My Sweet Revenge

by Jane Fallon

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Paula. I’m worried about this enough already. You’re not helping.’

  I can tell that, deep down, even though he’s worried about the reaction this story will get from the public, he’s a bit proud of this one. The world will see that Robert Westmore aka Hargreaves is still attractive enough that a gorgeous young woman finds him irresistible. And sadly, that does seem to have come true in real life. Although I’m sure that the fact that this is probably Samantha’s first job and Robert has been a well-known face for a few years must have helped. He’s a big fish in a medium-sized, banal, mainstream pond and I imagine she found that impressive.

  ‘Why don’t you talk to Josh if it’s really bothering you?’ I say, knowing what the response will be.

  Robert huffs.

  ‘What’s the point?’

  I shrug. ‘At least you’d know you tried, I suppose.’

  Later in the evening, to try to take my mind off Josh, I Google Samantha. I know that I have to do the grown-up thing and tell him the whole truth as soon as I’m able. I keep thinking about him and Saskia at home and her not understanding why he’s changed towards her. Why their happy, near-perfect marriage seems to have suddenly taken a turn for the worse. I’ve managed to convince myself this isn’t something I can do over the phone and I’ve sent him a text saying we need to meet up urgently. I got a reply within minutes:

  ‘Of course. When? X’

  I try not to think what he thinks I want. A repeat performance. That I’ve changed my mind and I’m happy to dive headfirst into a relationship with him and to hell with keeping the moral high ground?

  We make a plan to see each other tomorrow. I have to push it. He claims a busy schedule (which I don’t doubt for a second) and I reply offering to meet him anywhere (apart from the studio, obviously) any time (sorry, Myra). I get a couple of concerned messages back – ‘Everything OK??’, that kind of thing. I try to reassure him as best I can without getting into specifics. Because everything is most definitely not OK.

  To try to distract myself, I decide to go for a run. An actual, legitimate run, not a run disguised as a chase after a bus. When I announce my intentions to Robert, dressed in my new, form-fitting, sweat-wicking sportswear, I notice his eyes flicking up and down. I’d forgotten he’s never seen me like this. I wait for the sarcastic ‘What? You?’

  ‘Have you lost even more weight?’ he says and, actually, there’s no hint of sarcasm.

  There’s no point me denying it. ‘I think so. I’ve been trying.’

  ‘You definitely have. Are you working out?’

  For some reason, I find this embarrassing to admit to. ‘Kind of.’

  ‘Blimey. What? Running?’

  ‘Walking, mostly. Weights. I joined a gym …’

  ‘Ha! What’s brought this on?’

  I can feel myself going red.

  ‘I just thought I should get fit, that’s all.’

  He jumps up. ‘I’ll come with you. I haven’t been for a run for ages.’

  I know that this is good, him wanting us to do something together – they say that the couple who work out together stay together, which is obviously not what I want, but I want him to want it, if you know what I mean – but it’s the last thing I need. I need a bit of space to clear my head. I need time to work out how I’m going to explain myself to Josh. ‘I don’t really run. More just walk and then trot the odd bit. You’ll be frustrated.’

  ‘I can always leave you to it and meet you back here. I’ll get changed.’

  I can hardly refuse. I tell myself to make the most of it, to use it as a bonding exercise. The fact that Robert isn’t seeing who I thought he was seeing doesn’t change anything. I still need to focus on convincing him it’s me he loves. And this is progress, there’s no denying it. Huge progress.

  ‘OK. Don’t be pissed off with me if I conk out, though.’

  For the first time ever, I start running when I leave the front door and I don’t stop until I reach home again. Partly because I want to get it over with, but mostly because it feels good. My body feels strong. It’s impossible to dwell on negative thoughts when you’re doing something so physical. Despite Robert puffing along beside me, I’m able to forget everything that’s going on and just concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

  After a while I notice that Robert is struggling to keep up. I slow my pace to let him catch me up.

  ‘What have you done with my wife?’ he says, as he stops and tries to catch his breath.

  I laugh, despite everything. ‘Come on. No stopping.’

  Now I’m fresh out of the shower and sitting in the bedroom with my laptop. The exercise-induced euphoria has worn off and I’ve come crashing back to earth with a thud.

  ‘Samantha Smith’ brings up a whole slew of results, but I head straight for Wikipedia. It’s a short entry, she hasn’t been in the public eye for very long. Samantha, it turns out, is an ancient twenty-three, born in Kent. No mention of any significant other, either now or in her past. Farmer Giles is her first professional job.

  I look at a few photos just to pass the time. One of them is a cast picture from last year. Robert and Samantha are side by side. Her all fresh-faced and eager-looking, the new sexpot on the block. Him avuncular, genial in character. It’s impossible to imagine the two of them getting it on either on the show or in real life. Saskia is on the other side of Samantha, dressed in one of Melody’s trademark riding outfits. I’m hit with a pang of guilt so strong it takes my breath away. I shut the laptop down. I need to find a way to put things right.

  17

  ‘What a fucking mess.’

  I’ve had to fill Myra in on the Samantha-not-Saskia story because I overheard her telling one customer that she had it on good authority that Saskia Sherbourne was a bit of a slut and not a very nice one at that.

  ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she says when I tell her. ‘I’ve worn myself out trying to make sure everyone knows what a bitch she is.’

  ‘Well, she isn’t. You’ll have to go around saying nice things now.’

  ‘Not in my nature,’ Myra says. ‘And you’re definitely sure about this Samantha? I’m not going to waste my precious time slagging her off to anyone who’ll listen, only to find out she’s actually Mother Teresa’s more saintly sister.’

  ‘Saskia walked in on them.’

  Myra pulls a face like a toddler who’s been conned into eating Brussels sprouts. ‘Grim. It makes it seem like it wasn’t so bad when we thought it was Saskia. At least she was age-appropriate.’

  Thank God I never confided in Myra or anyone else about my feelings for Josh. I don’t think I could stand being labelled a potential home-wrecker on top of everything else.

  ‘Hold on. Didn’t you snog her husband?’

  Shit, I forgot. I did tell her, after a couple of glasses of wine one night, and then swore her to secrecy.

  ‘Shhh! I did, but only because I thought it was all over between him and Saskia. I feel awful about it.’

  Myra shrugs. ‘It was only a kiss. It was, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course! But that’s bad enough. Imagine how she’d feel …’

  ‘So that’s it for you and him? All over.’

  ‘Definitely all over. Not that anything had even really started. He’s going to hate me now, anyway.’

  I’ve been trying not to think about Josh. I would hate me if I was him. All I can do is hope that him and Saskia come out the other end OK and that, eventually, he’ll realize that nothing I ever did was malicious.

  ‘It was too soon, anyway. You need to sort yourself out before you go getting in a relationship with anyone.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘I need to remember what I’m supposed to be doing here.’

  ‘I mean, you were so convinced it was her.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in. I know.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ She suddenly walks over to a customer, a semi-regular whose name I don’t know.

  ‘Do
you mind if I have a look at that?’

  She practically snatches a newspaper out of his hand before he can say no. I catch a glimpse of the front page. A very unflattering picture of Saskia, looking miserable and stuffing in what looks like a cake at the catering truck, covers most of it. I’m distracted for a moment by the fact that Josh is beside her, paper cup in his hand. The headline screams out: ‘SUPERSIZED SADSKIA.’

  ‘Give me that.’

  Myra hands it over. It promises more pictures on page seven, so I flip the pages over.

  Inside there’s another grainy photo, this time shot from low down to accentuate the changed contours of her jaw. And another showing a tiny excuse for a stomach curving under her T-shirt. Underneath, they debate whether or not she might be pregnant, or whether she just ate a big lunch.

  Bizarrely, over the years, I’ve popped up in the tabloids occasionally too. It’s unavoidable when your husband is a TV star. In the early days of Farmer Giles, on Robert’s arm at some do or other, more recently reluctantly hovering in the background of a paparazzi shot, midway through tugging my T-shirt down. Of course, they never comment on me except to say ‘his wife of many years’ or ‘his long-term partner’. Anything that implies I wouldn’t have been the kind of woman he’d have gone for if he’d been famous when he met me. I hate it.

  On this occasion, someone on the production with either a grudge or the need for a bit of fast cash has obviously tipped off the papers. I wonder if Saskia has seen it. I’m sure whoever did it has made sure she has. It must be killing her.

  I hand the paper back. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘That’s nasty,’ Myra says when I rejoin her by the till. ‘Poor cow. Although “Sadskia” is quite inspired. I always thought I should get a job writing headlines for the tabloids.’

  I feel wretched. A couple of days ago, I would have celebrated. Revelled in imagining her upset. ‘This is all my fault.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, there’s no point.’

  We’re in a greasy spoon in Acton. Close to the studio but not so close that one of the cast or crew might walk past when they’re on their lunch break. He leans in to hug me, burying his face in my hair, when I arrive late, having got lost on my way from the tube, and I feel myself stiffen. There’s an anxious, nervous energy about him that I assume is because he’s worried about what I have to say to him that’s so urgent, but then he produces the tabloid from his bag and puts it on the table with a flourish.

  ‘Did you see this?’

  Another tiny alarm bell starts to ring in my head.

  ‘Yes. It’s … um … a bit harsh.’

  ‘She’s devastated,’ he says, and not in a way that makes it sound like that’s a bad thing.

  Of course. How could I not have realized? After the Wikipedia alteration, it should have been obvious. ‘Did you …?’

  He nods. ‘Anonymously, of course.’ He sits back and looks at me expectantly, waiting for praise.

  ‘Shit, Josh.’

  ‘What? This is perfect. Her confidence is shattered. Plus, Robert is going to look at her in a whole other way after this.’

  I try to get the words to come out of my mouth. My carefully prepared speech has gone out of my head. Josh puts a hand over mine.

  ‘I always used to think getting revenge was pathetic, that it made you as bad as the person you were punishing. I don’t think I’d realized how cathartic it was. How it could make you feel like you were the one in control.’

  It’s true, he’s looking happier than I’ve ever seen him. I swap our hands over. Squeeze his in mine.

  ‘I have to tell you something. It’s not good.’

  He looks so concerned for me that I have to look away or I’ll lose my resolve.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s no way of saying this that won’t sound awful. I’ve fucked up. Really fucked up …’

  ‘Paula …?’

  I shake my head. ‘Just let me say it. And I want you to know I’m so, so sorry. It was obviously just a huge mistake. It … I’m just going to come out with it. Don’t hate me.’

  I’m still clinging on to his hand and massaging it like a stress ball. I feel sick. Breathe deeply to try to calm my stomach.

  ‘It’s not Saskia that Robert’s having an affair with. It’s Samantha.’

  For a moment he looks sympathetic. Then the realization of what my words mean for him starts to filter in. He tugs his hand away.

  ‘You are kidding, right?’

  I feel tears prick up in my eyes and blink them away. ‘No. Not kidding. I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I’m so sorry, Josh.’

  ‘You convinced me my wife was being unfaithful because you “jumped to the wrong conclusion”? What the fuck?’

  He puts his elbows on the table, runs his hands over his stubbly head.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say again. It’s all I’ve got. ‘It was a huge mistake. I put two and two together and got five.’

  I tell him what Saskia had told me about Samantha. How she was just trying to be a good friend.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he says, and it comes out like a howl. Luckily, the café is half empty. Josh picks up the newspaper and thrusts it at me. ‘This. This is all my fault.’

  ‘They would have commented on it anyway at some point. Don’t blame yourself.’

  ‘I’m not,’ he says, in a vicious tone I’ve never heard from him before. ‘I blame you.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to leak a story to the papers.’ I know as soon as I say it that it’s the wrong thing to say.

  ‘No, you just asked me to help you ruin her and Robert’s lives. You asked me to help you with your stupid plan to make yourself feel better.’

  I know it’s all my fault but I feel as if I have to defend myself. ‘Well, maybe that’s a good thing because, otherwise, you would have gone straight to Saskia and confronted her.’

  ‘Yes, and then she would have convinced me that you were talking a crock of shit and I would have felt like a stupid jealous husband for a while but it would all have blown over. I wouldn’t have jeopardized my job and my – what turns out to be happy – marriage. I wouldn’t have made my wife feel belittled and unconfident and worthless.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I feel like a complete fucking bitch, if that helps.’

  He stands up, snatches the newspaper from the table. ‘It doesn’t.’

  18

  Of course, I don’t hear from Josh and I don’t try to contact him. I find myself thinking about him and Saskia all the time, though, and I’m relieved when I get a text from her asking if I’m OK. It takes me a moment to remember that she thinks I’m still dealing with the shock news of Robert’s affair.

  ‘I’m fine thx. How are you, more to the point?’

  I don’t get a reply back for a while, presumably because she’s needed on set. Then:

  ‘You’ve seen the papers then.’

  ‘Absolutely shitty’ I send back. ‘Don’t let it get to you.’

  ‘Too late.’

  She asks if I want to do our Saturday usual and I accept gratefully. I’m desperate to hear what, if anything, has changed since I dropped my bombshell on Josh. A part of me wonders whether he’s told her everything, to explain why he’s been being cold towards her, but I don’t think he’d ever want her to know about the revenge he had planned. I don’t think she’d find that very easy to forgive.

  To try to keep my mind occupied till then, I go running every day. I still can’t go far but I increase it by a little every time. Back home, I’m all bags of ice and hot compresses and ibuprofen for my aching joints. Chas, impressed by my sudden commitment (I list my achievements to him every session, like a child trying to impress their parents with what they’ve done at school), decides to get the calipers out again and declares me to be down another six pounds and two fat percentages. I beam with pride like the teacher’s pet.

  Saskia just wants to talk about me when she emerges with her post-Bikram glow. I�
��m sitting in our usual spot and the waitress, with whom I am now on first-name terms (Monika, Polish student teacher, lives in Wembley, traumatized by the prospect of Brexit, English twice as good as mine), has already brought me a giant skinny latte without me even having to ask. As Saskia sits down another appears, along with two menus. I’m not sure either of us is going to be in the mood to eat.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about you constantly since I last saw you. I assumed you hadn’t said anything to Robert because he seems to be his usual self at work. How are you coping? Are you feeling wretched? I’m sure you must be …’

  Saskia always does this, asks a question and then doesn’t give you space to answer it. I’ve started to find it quite endearing. Restful. I don’t have to think about how to formulate an answer, I can just let her carry on till she runs out of steam. It doesn’t feel as if it’s going to happen any time soon.

  ‘… I still can’t decide if I did the right thing or not telling you. But I couldn’t look at one of my closest friends and know I knew something bad about them that they didn’t know …’

  I’m touched by the fact she’s called me one of her closest friends. It had never really occurred to me that she might view me that way, I was so sure she had a hidden agenda. Now it occurs to me that I’ve never really heard her talk about any girlfriends. I get the feeling that, for all her success, Saskia is lonely.

  I put her out of her misery. ‘You did. You definitely did.’

  ‘So have you decided what you’re going to do?’

  I shrug. ‘Nothing at the moment.’

  She looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. ‘You’re just going to let him get away with it?’

  Even though I’ve grown to like Saskia, I’m not about to tell her my plan to punish Robert.

  ‘No. But I’m not going to just steam straight in and accuse him. He’d just deny it, and then where would we be?’

  ‘I’d kick him out, if it was me. Actually, I’d cut his balls off first, then I’d kick him out.’

  ‘It’s not that easy … there’s Georgia …’

  ‘Who’s a grown woman …’ she interrupts me.