by Jane Fallon
‘God, don’t stand downwind of any customers,’ Myra says as I pass on my way to serve a couple at the front table. I take this to mean my clothes are a little rank.
When the café is quiet she corners me.
‘So what was all that about hiding places? What’s Robert done?’
‘Nothing. I don’t know.’
‘Right,’ she says sceptically. And then, thankfully, she leaves it. She knows I’ll tell her in my own good time.
I finish every day at half two, after the lunchtime rush, a compromise I wrestled out of Myra by agreeing I would work straight through with no break, stuffing in a sandwich to keep me going whenever I get a second to nip out the back. Today I forgo my usual ‘unsold leftovers from yesterday’ pudding and plough my way through a banana instead. It’s a start.
Once home (bus all the way, feet too sore, also weak from lack-of-chocolate-bar-induced deprivation), I plan what to make for dinner. Robert is a health nut. His body is his temple. He’s an absolute sugar addict but he’s involved in a constant tussle with himself over his weight for fear the glossy magazines might run a ‘Look at the belly on him’ story one of these days. Consequently, I usually steer clear of desserts and end up helping myself to biscuits halfway through the evening.
Today I spend what seems like hours baking two batches of brownies. One a sugar- and butter-laden heart attack on a plate, the other some kind of weird thing made from cannellini beans, coconut flour, sweetener and cacao powder (‘NOT COCOA POWDER!!’ the hyper YouTuber I have already consulted for healthy dessert ideas before I left work screamed out at me from my laptop. Apparently, there’s a difference, who knew?) Anyway, the health food shop I pass every day on my way to the bus stop (but have never been in) stocked it, along with the rest of the ingredients. Christ knows what it’ll taste like, but it only has forty-five calories a slice. They look almost identical. Close enough that you would never notice the difference if you weren’t looking for it. Later, I will tuck into one of the superfood varieties while claiming that the whopping three-hundred-calorie version I am serving Robert is the exact same thing. If I can do this every night he’ll put on a pound every ten days or so and that will make me very happy. Petty? Me?
He’s home at half seven. Showered and at the breakfast bar by twenty to eight.
‘Where’s George?’ He pours himself a glass of red.
‘Revising at Eliza’s.’
And that’s it. That’s our conversation done. I rack my brains for something to talk about. These days, unless Georgia is here, we tend to eat in silence. I can remember when we used to trip over our words we had so much to say to each other.
‘Good day?’
He grunts a yes through a mouthful of chicken.
‘Saskia turn up on time?’
‘She did.’
I can’t think of anything else to say except ‘Did you shag her today?’ so I turn back to my food. Clearly, I need to work on finding some common ground.
4
What to do about Saskia? Apart from use her as a punchbag and then mount her head on my living-room wall, that is. I need to make sure their relationship is well and truly dead before I tell Robert to pack his bags. I don’t want him to have anywhere too cosy to run to. I’ve been racking my brains as to what is the best way to achieve this without giving myself away and the best plan I’ve come up with is this: appeal to her better nature (if she has one).
If Saskia grew to like me, then surely – unless she’s a monster, which she may well be – guilt would start to kick in. It’s one thing to have an affair with a married man if you buy into his lies that his wife is a harridan whose sole purpose in life is to make his existence a misery. It’s another to meet her and discover she is sweet and unthreatening and she loves her husband and clearly believes that he loves her back.
OK, so it’s not exactly foolproof, but it’s all I’ve got. Plus, I get to satisfy my curiosity and get a close-up look at the woman my husband has picked over me. It’s win-win. I just have to work out how to make it happen.
I need to move quickly because filming wraps up in two weeks for the month-long summer break, and after that I’ll have no way of contriving to be in the same place as her at the same time.
As luck would have it, there is some kind of party coming up. I only know this because I was trying to find a time for us to visit Robert’s mum and dad in Bath and, when I suggested a possible date, he told me he couldn’t do it that weekend because it was the producer’s birthday celebration on the Friday night. Robert always likes to show his face at any work-related social do. Now I know why.
In the early days he used to invite me along, but I always declined, thinking I would feel like a spare part and that, anyway, it might be nice for him to spend some time bonding with his co-workers. Yes. I know. After a while he stopped asking and, if I’m being honest, I felt a bit relieved. Making small talk with people I hardly know has never been my forte.
‘Is it Josh’s party this Friday?’ I ask him when we’re sitting side by side in front of the TV. We’re watching Countryfile. Kill me. I mean, really, kill me. He loves it, though, and in my new capacity as compliant wife I’ve agreed to have it on for once. In fact, it was my suggestion. Ask me anything about growing corn. Go on. Ask me.
‘Mmm-hmm,’ he says, by which I think he means yes.
‘I think I might come.’
The look that crosses his face is priceless. There’s a moment when I think he might choke on the Cabernet Sauvignon he’s just taken a swig of. He composes himself quickly.
‘Really? What’s brought this on?’
‘I don’t know. I just feel like I should make more of an effort.’
‘It might … I mean, won’t you feel a bit awkward? Not knowing anyone?’
‘At first, probably. A bit. But … I mean …’ Big, innocent eyes. ‘Don’t you want me there?’
Robert is looking anywhere but at me. Not such a good actor now. ‘Of course, but …’
I wonder what’s rushing through his head. Should he make a last-minute excuse not to go? Tiredness or illness? Will he phone Saskia and tell her she’ll have to stay home? Is she even going in the first place? I have no way of knowing. Chances are, I will end up going to some god-awful do for nothing. But it’s all I have.
‘Is it at his house? Where does he live?’
‘Out in west London somewhere. It’s a long schlep.’ He can’t look at me.
‘You were going anyway, though, right? That’s why we couldn’t go to your mum’s.’
‘I have to show my face. It’s expected.’
Yeah, right, I think. There’s an edict out that says all cast and crew must attend a random social occasion on the outskirts of London just because the producer says so.
‘Well, then. Now you’ll have company on the journey.’
‘I wasn’t planning on coming home first. It’s the opposite direction.’
‘I’ll meet you at the studio. I can get a cab.’
There’s nothing he can say. He’s bang to rights.
‘OK. I wasn’t intending to stay long, though. Just so Josh knows I’ve made the effort.’
‘Fine. I’m looking forward to it.’
I wonder if Saskia was expecting a lift. If she’ll be left to make her own way now. Maybe she’ll decide it’s too much trouble.
On Friday afternoon I agonize over what to wear. For the third day in a row I have walked the first part of my journey to work, wearing some old trainers of Georgia’s that she hasn’t worn herself in years because the colour combination is so 2014. Next week I intend to do it both morning and afternoon. It’s hardly training for a marathon, but it’s something. Obviously, there is no change in my physical appearance as yet. Still a size eighteen. But that’s fine. I don’t want Saskia to think I’m a threat. I need her pity, not for her to dig her heels in and go into competition mode.
The look I want to go for is sweet and homely. That I care about what I look like but not
too much. In the end I choose a black skirt that’s rather flattering, if I say so myself, with a teal blouse that’s pretty and feminine but with sack-like qualities. I take my time washing and blowing out my hair – one of my best attributes: long, thick, shiny and chestnut-brown – and making up my face. By five thirty I’m ready, even though my cab’s not due to arrive till half six.
‘How do I look?’ I ask Georgia as she swoops into the kitchen and grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge. She looks me up and down.
‘Fab.’
‘I feel a bit nervous. I don’t know why I said I’d go really.’
‘Have fun, don’t drink too much and don’t do anything you’d be embarrassed for me to hear about,’ she says, an exact rehash of the lecture I give her every time she goes out.
The cab drops me off outside the studio gates and, as agreed, I wait for Robert to pick me up. There was no suggestion of me coming in and having a look around. It’s the end of the filming day and I spot a couple of faces I recognize from my TV screen on their way out. Presumably heading the same direction we are. David, Farmer Giles himself, spots me and waves, rolling down his window. I met him a couple of times during the shooting of the first series, when Robert and I went out to dinner with him and his wife. But we weren’t a foursome that gelled. I’m flattered that he remembers me, though.
‘Hello!’ I walk towards the car.
David seems to be brandishing a ten-by-eight photo of himself. Flat cap on. In Farmer Giles mode.
‘Who’s it to?’
It takes me a moment to realize what’s happening. He thinks that I’m a fan, waiting for a signed picture and maybe the chance to do a selfie with him. For a split second I almost go along with it to spare him the embarrassment of disabusing him, but then I decide that, as I’m bound to be seeing him again in an hour or so, that might be worse.
‘No. I mean … it’s Paula, David. Robert’s wife.’
He looks confused for a second then, thankfully, lets out a big guffaw.
‘Paula! I thought you looked familiar! What are you doing out here?’
‘Waiting for Robert. Are you going to the party?’
‘Sadly, yes. Home first, though, to pick up Grace. Why didn’t you go on in?’
I almost say, ‘Because Robert told me to wait out here,’ but I stop myself. I wonder briefly whether David knows about Robert and Saskia. Whether it’s the gossip of the set. I push the thought from my mind. I can’t think about that humiliation now.
‘Oh … well … you know …’
Luckily, David isn’t really interested in an answer and a couple of other cars have stacked up behind him, waiting to leave.
‘Well, see you later. Are you sure you don’t want that signed photo? You could raise a tenner on eBay!’ He pulls away, chuckling to himself.
I make sure not to make eye contact with any of the other drivers in case the same thing happens again. Consequently, when Robert pulls up, I am examining a cracked piece of pavement.
‘I just saw David. He thought I was an autograph hunter,’ I say as I climb in, thinking it might make him laugh. I’m gratified that it does.
‘Classic,’ he says. ‘He probably gives his parents signed pictures for Christmas.’ David’s self-importance is one of Robert’s favourite topics. He’s never recognized that he has similar tendencies himself these days.
‘I should have just let him do it and then see if he remembered me at the party.’
‘No! You should have told him it was my autograph you were waiting to get. That you didn’t want his, thanks very much.’
‘Ha! And then taken a picture of his expression!’
We keep going along these lines for a few minutes, making each other laugh, and it almost feels like old times. Then Robert says:
‘I only want to show my face at this thing. I’m not feeling too good. Migraine, I think.’
Usually when Robert goes to a party thrown by one of the team, he arrives home in the small hours, waking me up with his over-exaggerated efforts not to wake me up.
‘Oh. When did that start?’
‘I felt it coming on this afternoon. I should have cried off, really.’
I’m not going to give him a get-out clause.
‘Well, see how you feel when you get there.’ What’s he going to do? Drag me out kicking and screaming in front of everyone if he wants to leave before I’ve spotted my prey?
Robert is making a show of rubbing his temples and sighing. Acting lesson 1:01: if the character has a headache, rub your temples. I’ve been making sympathetic noises (remember, you are trying to be the perfect wife) and trying to keep the conversation light.
‘So who’s going to be there?’ I ask as we sit in stationary traffic near Chiswick.
‘No idea,’ he says, which seems, to me, ridiculous.
‘Well, who usually goes to these things?’
‘Just the cast and crew, really. Whoever’s around. I think he’s having some kind of family do tomorrow.’
Rub, rub. Sigh, sigh.
‘Do you want me to take over driving?’
‘No,’ he says in a martyred voice. ‘I’m fine.’
Josh’s house in Richmond is an old Virginia-creeper-clad beauty that’s three times the size of our home. There are a couple of cars in the driveway already, and I’m relieved we’re not the first. I want to be able to get lost in the crowd before Robert starts insisting it’s time to leave.
‘I should park out on the road, really. In case someone blocks us in.’
I don’t argue. We pull up on the verge. It’s a beautiful evening, still just about light. I take a deep breath of the sweetly scented air.
‘We should move out to a quieter area.’
Robert grunts. ‘I wouldn’t want to do that commute every day.’
I don’t point out that it takes way longer to get from our home in Chalk Farm to the studio in Acton than it did to get here from there just now. I imagine the last thing Robert wants to do at the moment is plan a future with me. Well, me too, I want to say. I don’t want you either.
A man I assume is Josh greets us at the front door. Attractive. Mid-forties, I would guess. Very smiley. Jeans and a worn-out but expensive T-shirt. He’s obviously rushed home and changed into his civvies. Cropped hair and a tan. One of those very easy in his own skin people. The opposite of me. He only joined the show a couple of years ago and I know that Robert doesn’t think much of him. He’s friendly enough, though. He offers us a drink. Robert refuses the Prosecco on the grounds that he’s driving. Usually, by the way, when he goes to any kind of work do he books a cab there and back so that he can booze to his heart’s content. Tonight he obviously wants to be on standby for a quick getaway. Plus, I wonder if he’s thinking that, if he doesn’t drink, then I’m less likely to. And if I don’t get a bit of Dutch courage inside me I’m less likely to be asking questions.
‘I’d love one,’ I say, helping myself to a glass from the proffered tray. ‘Thanks.’
‘I was beginning to think he’d made you up,’ Josh says, and his tone is so friendly it puts me at ease a bit.
‘Paula’s not usually one for parties,’ Robert says, with a hint of accusation. I imagine he’s terrified I’m going to start inviting myself along to every event from here on in.
‘Well, it’s good to meet you finally.’
‘This is a beautiful place,’ I say, looking around. Really what I’m doing is trying to spot Saskia.
‘Thanks. We haven’t been here that long. Still a work in progress.’
He and Robert start a conversation about something that happened on set today. It’s quite a funny story about one of the older actors getting in a muddle with her lines and repeating the same one over and over again, regardless of what Robert, who was playing opposite her, said. It’s the kind of thing Robert would have told me in the car once, doing the impression he’s doing now for Josh’s sake, making me laugh.
There are about twenty people already gathered in th
e spacious, dark-beamed living room. I make a quick scan of the women. Two I recognize as members of the cast. Neither of them Saskia. There is more activity in the adjoining room but I can’t see clearly enough to make out who’s there. As I’m planning my next move the front door opens and about twelve people all come in at once.
‘I’m just going to nip to the loo,’ I say as Robert gets swept up in a hail of hellos. He looks as if he wants to come with me but then someone collars him and I slip away. Josh points the way. Obviously, I’ve got no interest in going there really, so I head for the farthest corner and lurk around near a group of people, wondering what to do next.
And then I see her. Or, at least, I hear her first. That loud voice. Just a touch of her Exeter accent peeking through when she’s not being vigilant.
‘Honestly, it was a scream!’ she’s screeching. My head whips around and there she is, holding court to another woman who looks as if she wants to tell her to shut up but knows she’d never get away with it. Long, thick bob a rich, gleaming honey-blonde, self-satisfied smile on her suspiciously plump lips (I remember the headline in one of those gossipy magazines you read at the dentist’s: ‘Has Saskia the farmer’s wife gone under the knife?’ along with close-ups of various bits of her face that were looking a bit alien. It made no sense either. Robert’s character Hargreaves isn’t a farmer. He’s an antiques dealer. But since when did accuracy get in the way of good copy?) Bright blue eyes the colour of the Mediterranean sky. Skinny as fuck.
I look around to check Robert is still occupied. I can only just see his head in the crowd so I figure I’m safe to make my move. I make my way over to the two women, taking in Saskia as I go. Without all her on-screen make-up, she looks younger but not quite as flawless. When I get close I hover. I can hardly march over and reintroduce myself. I try to look a bit lost and sorry for myself, hoping they’ll take pity on me, but I imagine in reality all they think is, ‘Why is this weird woman hovering next to us?’