by Fiona Neill
In our final year, she came to stay at my parents’ house for the weekend with Cathy. It was this weekend that crystallised my view of her. Mark had come for a couple of days to lick his wounds after finishing a relationship with his latest girlfriend. He wanted to talk it through with me. But when Emma walked into the room, his misery over his inability to be faithful evaporated.
‘How can I settle on one woman, when there are so many wonderful girls out there?’ he said.
‘But isn’t there one that seems more wonderful to you than any of the others?’ I asked, a hint of exasperation in my voice.
‘They are all fantastic at different times,’ he said.
‘You can’t have a girlfriend to suit your mood,’ I insisted.
‘But you can, that’s the problem,’ he said. Even as I was having strict conversations with him about the need for a fallow period before rushing into another relationship, his responses drifted into intense glances at Emma.
By the end of the first evening, Mark and Emma were making feeble excuses to be alone together. It wasn’t the first time that he had fallen for one of my girlfriends and I was almost certain it wouldn’t be the last. But it was the first time that someone failed to call him back. A few months later Mark was facing the bitter sting of rejection. This was never discussed with me, either by him or Emma, but Mark never recovered his lost pride over the affair.
By that time, Cathy and I were used to Emma taking centre stage. I was happy with my observer status. Life didn’t revolve around me. I revolved around life and that felt comfortable.
Heading towards Notting Hill, I have that same sensation of being a spectator to Emma’s life, but as she switches the engine off in a dark street, just off Colville Terrace, I know that this time she requires more of me.
‘Lucy, you know that I am usually a rational person, who rarely loses control,’ she begins, turning in her seat so that she faces me. I nod. But I no longer believe it.
‘Well, the past month I have been in turmoil,’ she says. ‘About four weeks ago, Guy told me that he had decided to leave his wife and move in with me.’ She pauses for dramatic effect and I willingly comply with a few suitable adjectives. It suddenly feels very late and my body wants to go to sleep.
‘That’s amazing,’ I say sleepily, wondering why she had to drive all the way to Notting Hill to tell me this.
‘It would be, except that he hasn’t done it. At the beginning of this week I looked at his BlackBerry and discovered that they have booked a two-week holiday in Sicily in August. When I challenged him he said that he thought he might have one last family holiday and then tell her everything. Then, this weekend, we were meant to go to Paris together and at the last minute he blew me out because he wanted to go skiing in France with them. It suddenly dawned on me that he would always have a ready excuse to avoid telling her and that I could spend years growing old and bitter, waiting for him to do this and that he might simply never do it. So I decided to take the situation into my own hands.’
I sit up and stretch, too tired to anticipate what might be coming next.
‘So, earlier this evening, I did something radical. I knew that they were away, so I phoned his home and left a message that must have filled the entire machine, giving a detailed account of our affair and everything that has gone on.’
I look at her in disbelief.
‘But he’ll never stay with you after doing something like that,’ I say. ‘His wife will be devastated.’
‘Precisely,’ she says, her head resting on the steering wheel. ‘And that is why we are here. We have to get into their house and delete that message.’ She sits up resolutely, opens the door of the car and gets out, pulling on a pair of yellow kitchen gloves and handing me a similar pair.
‘We mustn’t leave fingerprints. Pass me that handbag, please, Lucy,’ she says, coming to open the passenger door and pointing at my feet. It is her favourite black Chloe Paddington. It is so heavy that I have to use both hands to pick it up.
‘With or without you, I am going to do this,’ she says with steely determination. I open the bag and look inside. It is full of tools. There are a couple of screwdrivers, a drill and a sturdy-looking hammer. I shut it immediately and cling on to it. Emma tries to pull it out of my hands.
‘You’re insane,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going to phone Tom immediately.’
‘I have no choice,’ she says. ‘I made a bad decision, and if I do this I can change the course of history. I promise you, Lucy, that if you help me I will end it with Guy. Eventually.’
‘But you said that you are doing this to prevent him leaving you,’ I say.
‘Lucy, it’s not as bad as it looks,’ she says, ignoring my comment. ‘I got the keys to his house from his secretary and I know how to disable the alarm. I’m just covering my back in case the answer machine is in a room that is locked. There is a plan. Forget the tools. There will be some in the house anyway.’
She has started walking away from the car down the road. I get out to follow her, struggling with the Chloe handbag. It is a dangerous time of night to be walking around alone, although in our dark clothes and yellow rubber gloves we are probably the ones to avoid. She starts to run at a slow jog, pulling a hat over her face.
‘In case there’s CCTV,’ she says, as though this is a familiar situation.
I struggle to keep up and eventually manage to maintain a slow trot beside her as we go through Powis Square, my tummies bouncing up and down uncomfortably. I am so breathless that I can’t speak. We settle into a kind of rhythm and turn into a small cobbled mews, my chest aching with the effort of keeping up.
Suddenly I have an epiphany. I know with absolute conviction that at the end of this street, Emma will turn first left and we will stand in front of a large, early Victorian house in St Luke’s Road. I have never been to this house before but I know who lives there.
Because in one of those strange coincidences that make up life, I realise with absolute certainty that Emma is having an affair with Yummy Mummy No. 1’s husband. There have been many clues, but I have been so wrapped up with my own dilemmas that I have ignored the obvious.
‘I know the people who live here,’ I say to Emma as we go up the steps at the front of the house. I am leaning over, panting, holding my legs.
‘Of course, it’s Guy’s house,’ she says, looking at me from underneath the brim of her hat. ‘Are you all right, Lucy?’
‘What I mean is that I know his wife. And his children,’ I say. ‘We’re at the same school. She’s somewhere between an acquaintance and a friend. Actually, we’re coming to a school party here next week.’
‘God, that’s no good,’ she says, but she doesn’t stop trying keys in the front door locks. Every few seconds she looks nervously up and down the road to check that no one is watching. This is Emma’s drama and she doesn’t really want me claiming a part of it.
‘I’m really sorry to involve you in this, but I knew that you would have the imagination to help me resolve the situation. You’re so unflappable.’
The front door opens and we find ourselves in the hallway of Yummy Mummy No. 1’s house.
‘Am I?’ I say, a little surprised, shutting the door behind me, forgetting how Emma always uses flattery to get her own way. She pulls out a small piece of paper from her pocket and starts to punch numbers into the alarm.
‘I suppose it’s because you are used to dealing with unpredictable situations in hostile environments,’ she whispers. ‘Mothers are good at that.’
‘You make me sound like a member of the special forces,’ I say, looking around. I don’t know what I was expecting, because I didn’t have the luxury of anticipation. I switch on the light and look up at a beautiful chandelier with multi-coloured crystals that throws different-coloured light against the cream walls. Its brightness makes me blink. There is a table and a bunch of flowers beside a large mirror, and in the reflection I can see a black-and-white family portrait hanging at the bottom of the
staircase.
Yummy Mummy No. 1 is lying on an overgrown lawn with Guy. In the background is a house that I imagine is their Dorset retreat. Her head is thrown back in laughter. Guy looks at her indulgently. They are surrounded by their four children. It must have been taken in the summer because the children are wearing swimsuits and Yummy Mummy No. 1 has a pair of cut-off denim shorts that show off her long legs to perfection. Emma goes over to look at the picture and sighs.
‘How did I get involved in all this?’ she says wearily.
‘Pictures never tell you the whole story,’ I say, trying to be reassuring. ‘They’re a projection of how people want you to see them.’
A big vase of purple alliums, lilacs and green chrysanthemums sits on the table.
‘That’s exactly like the bunch he sent me on my birthday,’ she says bitterly. ‘He must have got a job lot from Paula Pryke. Come on, let’s go and look for this answer machine.’
We creep into a huge double sitting room that leads off the hallway and both take off our shoes. Wooden shutters are closed over floor-to-ceiling windows. I turn on a small lamp on a table at the end of the room facing the road. The answer machine sits there, flashing to indicate that there are new messages.
‘I hope they haven’t picked them up remotely,’ Emma says, looking worried and chewing the sleeves of her black shirt. She looks small and vulnerable. I press the Play button on the answer machine. Emma’s voice fills the void, and in a raspy, slow tone, she gives an account of herself to Guy and his wife. I sit down on a chair in front of the desk, remove my glasses and sleepily rub my eyes.
‘Your husband is living a double life . . .’ the message starts. I want to listen to it all but Emma comes over and presses the Delete button before I have a chance to stop her. I feel slightly cheated because I think if I could hear the whole message I might access parts of her that are normally unreachable.
‘I don’t want you to hear it,’ she says. ‘I sound so pathetically desperate. The rational part of me knows that I should end it with Guy but I’m too weak to do it. I’ve never felt so close to anyone. I think that he means it when he says that he loves me, but what I now realise is that he is also happy when he’s with his family, while my life is on hold until he comes back. I’ve never felt so fragile. And it was all so obvious that this would happen.’ Then she starts crying. ‘This is what happens if you become dependent on someone. You become impotent. That’s what happened to my mother and now the same thing is going to happen to me.’
‘Falling in love is always a risk,’ I say, slightly shocked to hear Emma’s relationship philosophy expounded so baldly. ‘But it isn’t a sign of weakness. You could argue it is a sign of strength. Because inevitably there will be periods of doubt and incompatibility, but when you get over those they transmute into something even more valuable. Let’s go downstairs and make a cup of tea.’
She laughs weakly.
‘Sometimes I wish I was you, Lucy,’ she says. ‘Everything sorted.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘It’s all a house of cards. Could come tumbling down at any moment.’
We stand at the bottom of the stairs in the basement kitchen. I switch on the light. We are in an enormous space, staring at a kitchen island that is so long it looks like a landing strip. A kettle sits at one end and there is a pile of papers at the other. I take off the rubber gloves and start opening and shutting cupboards searching for tea. Emma is looking at the pile of papers, immersed in what looks like Yummy Mummy No. 1’s bank statement.
‘Look at this, Lucy,’ she says. ‘His wife thinks that she is getting rent from the flat where I live.’ Sure enough, every month a payment of £2,500 is deposited in her account under the heading, ‘Rent Clerkenwell’. I look around the kitchen. Everything comes in pairs: two sinks, two dishwashers, two kettles. I start making us a cup of mint tea.
‘I’ve just noticed that all these appliances are exactly the same as the ones in my apartment,’ she says, a note of despondency entering her voice again. ‘I’m going to take a look at the bedroom.’
She rushes up the stairs and I trail behind, leaving my cup of tea on the step. On the second floor, Emma finds Guy’s bedroom.
‘I knew it,’ she says. ‘The bed is exactly the same. Can you believe that he chose exactly the same bed that he shares with his wife?’
‘It shows a certain lack of imagination,’ I say. ‘But you always say that bankers play safe and I suppose, once you have found the ideal bed, you stick with it. I think we should go now, before someone wonders why all the lights are on.’
But Emma has disappeared into a walk-in wardrobe. I follow behind. I have always been curious about Yummy Mummy No. 1’s collection of clothes and I am not disappointed. Although it is more the way in which they are organised than the content that impresses me. There is a bank of shoes, each inside a shoebox with a photograph stuck outside. There are rows of colour-coordinated cashmere jumpers. I take a picture with my mobile phone to show Tom.
Emma seems to be looking for something. She takes off her rubber gloves and I am aghast to see her rifling through Yummy Mummy No. 1’s knicker drawer. She pulls out a gorgeous Agent Provocateur bra and matching knickers and stuffs them down the front of her trousers.
‘You can’t steal her underwear,’ I say, grabbing a bra strap. ‘That’s really deviant. Put it back, you’re probably not even the same size.’
‘I want it as evidence,’ she says. ‘Do you know he bought me exactly the same set?’
‘If I let go of this bra strap will you walk out of this house now with me?’ I say.
‘It’s a deal,’ she says. ‘There’s one last thing that I want to do.’ She goes into the en-suite bathroom and comes back holding a Rampant Rabbit.
‘Two of these,’ she says.
‘You mean she’s got more than one?’ I ask.
‘No, he bought me the same model,’ she says.
I’ll never be able to look Yummy Mummy No. 1 in the eye again. Emma switches it on. The noise fills the room. She then goes back into the walk-in wardrobe and leaves the Rabbit with the battery running in the pocket of one of Guy’s suits.
‘This will prove to him that I’ve been here,’ she says, sending him a text to tell him what she has done. Guy’s weekend in the Alps has come to an abrupt end. I resist the urge to feel sorry for him. That is the trouble with being able to see everything from everyone else’s point of view.
16
‘There goes more to marriage than four bare legs in a bed’
SAM IS LYING on our bed while Tom and I get ready for the school party tonight. He tells me that his next project is about the Middle Ages and wonders if we can shed any light on the subject. I am happy to be distracted. Much to Tom’s astonishment, I have been ready for almost an hour, trussed up in my wrap-dress with all its cleavage-enhancing and tummy-flattening possibilities. Over the past week, anxiety has become my constant companion and I have discovered that apart from its weight-loss potential, it has also turned me into a clock-watcher. Forget gravitas, under the skin of every organised mother lies a rich seam of neurosis.
I smooth my dress over my stomach. It is as familiar to me as an old friend, and reminds me of old times, of other parties, with different people brought together by something less arbitrary than the coincidence that our children share the same school. It connects me with a time before I was married and in this sense it is a powerful dress, because only I know its danger.
Sam watches me pouring hand cream on to the palm of each hand and then massaging it on to my fingers, taking special care with the backs of my hands. Their gnarled appearance, the incipient brown liver spots and the papery surface around the knuckles remind me of my mother. Both of us have always washed our own saucepans. My mother never wore gloves because she thought they symbolised the domestic subjugation of women. I never wore them because I could never find them at the right moment. This I think sums up the essential difference between us. Her passion and my pa
ssivity. Yet the origin of both words is the same, from the Latin passus, to suffer.
Around the edges of my nails, the skin is chewed and the cream stings these raw, red channels. When my hands are so smooth and oily that they shine I switch attention to my forearms and see Sam’s eyes following the motion of my hand as it moves briskly up and down my arm.
‘What are you doing?’ I ask him.
‘I’m trying to hypnotise myself,’ he says, sitting very still. I stroke his hair and for once he indulges me, nestling into my shoulder. When Sam was a baby, I remember lying beside him on the kitchen floor, before he was able to turn over on his own, trying to calculate the value of the tiny space that he occupied and realising that there was no price that could be put on it. When I was pregnant with Joe, it seemed impossible that I would love this new baby as much. I imagined I would have to halve my affections, because surely there was a finite level of love? But that was the wonder of motherhood, the discovery that there were always untapped reserves available. And every day, despite the upheavals and the chaos, there are brief moments when that is all I feel, the unadulterated pure pleasure of love.
I have given Tom an abridged version of what took place with Emma because I knew that if he was acquainted with the whole story he would refuse to come tonight. Of course, once we get there and he recognises Guy, he will realise there has been a small collision of two worlds, but by then it will be too late. This is probably irresponsible, but perhaps this discovery will deflect attention from the unfortunate incident of the misdirected email, a source of great worry to him. For both he and I are equally nervous about encountering Robert Bass, although for very different reasons. And I think it is enough to be worried about seeing one person. If Tom was enduring the same anxiety that I felt about also seeing Guy and Yummy Mummy No. 1, then it would be unbearable. I absent-mindedly start rubbing the hand cream on my face, forgetting that I am sabotaging my make-up.