My Sweet Revenge

by Jane Fallon

  To be fair, she was only eighteen that first time I met her. I assumed she would grow up and realize she wasn’t the centre of the universe at some point, but it never really happened. She got into RADA the following year and so every time I went to their family home in the holidays I had to listen to the whole clan (Robert included) banging on about how it was the best drama school in the world and only the truly gifted stood a chance of getting in (the implication being that any old untalented nobody could train at the North London School of Speech and Drama). For some reason, Robert never took this personally, in the same way that I did. He was as convinced that his sister was the second coming as his parents clearly were. I should point out here that I adore Robert and Alice’s parents. They just have a blind spot, that’s all. And that blind spot’s name is Alice.

  Anyway, you get the picture. She was indulged and mollycoddled to the point of becoming insufferable.

  Here’s the thing about Alice, though. She’s nearly forty. Thirty-eight. She has never had a professional acting job. OK, so neither have I. But she still calls herself an actress while I have long since accepted I work in a bakery. She still goes to workshops and open auditions and talks about herself as if she has a full diary of thespian commitments. Which she does, except none of them has ever paid her. She’s one of the ninety-nine per cent for whom it just never worked out, however hard they tried. And she’s never had any other kind of job. In so far as I know, she still lives off money her parents give her. AT THIRTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD! She lives in a flat they bought for her in Islington. They pay a monthly allowance into her bank account. And we all pretend it isn’t happening. Between auditions she dabbles in various artistic pursuits, none of which ever comes to fruition.

  And yet she has the audacity to still treat me as some kind of lower life form because I gave up the life of being an unemployed wannabee and actually got myself a paying job.

  I tried for a long time to get along with her. Robert’s own blind spot meant he would never hear any criticism and, besides, I didn’t want to become that person who slags off their partner’s family every chance they get. But I began to find her visits unbearable. It became harder and harder to listen to her pontificate about acting and the near-misses she had had (she was always down to the last two for any part she went for, according to her, and, of course, there would have been no way to prove this otherwise, as she well knew), and the directors who called her saying they were desperate to find the right role for her, when I knew it was all bullshit. Under other circumstances I might have felt sorry for her. But her attitude and the tendency of the whole Westmore family to treat her like some kind of undiscovered star made it impossible.

  So I long ago stopped inviting her over. Whenever she surfaces I always suggest to Robert that the two of them meet up without me. (I try and make this sound as if I’m doing it for their sake.) And when I’m forced to see her – at Christmas or weddings and funerals – I bite my tongue as much as I can and just accept I’m going to be excluded from their conversations.

  Alice has never married (too much of a self-centred fuck-up). And she’s never had children because then, of course, she would have to assume some kind of responsibility and think of someone other than herself.

  Georgia calls her ‘Baby Jane’, but only when Robert is out of earshot.

  Anyway, in my effort to do things that will make Robert think what an all-round fantastic wife I am, I have emailed Alice and asked her if she fancies coming over for dinner on Saturday night. Even though I’m sure she’s wishing I won’t be there, the lure of spending time with her big brother, along with free food and booze, is clearly more than she can resist. I receive a curt ‘Yes. Lovely’ a few minutes later.

  ‘Auntie Alice is coming over at the weekend,’ I say to Georgia, as she potters round getting ready for school.

  ‘Oh God, really? When?’

  ‘Saturday evening.’

  Her face falls. I already know she has plans and I’m not about to mess with a seventeen-year-old’s social calendar at this late notice.

  ‘I know you’re going out but it would be lovely if you could just be around long enough to say hello.’

  She visibly relaxes. ‘OK. But you have to defend me if she starts giving me the lecture.’

  The lecture is the stuff of legend between Georgia and me. Alice had always assumed that Georgia would want to follow in the family footsteps and go to drama school. The news that she had applied to do medicine, that she had zero interest in treading the boards, was met with something I can only describe as a gasp.

  ‘All the Westmores go to drama school,’ Alice said, as if she were quoting from the Bible.

  ‘Not this one,’ Georgia replied, laughing it off. Somehow she has always managed to take her aunt’s insights with the pinch of salt they deserve.

  ‘But …’ Alice stuttered. I wondered for a second if she might ask for smelling salts for the shock. I wouldn’t have put it past her. Instead, she looked at me accusingly.

  ‘She must take after you.’

  ‘I … I actually went to drama school myself, if you remember,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘Oh yes, I always forget,’ she said. ‘It seems so unlikely somehow.’ This, of course, from Alice, was the most damning thing she could think of to say.

  ‘Ha!’ Georgia snorted, and I marvelled again at the way my daughter could treat Alice’s barbs as a joke. It made her untouchable. ‘Honestly, Auntie Alice, I’m just not interested. I’m very happy with what I’ve chosen.’

  Alice launched into a long (and boring) diatribe about the noble art of acting and how important it was to express your creativity and not be beholden to a job that would stifle you. I suppressed the urge to butt in to say that was all very well in Alice’s case, she had parents who were still happy to support her, but George was actually going to have to make her own way in the world. I let her ramble on, Robert nodding every now and then at the wise nature of her words.

  It’s a speech that’s been often repeated since and it’s known, by Georgia and myself, as ‘the lecture’.

  ‘I will, I promise,’ I say to her now. ‘I just thought it’d be nice for Dad.’

  When I break the news to Robert I actually feel bad for a moment that it means so much to him. Have I really got in the way of his relationship with his only sibling so much just because I don’t like her? That feeling doesn’t last long, though. She’s a nightmare and he’s … well, we all know what he is. Still, I know I’ve done the right thing. I’ve gone up a few places on the Perfect Wife scale.

  ‘Will George be here?’ he asks, on his way out the door.

  ‘She’s going out but she’s going to stick around to say hello.’

  ‘Just long enough to get the lecture,’ he says, and chuckles. I’m taken aback. I had no idea he had picked up on Georgia’s and my in-joke. It makes me warm to him a bit. A tiny bit.

  ‘Exactly.’

  On Saturday morning I leave home, ostensibly to head to Selfridges’ Food Hall to stock up on delicious goodies for the evening ahead. Actually, I have already bought everything I need locally and it’s all sitting in the bakery fridge, from where I can collect it later.

  In reality what I’m doing is heading down to Richmond. Unless Saskia has woken up with a leg missing, she’ll be heading in the other direction for her class at West1 Hot Yoga! I feel sick. I’m shaking. I’m wondering what on earth I think I’m doing.

  I try to calm myself by thinking about the upcoming evening with Alice. This has always been my strategy with her. Try to think up calm and measured replies to any harsh comment she might throw my way to prevent myself from losing my temper. It’s quite therapeutic. I try to think what the meanest, most tactless thing she has ever said to me is. In the end, I can’t decide between two:

  ‘You’d actually be quite pretty if you lost weight.’ This was said a couple of years ago, when we were spending Christmas with Robert’s family and I was tucking into a delicious home-made minc
e pie. It was the ‘quite’ that got me. Even in her twisted way of thinking she was giving me a compliment, she couldn’t bring herself to be truly complimentary.

  And ‘I’m so pleased that Georgia seems to have inherited more than her fair share of Westmore genes. At least she won’t have to worry about what she eats.’ As if Alice’s skinny frame was natural and not the result of serious self-deprivation, coupled with twenty Marlboros a day. As if Robert didn’t spent hours on a treadmill trying to keep the paunch at bay.

  When she actually says these things it’s all I can do to stop myself from decking her. But when she isn’t around I find the things she says endlessly amusing. It passes the time. Once I allow myself to look again, the train is nearly at Richmond. I walk for about ten minutes, to where the houses are bigger and set further back from the street. I remember the low stone wall with the hollyhocks behind it, honeysuckle spilling over the edge. A picture-postcard idyll in a tiny south-west London oasis.

  I spot it from along the street and slow down. I have no way of knowing whether Saskia has actually gone to Bikram or not. I check the time – there’s still about ten minutes until the class is due to start. I think about sending her a text but I wouldn’t know what to say, short of asking her outright if she was there, which she might find a bit odd. I’m here now, though. I don’t want to lose my nerve. I prepare a speech in my head explaining how I was in the area so I just stopped by on the off-chance, in case she’s home. She’ll think I’m a stalker but at least that’s better than her knowing what I’m really up to.

  Before I can bottle it I force myself towards their front door. There’s a car on the drive but it could belong to either of them. Somehow I manage to ring the bell and not turn and run.

  The wait is agony. Then I hear someone moving around. A man’s cough.

  Josh’s face registers that he recognizes me but he’s not quite sure from where.

  ‘Hi.’

  Then it dawns on him. ‘Oh, it’s Paula, isn’t it? It took me a minute to work out who you were. What on earth are you doing here?’

  He’s so open and friendly – if a bit bemused – that I know he has no idea what I’m about to tell him.

  ‘Um … Do you … is Saskia in?’

  Now he looks really confused. Obviously, Saskia hasn’t filled him in on our blossoming friendship.

  ‘No. Was she expecting you?’

  ‘No. Although we have had brunch a couple of times recently, so … Look, Josh, I know this is going to sound a bit odd but it’s you I came to see. Can I speak to you?’

  He looks cornered. I’m sure I’m spoiling his plans for a lovely quiet day off and I feel bad that he has no idea by how much. He thinks this is a mild inconvenience when, actually, I’m about to ruin his life. I almost back out.

  ‘Sure. Er … do you want to come in? Is everything OK … Robert …?’

  Of course, he assumes I’m about to tell him that one of his biggest stars is sick or in rehab or something.

  ‘Yes. It’s not about work. Not really.’

  I follow him into the front hall and through to the kitchen.

  ‘Coffee?’ he says, and I say yes, just because I always find it hard to refuse if someone offers me caffeine. I need to put him out of his misery quickly, though, I know.

  ‘I’m just going to say this,’ I start, and he pauses, filter in hand. Those are never good words to hear. He has nice hands. Capable hands, my mum would say. She loves a man with capable hands.

  ‘I think … something’s happened that … I think Robert and Saskia are having an affair.’

  He actually laughs. ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Josh. It’s true. I read a text.’

  The colour has drained from his face. ‘Show me.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t have Robert’s password so I couldn’t take a photo of it or anything, but I know it off by heart.’

  He sits on a bar stool, coffee forgotten. I really could do with the caffeine, to be honest, but it feels rude to ask.

  ‘So how come you saw it then?’

  I explain the whole story. It sounds fairly implausible even to me, I have to say. His expression doesn’t change.

  ‘So, what did it say? Go on.’

  I take a deep breath. I need to get this exactly right.

  ‘Jesus. Exclamation mark. That was too close for comfort last night. Exclamation mark. WAY too risky! Hope Paula bought it. Exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark. Didn’t feel comfortable having to lie to her face. Exclamation mark. Love you. Kiss, kiss, kiss.’

  I sit back and look at him, unsure what to say next. He runs a hand over his cropped hair.

  ‘And then I searched through his stuff and found a thing. A heart. Some kind of love token, I don’t know. Anyway, there was a card …’

  I repeat the words from the card, including the two kisses at the end, I don’t want to leave anything out.

  He’s quiet for a second, then: ‘Did you have any idea before?’

  I shake my head. ‘No. Well, I did sometimes wonder if he strayed occasionally …’

  Because I have no proof to show him it occurs to me he might think this is some kind of elaborate wind-up. Or that I’m a fantasist with a grudge against his beautiful wife.

  ‘How about you …?’

  He looks at me as if I’m crazy. ‘God, no. Never. He’s admitted it then, I take it?’

  I pause for effect. I need him to take in what I’m saying. ‘I haven’t told him I know yet.’

  ‘You only found out today?’

  ‘No. A couple of weeks ago. Here’s the thing, Josh …’ I’m still standing up and I feel a bit lightheaded so I pull myself up on one of the other bar stools.

  ‘I want to ask you not to confront her yet. Saskia. I know that sounds ridiculous. All you must want is to get on the phone to her now and ask her what the hell is going on. I was the same when I found out. But I’m worried that if they know we know, that’ll just give them the excuse they need to make it official …’

  ‘No,’ he says, and it sounds like an animal in pain.

  ‘I’m so sorry I had to be the one to tell you.’

  ‘I’ll fucking kill him,’ he says, and I have to stop myself from reminding him that it takes two to tango.

  ‘Get in the queue.’

  He doesn’t laugh like I hoped he would. Of course he doesn’t, I’ve just shattered his world,

  ‘Did you say you’d met up with her?’ he says, as if it’s only just sunk in.

  ‘Yes, but …’

  He cuts me off. ‘How long’s it been going on?’

  I’m clueless. ‘No idea. Nothing’s really changed, that’s what’s so confusing about the whole thing.’

  ‘Do you think … I mean, are we talking months? Years?’

  ‘I don’t know. Honestly. I’ve told you everything I do know.’

  ‘And you’re definitely right, aren’t you? I mean, about what the text said and the fact it was from Sas?’

  ‘Yes. Unless he has someone else in his phone under Saskia.’

  He seizes on this as if I’ve offered him a lifebelt in a storm. Jumps up and starts pacing. ‘That’s it. Why would he ever risk being caught like that?’

  I’m not lying, I’ve considered this too. But, on balance, I’ve decided I’m right. Maybe having some other woman listed under Saskia would protect whatever other woman it was if he got caught, but he would still be in a shitload of trouble. The point was, Robert never thought I would see anything incriminating. He had no reason to make a smokescreen.

  Josh’s doubt does give me a safety net, though. ‘Maybe that’s another reason to hold off from confronting her. Imagine if I was wrong and you accused her of something she hadn’t done. Do you know her passcode?’

  He nods. ‘Of course.’

  This slightly takes me by surprise. ‘Really? I have no idea what Robert’s is. He just uses that fingerprint thing.’

  ‘Sas and I have alway
s shared stuff like that. That’s what makes this so …’

  ‘You’ve never gone through her phone, though?’

  He gives me a look like I’m accusing him of robbing a wheelchair-bound pensioner. ‘Of course not!’

  ‘Well, now might be the time to start. If you can look at any other texts between them, that might confirm it. Or disprove it, you never know.’

  ‘Shit,’ he says, plonking himself down again on one of the chairs by the gorgeous old wooden table in the centre of the kitchen. Now I feel a bit calmer that he’s not going to blow the whole thing right away, I start to notice how stylish their home decor is. Like something out of a magazine, but lived in. Loved. ‘I really don’t want to become that person.’

  I decide I need to wait before filling him in on the rest of my plan. He’s not ready.

  ‘Just please promise me you won’t say anything till we’ve spoken again. We need to agree on what we’re going to do and when we’re going to do it. Otherwise, if you have it out with Saskia she’ll go straight to Robert and tell him and it’ll all be out of my hands. Please, Josh, the only thing that’s keeping me sane is feeling as if I hold the cards at the moment.’

  Even though I can tell he’s devastated, he’s a nice bloke. He feels bad for me. I know every fibre of him must be screaming to head to Marylebone and drag her out of her stupid hot-yoga class and demand the truth, but I don’t think he will.

  He asks me about the heart token and I describe it as best I can. The note. The ‘S’.

  ‘I’m sorry again that I had to be the one who told you. I just thought you deserved to know …’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ he says, and that’s a relief, at least. ‘It’s as bad for you as it is for me and I know it can’t have been easy.’

  We exchange numbers before I leave. I put him into contacts as ‘Gail’. I’m not stupid.

  Robert is in a good mood. Ever since I told him I’d invited Alice over, he’s been smiling at me. It’s quite unnerving. He and Georgia have cleaned the flat. How he got her to agree to that on a Saturday morning I have no idea. Bribery, I imagine. Some kind of secret agreement to override a veto I had put on something.