Promise Me: A heartbreaking and unputdownable page-turner

by Jade Beer

  ‘So, she hasn’t mentioned Nick?’

  ‘Not at all. I don’t think this is about you or anything you may have done. I think it’s about her.’

  ‘What about her? Has she given you any clue about what else might be going on in her private life?’

  ‘Not exactly, no.’

  ‘But there’s something? Are you keeping something from me?’

  Just then a young woman tries to enter the locked door of The White Gallery, forcing Helen to break away from their chat to speak to her. She’s dressed impeccably in a smart black-and-white checked coat that flatteringly hugs her curves, black cigarette pants and soft grey suede ankle boots. She looks like she’s just taking ten minutes out from her successful job in one of the neighbouring fashion boutiques to seek the benefit of Helen’s limitless wisdom.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I’m just with a client. Can I take a number and I will happily call you back later?’

  Nat can see the smile is there on Helen’s face, perhaps not quite as broad as usual, but she’s determined not to let this future bride down with any hint of her own trauma. The girl hands over a business card, double-checks on a number of designers she’s hoping Helen stocks and then she’s on her way. It’s so sad, thinks Nat, that a woman as lovely as Helen is having to grill her, a relative stranger, for answers about her own daughter. She deserves better than this.

  ‘Please, Nat, go on.’ She returns, this time sitting a few inches closer to Nat on the chaise longue.

  ‘It’s probably nothing, just a small thing really, it just struck me as quite odd at the time.’

  ‘What did?’ Helen edges even further forward so that their knees are just touching.

  ‘She called one night, it was late and I think it had finally dawned on her that I needed some urgent answers on a few things.’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘She was in a bar, I think, because I could barely hear a thing she was saying so we switched to texting each other.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’d had a few or something but all the way through the chat she kept referring to her partner by a different name. I know she’s marrying Jacob, but that’s not the name she used.’

  ‘Can you remember what name she did use?’

  ‘No, but I can probably check back through my texts if you think it’s important?’ Nat picks her phone up and starts to enter the security code that will allow her to access her messages. Helen’s hand touches hers and she is shaking her head from side to side, telling Nat not to bother.

  ‘I don’t think you need to. I’m pretty sure the name you’ll find will be Dylan.’

  Nat pauses for a moment, wanting to be completely sure of her facts, and then, ‘Yes, you’re right, that was definitely it.’

  * * *

  Nat sits entirely still, registers the sad sag of Helen’s shoulders and doesn’t say a single word as Helen unleashes everything: about the surprise visit she paid to Betsy’s house when she knew she wouldn’t be there; about the expensive lingerie receipts, the new clothes, the luxury make-up habit her daughter has acquired. She doesn’t hold back on anything – Jacob’s appearance, the state of their home, the excruciating dinner with Nick and how relieved she was when the two of them finally left the table and Betsy presumably decided to mistakenly text Nat about Dylan – until the two women are both slumped, side by side, the story finally finished. Helen has kicked off her shoes and got through half of the box of tissues.

  Nat can’t help but think about the women those tissues are really intended for. As she glances around the boutique, her emotions steadied by the effect of all that calming white, she thinks about the happy mothers-of-the-bride, crying tears of pride and joy at seeing their angelic five-year-old blossom into a beautiful woman right there in the fitting room. Helen’s sorrow seems so out of place in the shrine to future happiness that is The White Gallery, with all its sparkle and decadence and blemish-free perfection.

  Nat wraps an arm around Helen and allows Helen’s head to drop onto her shoulder. ‘I’ve worked with so many different women, Helen, all with different reasons for hiring me. All with a different vision of how their married life will be, the kind of wife they’ll make, the sort of husband they want him to be. The one difference with Betsy is that I don’t think she wants to get married. Perhaps what you have to figure out now is why.’

  Before Helen has a chance to respond, they are interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing – Helen must have forgotten to lock it again after their earlier visitor – and quick footsteps moving closer towards them across the wooden flooring. Who could be that familiar with the place? And then the call ‘Mum!’ fills the air between them. There is no time to react, nowhere for the two women to go that won’t immediately place them in Betsy’s path. So they sit, for what seems like forever but is a matter of mere seconds, until Betsy’s face appears around the corner of the fitting-room drapes.

  One look at her mother’s tear-stained cheeks, her companion and the pile of used tissues around her, and Nat watches the smile on Betsy’s face switch to a look of utter betrayal. An angry, short sigh escapes her before she turns and makes straight back for the door. But not before Helen briefly halts her with a powerful reminder of who is in the wrong here.

  ‘If you’re feeling hurt right now, Betsy, I would ask you to take a moment to consider what the past hour has been like for me, your mother. Hearing everything that I have and feeling for the first time in my life that I barely know my own daughter.’

  Shame is painting itself all over Betsy’s face before she is off again.

  It’s Nat who moves next, jumping to her feet and jamming them quickly back into her Converse while Helen sits motionless.

  ‘Aren’t you coming?’ Nat is grabbing her bag, determined to catch up with Betsy.

  ‘No, I need time to think about everything you’ve said. She’s angry. No good will come of anything we say to each other right now.’

  Betsy is nearly all the way down the end of Connaught Street by the time Nat gets level with her.

  ‘Betsy, please, stop.’ The words are breathlessly panting out of Nat.

  ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing? You’ve totally blown it for me, haven’t you? I’m guessing by the look on Mum’s face that she knows everything about the arrangement we have. So much for a discreet service!’ Betsy looks so angry that a woman walking her dog past them deviates into an exaggerated semi-circle, creating some distance, sensing perhaps that slaps might be thrown.

  ‘Whatever you’re doing, Betsy, whatever is going on, it’s unravelling. She’s been to your house, she’s spoken to Jacob, and I’m pretty sure she thinks there’s something going on between you and some bloke called Dylan.’ Nat is calm. She has no desire to fight with Betsy, just to help her feel that she can share everything with her mother, that Helen is waiting for her to do exactly that.

  But the mere mention of Dylan’s name makes Betsy’s cheeks flare red.

  ‘You just need to talk to her because she can’t understand how she’s failed you and why you could possibly want a stranger to arrange your wedding when she loves you as much as she does.’

  ‘Like you actually give a shit! This is all just bad for business for you, isn’t it?’ Wow, it obviously hasn’t occurred to her that the very last thing Nat is obliged to do with her time is stand in the middle of the street and fight someone else’s battles.

  ‘Listen, my relationship with your mum goes way back to long before you decided to call me. No one’s taking sides here, I’m just trying to help.’ Nat raises an arm to Betsy’s shoulder, trying to smother some of the anger, then feels the shock as Betsy’s own arm flies through the air, batting it painfully away.

  Before Nat has a chance to do anything other than wince, Betsy explodes into tears and runs off at a speed Nat knows she’ll never match.

  15

  Betsy

  For the first time in as long as she can remember, Betsy
wakes to find Jacob is not lying, open-mouthed and spread-eagled, in the bed next to her – that way exhausted people sleep when they’ve lost all control over their own bodies. It’s early and still dark outside. She has to get to the London office today so it’s nothing short of extraordinary if he’s beaten her out of bed. Maybe he never actually made it there in the first place and he’s still attached to the laptop in the spare bedroom. He’ll be grumpy as hell if he is. She’ll need to slip out undetected.

  As she rises, head sore and heart heavy from the deep-down guilt she’s been carrying with her since the showdown with Mum and Nat, Betsy knows she can’t go on like this. In the past two weeks, she’s dialled her mum’s number, disconnected it and dialled it again countless times without ever letting the ringtone kick in. By now, the idea of making that phone call is so much worse than the reality of what they might have to say to each other.

  Betsy is distracted by the chemical – or is it citrusy? – smell, carrying up to the bedroom; it’s novel enough to send her sniffing the air out on the landing and down the stairs. As she nears the bottom, she can see through into their old-fashioned pine kitchen. Jacob is there, showered, dressed and with a tea towel flung over his left shoulder while he puts the last of all the freshly cleaned crockery back into the correct cupboards. There is a tray laid out with a pot of tea, two matching mugs, some pastries he must have gone out to buy from the twenty-four-hour garage this morning and a single iris in one of the glass bud vases she’d forgotten she owns. Betsy can tell from the few puddles yet to dry that he has mopped the lino floor too and for the first time in weeks, the Venetian blinds have been yanked up and the window thrown open, breathing new life into their stale surroundings – and into him, apparently.

  She barely knows what to say and stands there, slack-jawed, until he spots her.

  ‘I was just about to bring you breakfast in bed!’

  ‘Really? It’s not my birthday, you know that, right?’

  ‘Does it have to be? I’m sorry you think that.’ His eyes move to the tray and Betsy immediately feels bad for being anything other than enormously grateful for the loving gesture. ‘We’re celebrating!’

  Oh God, what has she forgotten? The anniversary of when they first met? No, that’s an easy one, Christmas Eve. It’s not his birthday. So, what?

  ‘When I got up this morning, there was an email in my inbox from my agent. Another publisher has read the first third of the book. They love it, Betsy, and they’re going to make an offer!’ He doesn’t even wait for a response before lifting her off her feet and spinning her around the kitchen as if she weighs nothing at all. For one brief moment, she is thrown back to their first Christmas Eve and her wild predictions of all the fun they might have together. When he places her back down, both their eyes are welling with tears of happiness, relief and, in Betsy’s case, a little more guilt – for silently concluding weeks ago this moment was never going to happen.

  ‘Oh my God! This is the most amazing news. Congratulations, darling! How shall we celebrate?’ This is exactly what they need, what their relationship needs.

  ‘Well, let’s wait until it’s all signed on the dotted line but I thought I might take myself off somewhere for a little R&R – I could do with a change of scenery.’ It’s months since she’s heard him sound so decisive. And OK, it might only be a few days away together he’s suggesting, but this constitutes forward planning, something that has been entirely absent from him.

  ‘Great! Where do you fancy? Shall we stay in the UK or somewhere short haul in Europe?’ Betsy is freeing herself from his arms and glancing around the kitchen for her phone, she’s going to start Googling options right away. This is the perfect opportunity to switch it up a bit. Break her out of the routine and get her away from all the questions, deception and guilty thoughts that have been stuck to her like a second skin for weeks.

  ‘Actually, I think it’s probably better if I go alone, Betsy.’ He’s going at the work surface with a J-cloth now, determined to finish what he’s started. ‘I’ve still got fifty thousand words to refine and you’ll just be bored. But it does mean you can crack on with all the wedding planning, now we know the money is coming. I know you’ll love that.’ The slight lilt in his voice makes her question if he’s being sarcastic… and why are his eyes scanning hers so carefully? To check her reaction? Or is she just paranoid? Either way, it’s not a suggestion, he’s not even asking how she feels about coming, or not, he’s made up his mind. This is going to be his trip and there’s no room for her on it.

  ‘Right.’ Perhaps she should just be grateful he’s referencing the wedding at all.

  ‘And they’re already talking about a book tour so I could be away a lot in the new year. And I’ll need to get the synopsis for book two sorted.’ He really has got it all worked out, and Betsy is not part of his grand plan.

  ‘Anyway, I’m going to get back to the laptop, so enjoy breakfast.’ And with that he strides past her, swiping his own mug of tea and pastry from the tray, out of the kitchen and back to his makeshift office.

  The croissant sticks in the back of Betsy’s throat a bit after that. Is this how it’s supposed to work? She gets to put up with the strops, the constant need for ego stroking, hours spent reading words that make no sense to her – bore her, even – just so when it all finally becomes worthwhile, she can sit and watch from the sidelines like his loser girlfriend?

  She glances up at the kitchen clock. Great, she’s going to miss the 7.54 a.m. to London now and look like the last slacker to arrive at work while everyone else is hard at it.

  * * *

  Avoiding your boss is harder work than Betsy ever imagined. Their early-morning chats have dried up; she’s timing her arrival with the rest of the team so there is no chance of any awkward stepping around each other. When you’ve had your boss’s hands up your dress and come dangerously close to having a lot more of him up there too, you think the whole world can tell, just from one quick glance at you both. It feels like Anton has crawled inside her mind and can read what now feels like an embarrassingly juvenile script, one where she actually imagined a man like Dylan would risk public and professional ridicule to be with a woman like her, a woman who gets engaged, then tries – and fails – to take her boss to bed. It’s one thing to have been rejected by Dylan, quite another to have the entire team know about it.

  As she slumps down into her seat this morning, willing herself not to look up at his office, where she knows he’ll already be, Betsy thinks about how much she’s changed since she took this job, and about how she’s started treating work like the place to play out her sexual fantasies – even if they were only ever in her head. It all seems so mortifying now. Those red shoes! When she changed into them that night, it must have seemed all so horribly obvious to Dylan. Then she remembers the excruciating performance she put on in front of Nick and her mum. Everyone at the table that night must have thought nothing of Jacob’s lateness compared to her open contempt for him, the man who’s supposed to be her soulmate for life.

  Meetings with Dylan have become perfunctory, professional and devoid of gags. It’s ages since she’s caught him looking at her absent-mindedly from his office, like he’d forgotten she could see in just as easily as he could stare out. She’s way behind with her workload too, thanks to hours and hours wasted plotting mini-encounters with Dylan that would see them brush up against each other in the tiny work kitchen, or orchestrating a ride in the lift with only him, fantasising about how he might hit the stop button and… it’s like she’s regressed to a giddy seventeen-year-old girl who’s never been shagged.

  Well, today is the day she is going to put it all right. With enough effort, she might convince herself there are some tentative signs at home that things could improve, even if Jacob is now morphing from truculent teenager into selfish bastard. Plus, she has a super-keen team at work, who have been coming at her with great ideas for weeks. This is it. A new beginning.

  Betsy kicks the day of
f with individual back-to-back meetings with her team. She restates their objectives through to the end of November, checks they are all on course to hit their targets, deals with a couple of inevitable foul-ups on Anton’s part and agrees to pick up the slack on one of Kirsty’s accounts so she can skip off early to watch her three-year-old take the lead role in her first nursery performance. With the team fully recharged and raring to go, she tackles her own workload, checking in with Mark and Jonathan. The contracts are signed, a hefty retainer has been agreed and she sends a series of diary invites for their monthly catch-ups. Then she’s writing job ads, trawling her database of candidates and shortlisting a selection of the ten best to interview over the phone this afternoon. This account needs to get off to a flying start. After so much initial legwork, there’s no way she’s going to see it falter now.

  At four o’clock, Betsy looks up from her keyboard, realising she hasn’t had lunch, and concludes it’s too late to bother. But she has successfully avoided all contact with Dylan so far today and just as she’s thinking she’ll keep it that way until home time, his name pops up in her inbox:

  Subject: we need to talk about New York.

  Acutely aware that Dylan is still her boss and that if he asks for a meeting, she’s hardly in a position to say no, she pings one back.

  Of course, just shout when you’re ready.

  His response lands almost instantaneously.

  Pop in now.

  She knows this is going to be painful because he asks her to close the door. He might think he’s being discreet but now every pair of eyes in the place is trained on that glass cube, watching and straining their ears, making amateur attempts to lip-read. Is she being told off? Is one of them about to be told off? What is it that warrants the closed-door intimacy? She knows they’ll all be sending each other speculative emails. It’s exactly what she’d be doing if she was the one still at her desk.