My Sweet Revenge

by Jane Fallon

  ‘OK. Yes. I am.’

  ‘Why? You’re gorgeous.’

  ‘It’s a long story. It’s … oh God, Myra, can I tell you something in absolute confidence?’

  Her eyes nearly pop out of her head. She reaches for the bottle of red that’s on the table between us and pours us both a glassful.

  ‘Of course. Anything. I know I love a bit of gossip but I’d never repeat anything you didn’t want me to.’

  I know that’s true. Myra is beyond loyal when it comes to her friends.

  ‘It’s Robert,’ I say. ‘He’s seeing someone else.’

  I wait for it to sink in. Her expression goes through shock to sympathy then fury and then back to sympathy again.

  ‘That bastard. Are you sure?’

  I fill her in on the story so far. Her mouth drops open when I tell her it’s Saskia and only gets even wider when I reach the bit about meeting her for coffee, but I plough on through and she waits for me to finish.

  ‘Jesus. And you’re definitely going to kick him out, right?’

  ‘Definitely. It’s over.’

  ‘Good. I’ve always thought he was a bit of a knob.’

  I’m shocked. ‘What?’

  ‘He has that smug thing going on. Like he’s waiting for everyone to recognize him.’

  ‘To be fair, a lot of people do.’

  ‘I know, but that’s not the point. It’s as if he thinks he’s better than them. Like he’s more important than they are because he’s on TV.’

  I know she’s right. That’s the thing with Myra. Her observations can be hurtful but there’s always a huge grain of truth in them. I’m so used to Robert being Mr Popular, though, that it’s hard to take in.

  ‘I thought you got on with him OK.’

  ‘He’s your husband. I’m hardly going to tell you I think the man you love is a patronizing git. Shit, you’re not going to change your mind, are you, and then this conversation will have been really awkward?’

  ‘Loved,’ I say. ‘The man I loved. I don’t think I do any more. I don’t think I have for a while, actually.’

  ‘So your plan is what? Get him to realize how much he loves you and then tell him it’s all over?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ It sounds idiotic at best, I know.

  ‘I love it,’ she says. ‘Serve him fucking right. You need to do a bit more than lose a few pounds and talk to him about football, though.’

  ‘I know. I need help.’

  She rubs her hands together, with a look on her face I’ve only ever seen when she’s been scheming for ways to make her business more successful.

  ‘The element of surprise is crucial. You need him to look at you and think ‘Wow!’ Like he’s noticed you for the first time. You’re lucky you have that fat body thin face thing going on. It won’t be obvious what’s going on for a while. Well, apart from when you … do you still …?’

  Only Myra could ask this outright. ‘Not so as you’d notice. And on the rare occasions we do it’s when we’ve both had a few drinks so …’

  ‘OK. Enough detail. Just wear baggy clothes. And you need to do more than just run after the bus. You need to join a gym.’

  ‘Oh God, no.’ The thought of all those perfect bodies pumping iron makes me want to cry.

  ‘Or get a personal trainer. You need to do something to suck it all in so you’re not just a big bag of flapping skin.’

  ‘Why are you so keen on this all of a sudden? I thought you said I looked good as I am?’

  ‘You do. You can put it all back on later but Robert’s probably the type who wants a scrawny woman on his arm. I bet Saskia’s stick thin in real life? Am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say miserably.

  ‘I knew it. So that’s easy. You can do thin. Now all you have to do is to try and make him fall back in love with you the person again.’

  ‘Sadly, not so easy.’

  ‘One step at a time,’ she says. ‘Just keep doing what you’re doing for now. It all helps.’

  ‘I’m taking these with me,’ she says, gathering up the boxes of cakes as she leaves, a bottle and a half of wine later. ‘We don’t want temptation right under your nose. Really, you shouldn’t be drinking either.’

  I raise my eyebrows in a way I hope conveys exactly what I think of that idea.

  She laughs. ‘No, you’re right. That would be a step too far.’

  She gives me a big hug.

  ‘Thanks, Myra,’ I say into her shoulder. I feel much better for having unburdened myself.

  ‘It’ll all be OK,’ she says. ‘Or, actually, it won’t, but at least he’ll be miserable too.’

  I’m cursing myself for not asking Saskia more about her own relationship. I was so thrown by her mention of Josh that it didn’t occur to me to try to establish if they’re the kind of couple who see her messing around with another man as acceptable (do those people really exist?), or whether Josh is in the same boat as me. Does he indulge her because she’s an artist or some bollocks like that, or would he be devastated to find out the truth? I can’t help thinking it would be useful to know.

  It’s out of the question for me to call her again but I do have one weapon in my arsenal. Saskia’s love of hot yoga, specifically, Saturday-morning classes in Marylebone.

  Of course, Marylebone is awash with Bikram classes. All those lithe, beautiful people slipping about in each other’s sweat all day and night. I was paying attention when I was eavesdropping, though. I remember the name of the centre. West One Hot Yoga has three ninety-minute classes every Saturday morning. An early-bird special for superwomen at 7 a.m., and then nine and eleven. I imagine, in between, someone has to go in and mop up.

  I have no intention of joining a class, obviously. Ambulances would have to be called. I don’t even do cold yoga. My plan, such as it is, is to be conveniently lurking outside when she emerges. Oh, the coincidence! Fancy seeing you here! It’s worth a try.

  There’s no way I can convince Robert that I need to be in the West End at half past eight on a Saturday morning, when the first class would be heading out. I love my weekend lie-ins far too much. I can imagine that Saskia might easily be the type to leap out of bed at the crack of dawn on her day off to go and be pummelled into perfection, but even so. I decide to stake the next two out. If she’s not there, she’s not there. Even if she is, she might be in a hurry, or with a friend, or just have a life to get on with. But, at this point, it’s all I’ve got.

  There’s a hairy moment when Georgia declares she wants to come shopping with me. I announced my intentions over dinner on Friday night. George, as usual, is on her way over to Eliza’s. Robert is working his way through yet another fattening ‘health’ brownie. Tonight he declared my root vegetable mash ‘fantastic’ and asked what the mystery ingredient was. I just laughed and didn’t tell him his portion had half a ton of butter added (missing from mine and Georgia’s). I know it will take months for any of this to show around his flat middle, but it makes me happy. It’s like I’m planting little bombs inside him and, one of these days, they’re all going to go off together and the button will pop off his trousers just as a fan is asking for an autograph.

  ‘You can’t,’ I say, all too abruptly. ‘I’m hunting for your birthday present.’

  Georgia’s birthday isn’t for another six weeks but, with the self-centred confidence of youth, she buys my story immediately.

  ‘Oh my God! What? What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know yet. This is just a preliminary foray to give me ideas. A fact-finding mission.’

  Robert groans. ‘Are you expecting me to come?’

  I laugh indulgently. ‘No! Next time, when I’ve narrowed down the options.’

  ‘You can take me out for brunch,’ Georgia says and his face lights up. He loves it when she still wants to spend time with him. He’s a great dad. In all ways except one.

  On Saturday I get to West One Hot Yoga (which turns out to be West1 Hot Yoga! – I wonder if they paid someone to come up wi
th that. I mean, really. Did they get extra for the exclamation point?) about fifteen minutes before the nine o’clock class is due to end. There’s a café almost opposite (thank God for the wealthy would-be hipsters of Marylebone and their obsession with the flat white) so I pick the table with the best viewpoint, order myself a pot of tea and wait.

  I try to come up with titbits I can offer up that will pique Saskia’s interest but won’t give her the impression that my marriage is dead and buried already. By the time the hordes of sweaty bodies start to exit at half past ten I’ve come up with a whole scenario that paints me as the loving wife, bemused and heartbroken by a sudden cooling-off on her husband’s part. You’d have to have a heart of stone not to feel sorry for me.

  I’ve also prepared some leading questions about her own marriage. I just have to find a way to work them into the conversation without giving myself away.

  I daren’t take my eyes off the exiting crowd for a second. This is all for nothing if I miss her. I’m surprised to see there are a few men too. I’d imagined a room full of identikit pretty blonde skinny women. And, actually, they all do fit that description, for the most part. It’s a bit like looking for a polar bear on an iceberg crammed with other polar bears. In a blizzard. I am rendered snow blind by honey highlights. I keep watching as the last few stragglers leave. Most seem to go home without showering (it doesn’t bear thinking about) so I assume they all live nearby. They wear their sheen of sweat and damp skin-tight Lycra like a badge of pride. Look at what I’ve just endured! But wasn’t it all worth it to get this body?

  There’s a small hiatus and, just as I think everyone has left, with no sign of Saskia, a couple of women emerge with (clean) damp hair and normal clothes on. Almost immediately, others start arriving, presumably for the eleven o’clock class. Of course, it hadn’t even occurred to me that Saskia might spot me on her way in and then I would have no possible excuse to still be sitting in the same spot ninety-odd minutes later.

  I do my best not to draw attention to myself. By which I mean I just sit there not quite knowing what to do. The waitress comes and asks if I’d like anything else and I flap her away, so intent am I on my task. At about ten to eleven I spot Saskia on the other side of the road. Hair neatly tied up at the top of her head. The obligatory skin-tight leggings and a colourful stretchy vest top. Gym bag over her right arm. She’s talking into her mobile. Probably to my husband.

  I keep my head down and my fingers crossed. If she notices me sitting there, she doesn’t say anything, and I’m pretty confident she wouldn’t want to pass up the opportunity for another close look at her rival. I allow myself to breathe out. Now I know she’s definitely there, I have an hour and a half to kill. I’m loathe to give up my seat in case she leaves early (I’ve heard people are carried out faint and sick from these classes from time to time, something I’m sad not to have witnessed thus far) or I don’t manage to secure another table later on. I can’t just sit here drinking tea for all that time, though. I’ll be a gibbering basketcase by the time she comes out. And the pastries look far too tempting. Besides, there are people hovering, glaring at me when they get the chance to let me know I should be giving up my table in the sun to them.

  I pay my bill and wander down towards Selfridges. I might as well really do some scouting for gifts for Georgia while I’m here. It’s her eighteenth so, of necessity, we have to make a big deal of it. We want to get her some things to help equip her for her new life away from home (don’t think about it), but Robert and I also talked last night (companionable evening on the sofa watching people battering each other senseless on UFC. The things that can bring a couple together) about finding her something she can keep. Something to always remember. ‘A framed decree nisi,’ I almost quipped, but I reined myself in. Now I head to the jewellery section and stare boggle-eyed at the prices for a while.

  When I get back to West1 Hot Yoga! all the tables at the café opposite are, predictably, taken. So I lurk in that fat Labrador waiting for a sandwich way beside the people who seem to be furthest along in their meal. Ideally, I will be sitting and looking at a menu at the point Saskia emerges. Then it would be easy to ask her to join me. Asking her if she wants to loiter by the side of the road for a while doesn’t seem like such an attractive proposition.

  The waitress who served me only an hour and a half ago shows no sign of recognizing me. This is how much I stand out from the crowd.

  ‘Just one?’ she says with a smile.

  ‘At the moment. A friend’s joining me.’

  ‘We’ve got space inside.’

  ‘I’d rather wait, if that’s OK?’

  The people at the table I’m coveting look up, disappointed. Clearly, they were hoping I’d take myself and my sad, hopeful eyes elsewhere.

  ‘No problem. I’ll bring you a menu to have a look while you wait.’

  I check my phone. Three minutes till the class ends. My heart starts beating up a storm. And right on cue they start to trickle out. The sweaty glowers first – no sign of Saskia – and then, five minutes later, just as I am sitting down at the table – the clean, damp-haired showerers. Two, three, and then, there she is. Before I allow self-consciousness to overtake me I’m waving and calling her name.

  She looks over. Sees me. Confusion. Then a smile.

  She’s looking good in cropped skinny jeans and Converse (I look hopefully for signs of cankles and, sadly, find none). She’s wearing the same red T-shirt that I threw my drink over.

  ‘Paula! What on earth are you doing here?’

  Don’t babble. You don’t want her to think you’re some kind of stalker maniac.

  ‘Birthday shopping.’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s Georgia’s eighteenth in a few weeks and I’m trying to get ahead of myself.’

  ‘Looks like you’re hard at it, haha,’ she says, indicating the fact that I’m holding a menu in my hand.

  ‘Busted. Oh, do you want to join me? I’m just having a quick coffee before I go back into the fray.’

  I’m relying on her thinking this is too good an opportunity to pass up. She can get a bit more info on the state of her lover’s marriage and he can’t be upset with her because, what could she do?

  She hesitates for just a second. ‘OK, lovely. Just a quick one.’ She sits down next to me.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ I ask, feigning innocence. Hot yoga? What hot yoga?

  ‘Bikram. I’m obsessed. Addicted to the sweating. Don’t worry, I’ve had a shower, haha!’

  ‘I’ve always wanted to try that! Do they do it round here?’ BAFTA for the woman in powder blue.

  ‘Over there.’ She waves at the studio with its huge sign: ‘West1 Hot Yoga!’ ‘You should come one day. I’m here every Saturday. I don’t let myself miss it, whatever’s going on.’

  ‘Even with the shoulder?’

  ‘Even with the shoulder. I just avoid putting any pressure on that arm for the time being. Oh, your guy really is working miracles, by the way.’

  ‘You’ve been back?’

  ‘Twice. I was going to call you, but it was all a bit last minute …’

  Or Robert asked you not to, more like.

  ‘Oh, that’s OK. Work’s been crazy so I probably wouldn’t have been able to … but it’s getting better? I’m so glad.’

  She fills me in on how she’s getting on, and how much her range of movement has improved already and I pretend like I care.

  ‘Is that the T-shirt?’ I say when she’s exhausted the topic.

  ‘Oh yes! So, you can see there was no lasting damage.’

  ‘Now I’m terrified I might accidentally spill my coffee on it. What if I have some kind of compulsion?’

  ‘I’ll take the chance. How have you been?’

  ‘Yeah … good,’ I say, with just the right amount of doubt. Don’t tip over into self-pity or you’ll just get on her nerves.

  ‘That didn’t sound very convincing.’ That’s got her attention. When the waitress comes she decides she’s hungry
and orders a salad for lunch. (‘Niçoise, please, my darling. With the dressing on the side.’) I follow suit. Dressing on the top. I’d only pour it all on anyway. I’m not ready for naked salad yet.

  ‘So, what’s up?’ she says, once our order has been taken.

  I give her a tight little smile. Poor, brave woman, trying so hard to keep it together. ‘Oh, nothing much … I’m … we’re just having a bit of a funny time. I think, with … I don’t know … then there’s Georgia …’

  ‘It’s a big thing for couples, suddenly looking at an empty nest. Not that I know anything about that, of course …’

  I nod to let her know that she’s already told me.

  ‘It’s understandable if you and Robert are finding it hard …’

  She waits, hoping I’ll elaborate. How much easier it would be for her if I told her our marriage was all but over. I won’t give her that satisfaction, obviously.

  ‘I sometimes … I shouldn’t really talk about Robert when he’s not here, especially as the two of you work together …’

  ‘I would never say anything, don’t worry about that. I know when to keep my mouth shut.’

  I nearly laugh but instead turn it into a sigh, as if I’m thinking it over. ‘I sometimes worry that once it’s just us he’ll start thinking, what’s the point …’ As I say this a genuine tear wells up in the corner of my eye. I’m acting but I’m not acting. Saskia reaches out and puts her beautifully manicured hand over mine, and it’s all I can do not to shake it off.

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true. You have a history, that must count for something …’

  I shrug. ‘Maybe …’

  Our salads have arrived and the waitress hovers awkwardly, not quite knowing what to do. Saskia moves her hand to make space. I dab at my eyes with my fingers.

  ‘It’s just … we’ve always been so close, and now he seems … distracted. Do you ever have that … you know, with Josh … that you feel as if he’s not there sometimes?’