential alcohol problem.
I take a tiny sip of my drink, feeling a not-unpleasant warmth from the vodka, trying not to cry again. Bloody, bloody Luke, this is all his fault . . .
Or is it? Perhaps it’s my fault for letting him get to me . . .
No, Annie, you’re being ridiculous. Luke is the father of your baby and he cheated on you: of course that’s going to ‘get’ to you. You’re not a robot.
I take another sip; this is going down surprisingly easily . . .
But now he’s desperate to make things right, to be a family again – so that’s a good thing, isn’t it?
I take another large gulp of booze. Yum.
Trouble is, I’m really not sure I can ever trust him again.
My head is already feeling a bit swimmy; breastfeeding has turned me into a total lightweight. I take a nibble of egg – and spit it straight out into a napkin. Jesus, that’s not food, it’s a Bushtucker Trial! I have more vodka to get rid of the Domestos aftertaste and then some more, and discover my glass is now empty. Well, that barely touched the sides – but then pub measures are notoriously small, aren’t they?