by Jane Fallon
Later, I try to piece together the whole picture. It’s a bit hazy because the final outcome sort of blurred what had been there before. We were leaning on a railing in a quiet part of Hyde Park, admiring the pond beyond, having agreed to meet at the entrance closest to the Mandarin Oriental. I was telling Josh about my having sacrificed everything I hold dear in order to pretend I was interested in golf.
‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ Josh said, and I’d laughed and said that we both deserved better, actually, he and I.
‘No,’ he said with – I realize in retrospect – a kind of intensity. ‘I mean it, though.’
Next thing I knew, it was happening. He didn’t just grab me either. There was a moment of staring into each other’s eyes, which I went along with, I hold my hands up. And then his mouth was on mine and I was so shocked I let it happen.
I came to my senses pretty quickly. This wasn’t going to help anything. Nice though the sensation might be, flattered though I undoubtedly was, it wasn’t right.
I moved away as gently as I could in the circumstances.
‘No,’ I said, a little breathlessly. ‘We shouldn’t.’
‘I really like you, Paula,’ he said, and I have to admit it, my stomach did a little flip because it was so long since anyone had spoken to me like that. But, really? Did he?
‘It’s not right. We’d be as bad as them.’
‘Hardly.’ He brushed my hair away from my face and I felt myself blush. I tried to hold my nerve.
‘Josh, you’re trying to save your marriage. How’s kissing me going to help?’
He looked off into the distance. Exhaled. ‘I don’t think I am any more. I don’t think it’s saveable. I’ve stopped caring what she’s doing. I’d say that meant it was over.’
This was news to me. I still felt uncomfortable, though.
‘Even if that’s true, it’s too soon. We’d just be each other’s rebound person.’
He smiled. It’s a crying shame him and Saskia never had kids, because they would have had killer smiles. ‘Would that be so bad?’
‘It’d be messy. We need to keep focused on what’s important. Get them split up … wait, why do you care if they split up or not now?’
‘Because you do. And because I don’t want her to have a happy ending either. Your desire for vengeance has rubbed off on me.’ He raised his eyebrows and waggled them so I knew he was joking.
‘OK, well, let’s just work on that and then see what happens.’
‘Are you sure I can’t kiss you again?’ He ran his fingers down the side of my face so gently I felt it in completely other parts of my body. What was going on? Having never thought of Josh in this way, my body seemed to have decided that perhaps I should have.
It took all of my willpower but I managed to say, yes, I was sure. Actually, no, I didn’t say that at all. What I in fact said was, ‘OK. Just once, though. So I can remember what it feels like.’
So he did, and I allowed myself to sink into it and enjoy the sensation. For the briefest moment I forgot about everything: Robert, Saskia, the fact that a gang of teenagers were hooting at us with derision as they passed.
‘You’re gorgeous, you do know that,’ he said as I broke off again, and I, with all the social graces of a thirteen-year-old, snorted, and said, ‘Stop it.’
‘I’m fine to wait,’ he said. ‘Or not, if you don’t … I love that you wouldn’t want to do anything behind their backs.’
As he said that he pulled me towards him and kissed my forehead. I was so confused, such a mix of being flattered, excited, turned on and horrified, that I hardly knew where to put myself, so I just turned and moved away.
After that there was an awkwardness that had never been there before. We walked on – both clearly thinking it was better to keep moving – but our conversation felt forced. I started to worry that I might have lost him as an ally. I’d hurt his pride at a point when it was damaged anyway. When we emerged at Bayswater Road he announced he ought to be getting back to work. Filming started again on Monday and the place was in chaos.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said as we said goodbye, a respectable couple of feet between us. ‘It won’t always be this awkward. I just have to go and lick my wounds a bit.’
‘It was nice,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t that it wasn’t nice.’
‘God forbid that would be the official review.’ He laughed and I felt myself relax a little. ‘When was nice ever irresistible?’
So here’s what the problem is. Try as I might, I can’t dismiss what happened. I have no doubt that Josh just wanted to get back at Saskia, or to feel as if he’d taken control of the situation or something. Maybe in the moment he really did think he fancied me, I don’t know. And now his pride’s a little hurt but he’ll get over it.
The problem is actually with me. I keep replaying the moment in my head. I’ve never even considered that I might find Josh attractive – obviously, he’s good-looking, but I’ve never really been a sucker for good-looking; not without other stuff to back it up – but suddenly it’s clear to me that I do. Am I really that sad that, as soon as someone shows the slightest bit of interest in me, I talk myself into having a massive crush on them? Yes! I hear you all shout. Clearly.
I can at least console myself that I did the right thing. Not just because I want to be able to occupy the moral high ground where Robert is concerned, and it’s hard to do that if you’re at it with someone yourself. ‘You did it first’ doesn’t really cut it. It’s more that I don’t want to open myself up to any more heartache. I don’t want to fall for someone only to have them turn around and say it was all a big mistake and they’re moving on.
Not that I think I’m about to fall in love with Josh. But you know what I mean.
So now I feel too awkward to text him. Just in case he thinks I like him. Did I mention to you that I’m thirteen years old? I might as well be, for all the emotional maturity I’m displaying. Interestingly, my realization that there might be other men out there who I like the look of who would be interested in me seems to make it much easier to get along with Robert. It’s as if it takes the edge off my hating him. Makes me care less.
On Friday I got a message from Saskia asking if I wanted to meet up at our usual time on Saturday. ‘Or are you and Robert still on your staycation?’ she asked accusingly. She was obviously desperate to hear the worst. I decided to let her sweat and sent her a short text. ‘Can’t do Sat. R wants us 2 spend last 2 days together! Next week?’
I tried to picture her face when she read it. Imagined the agonies she was going through, thinking we’d had such a great time that Robert couldn’t bear to be apart from me even for a second.
‘I might be coming up to the physio on Mon or Tues,’ she sent back. ‘Coffee near there?’
I decided not to point out to her that it was odd she didn’t yet know when her appointment was, given they’re apparently like gold dust. And that it was hard to believe she would be able to get one timed exactly to fit around my availability. She knew she was lying and so did I; we didn’t need to acknowledge it. Monday is a Chas day so I agreed to meet her in the usual café in Highgate on Tuesday, at about quarter to three.
I decide it’s time to step things up a gear and so, on Saturday morning (still on my ‘course of massages’. You’d really think I’d be relaxed enough by now), Myra meets me in Oxford Street and we do something I haven’t done in at least seven years. We buy nice clothes. Actually, strictly speaking, that’s not true. I’ve bought the occasional pretty outfit but I’ve always gone for the big and shapeless variety. I have pitched a small but decorative marquee over myself and called it dressing up. Today my new thirteen-stone-something self is looking for clothes that fit. That flatter. Chas would be proud of me.
‘Fucking hell,’ Myra says when I try the first ensemble on in H & M. ‘You’ve got a waist. Where the hell did that come from?’
‘Chas,’ I say, and she gives me a lascivious grin. Myra loves Chas. He came into the c
afé one day (coincidentally, I hadn’t told him I worked there) and she practically drooled when I introduced them. She likes that rippling-muscle look. Ever since then she’s done that really annoying thing of raising her eyebrows at me whenever I mention his name, as if we’re in a conspiracy of fancying him. She won’t believe me when I tell her I don’t so I just let her get on with it.
‘And your bingo wings aren’t flapping like they used to.’
‘Gosh, Myra, you do know how to flatter a girl.’
‘What? I’m just saying. Like mine do. Look.’
She lifts up an arm and wafts it back and forth. I do the same. We’re creating such a breeze that the girl closest to me actually moves away.
‘Mine still do, see.’
‘Yes, but only when you make them. Mine do it all the time of their own accord.’
‘This is why you made me get Chas, remember. It was your idea.’
‘Traitor,’ she says affectionately.
To be honest, I’m as astonished as she is when I look at myself in the mirror. It’s not so much that my body has changed more than I think I’d noticed, it’s that I feel comfortable with it. I don’t want to smother myself in an outsized T-shirt any more.
I buy a cute gingham summer dress with a fitted top and no sleeves (no sleeves!) and an A-line skirt, some cut-off cargo pants and a couple of tops that actually fit me. In Topshop I add a short-sleeved cardigan and a floaty thing that’s fitted around the bust.
And, for the first time in living memory, some dedicated sportswear. OK, so they’re just another version of leggings, but they’re sporty leggings. Not ‘I’ve given up, take me outside and put me out of my misery’ leggings. And they ‘wick away sweat’, whatever that means. So it’s win-win.
Back home, I hide it all in Georgia’s wardrobe. I’m not quite ready yet.
On Sunday I tell Robert I’m off to have my hair cut and he opts to hit the golf course. Several hours later I emerge with a half-head of highlights and a spray tan. I smell like a dog that’s been wallowing in a weedy pond and, at the moment, I look as if I’ve been dipped in mahogany wood stain, but the girl – who has seen bits of me while I stood there in a paper thong, throwing shapes and trying to ignore the humiliation, that no one else has seen in years – tells me it will all look much more natural when I can wash it off later.
‘Did you fall in a vat of gravy?’ Robert says when he arrives home. I’m in my usual shapeless outfit and with my new shiny, bouncy hair tied back, but there’s no disguising the fact that I’m a different colour from when I went out this morning.
‘Oh, I decided to have a spray tan. Myra swears by them.’
He’s not so interested that he questions me further, and that suits me just fine.
On Tuesday morning I blow-dry my hair and put on the gingham dress. I have to wear it with trainers because I’m still determined to walk everywhere but, actually, the combination looks quite cute, even if I say so myself.
Robert is just getting up as I’m about to leave the house. I swear he does a double take when he sees me.
‘You look nice,’ he says, possibly the greatest compliment he’s paid me in years.
‘Thanks,’ I say casually. I want him to notice but I don’t want him to think there’s something afoot. ‘Sorry if the sheets look like there’s been a dirty protest in there. I thought I’d showered it all off.’
‘I can change them.’
He doesn’t say any more but I’m aware of him looking at me as I move around the kitchen.
All day long the regulars ooh and aah over me. I feel like a show pony having my fetlocks appraised. Or an avocado awaiting approval of its ripeness on the fruit and veg counter in Tesco. For some reason, it’s deemed acceptable for our customers to touch my hair and grab at (albeit smaller these days) handfuls of flab on my upper arms while exclaiming about my transformation. It’s flattering, but it’s also crossing all sorts of boundaries I wouldn’t usually allow people to cross.
Saskia is already there when I get there on Tuesday. I’ve walked all the way, and not even broken a sweat. I almost don’t recognize her. Nine pounds is only nine pounds but, unfortunately for Saskia, eight of it seems to have gone on to her face.
‘Hi! You look well,’ I say as I accept the hug she gives me.
‘Don’t.’ She grimaces. ‘You, on the other hand, really do.’
She looks me up and down. I wonder if my transformation looks as radical to other people as hers does to me. From the way she can’t take her eyes off me, I’m pretty sure that it does.
‘What did you do to yourself? You look incredible.’
‘Oh, you know. I’ve been trying to be good for once …’
‘Well, it’s obviously working. I feel wretched.’
Earlier, Josh texted me to tell me that the rest of the cast and crew’s reaction to Saskia’s ballooning up in size had been a joy to watch. She’d managed eleven pounds, by the way, he said. Not bad going in four weeks. She had already come crying to him that she felt they were all staring at her and talking about her behind her back. Which they probably were. It’s called schadenfreude. Or karma, even. She’s spent all these years treating them all like dirt and now they’re revelling in her obvious misery.
‘I can’t wait till the first ep. airs,’ he texted. ‘I can see the headlines now!’
Unfortunately, the first episode of the new series won’t be broadcast for weeks, but it gave me a warm glow thinking about the reaction she’ll get. One nasty comment on Twitter about the way she looks will probably send her over the edge. People slag off her acting all the time on there and she barely reacts, but I imagine one mention of her double chin would start a meltdown.
The truth is that she still looks gorgeous. And even Robert, with his obsession with appearances, is going to think so. But we’ve landed a big blow to her self-confidence. She’s not going to be the same person.
‘Think of the awards,’ I say now, and laugh to show I’m joking.
‘Yes, and think of the fright I’ll look going up to collect them, haha! I’ve had a miserable couple of weeks, actually,’ she says, and I can see that there are rings around her eyes like she hasn’t been sleeping.
‘Just because of the eating?’ I say disingenuously. It’s hard not to smile as I say it. I make my eyes wide. I’m worried.
‘Oh, that and a few other things. I won’t bore you.’
‘No, go on. I’m always banging on to you about my problems …’
‘No, it’s nothing really. I just spent too much time on my own, I think. You know how that can drive you crazy …’
I don’t actually.
‘… Much more importantly, tell me how your – what did you call it? – staycation went.’
Here we go. My face lights up at the memory. ‘It was fantastic. Better than going away even …’
I drone on about the things we did and the places we visited, as if that’s what she really wants to hear about. It isn’t. You know that look a dog has when you’re holding a ball and they’re waiting for you to throw it. That.
As soon as I pause for breath she’s straight in there.
‘How did you and Robert get along, though? That’s the million-dollar question.’
Throw it. Throw the fucking ball.
I wish you could see her expression. Honestly, you’d laugh, and it’s all I can do to stop myself in the moment.
I choose a face that I think says bliss.
‘Great. Really great. Honestly, Saskia, he’s like a different person. We just … I don’t know, we just got on like we used to.’
Her face, by contrast, reads ‘on the verge of throwing up’.
‘Why do you think that is?’
I’ve thought about this, knowing she might ask. ‘I don’t know. I did wonder if it had got something to do with George being about to leave home and him thinking we needed to reconnect somehow, but I think, actually, it’s deeper than that. Something’s happened to make him fall back in l
ove with me … I know that sounds stupid …’
Saskia looks around as if trying to locate the sick bucket.
‘Gosh. No. It sounds like a fairy tale. Has he said anything?’
‘Only … I can’t actually say them because I’ll feel stupid … but, yes, nice things. Lovely things.’
She puts a heap of sugar into her tea, something I’ve never seen her do before, and stirs it vigorously. The cup rattles she’s so violent. People at other tables look around.
One woman double-takes as she realizes who exactly it is making such a racket. She reaches for her phone. I recognize the gleeful anticipation from the way people look at Robert just before they attack. In a second, she’s out of her seat and on her way over. All passive-aggressive nervous hesitation.
‘It is you!’ she says, far too loudly. ‘I wasn’t sure. Oh my God, I’m such a fan. I know you must hate this, when you’re just trying to have coffee with your friend, but if my daughter –’
Saskia cuts her off. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to have a private conversation?’
She practically shouts it, and everyone in the place turns around. I have never, in all the times I’ve met her, seen Saskia be anything other than gracious with her fans. She once said to me that a bit of loss of privacy was the price she had to be prepared to pay, because if it wasn’t for the fans she would be out of a job. I smile at the waiting woman nervously but she’s not the slightest bit interested in me.
‘Wow. No need to be so rude,’ she says.
I decide to step in and save Saskia from herself. This time. Only because I’m worried that if she gets into a row someone might video it and put it on YouTube, and I wouldn’t want Robert to see us together. And besides, she’ll owe me.
‘Saskia just had some very bad news,’ I say in my softest voice. I put my hand over Saskia’s to show solidarity. ‘Sorry. It’s literally just happened, so …’
The woman’s face drops. ‘Oh my God, that’s awful. I’m the one who should be sorry, barging in …’
‘You weren’t to know.’
I imagine she’s wondering if it would be OK to still ask for the selfie she came for. It wouldn’t surprise me. Luckily, at that moment, a tear rolls down Saskia’s cheek. It must be real because I’ve heard from Robert before that they have to fake her tears with glycerine if she’s ever called upon to cry on the show. Robert himself has a whole repertoire of angry/regretful/heartbroken weeping he can call up in a moment if required. He’s very proud of this.