Spin Cycle

by Sue Margolis

  Kneeling down by the coffee table, she picked up a wineglass and began filling it. “Matt,” she said, handing him the glass, “there’s something important I need to tell you.”

  “Oh my God,” he said with a theatrical gasp, “don’t tell me you found Pitsy, did her in with a meat cleaver and packed her dismembered body into half a dozen black bin liners, which you’re hoping I might dispose of in Epping Forest.”

  “Nice thought,” she laughed. “But, no.” She took a large gulp of wine. “It’s just that I haven’t been completely honest with you.” She was looking directly into his eyes now. Her pulse rate had rocketed.

  “The thing is . . .” She swallowed hard and decided to just come out with it. “All the time I’ve been seeing you, I’ve been sort of engaged to somebody else.”

  “What?” he said, screwing up his face in shocked confusion, more than anger. He put his wineglass down on the coffee table and waited for her to continue.

  As she told him about Adam, he sat rubbing his hand over his chin.

  “But you have to understand it’s over,” she said finally, getting up and coming to sit next to him on the sofa. “Matt, I have never loved anybody like I love you.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Look, I know I haven’t been straight with you, but it was really hard for me. When I first started seeing you, even when we started sleeping together, I was still trying to convince myself I was in love with Adam. It took me ages to sort my head out and realize what I was feeling. Ask Shelley. She’ll tell you what a state I was in.”

  Grim-faced, he stood up and walked over to the window. “Rachel,” he said, keeping his back to her, “what sort of a future do we have if we can’t be honest with each other?”

  “Matt, I’m sorry. It was wrong. But I was just so confused. I promise I will never, ever keep anything from you again.”

  He turned to look at her.

  She could tell from his tight-lipped expression that he was furious with her. She’d never seen him angry before and she couldn’t help thinking how sexy she found it.

  “How do I know it’s really over between you and this Adam?”

  “Because I say it is. Plus I’m pretty sure he’s been seeing somebody else in South Africa.”

  “And how do I know you’re not going out with me just to get back at him?”

  She felt barely able to dignify his question with an answer. “You know that’s not true,” she said in what was little more than a whisper.

  She watched his face soften. He came back to the sofa and sat down next to her.

  “Rachel.” His tone was kinder suddenly, more gentle. “You were planning to marry the bloke. You’ve said yourself how confused you’ve been. Maybe you’re kidding yourself when you think you have no feelings left for him. You might not find it as easy to walk away as you think.”

  “But I’ve already walked away . . . in my mind at least.”

  “You haven’t actually told him it’s over, have you?”

  “No, but that’s because he’s in South Africa and I want to tell him face-to-face. Even though I think he’s cheating on me, I feel I owe him that.”

  “Or maybe it’s because you still love him and you can’t bring yourself to tell him it’s finished.”

  “Matt, that’s just not how it is,” she said, desperately trying to stop herself from crying.

  He arched his eyebrows.

  “OK, I admit finishing with him will be painful, but there’s no way I’m about to back out.”

  “Look,” he said, taking her hand, “I think I should give you some space to sort out your feelings.”

  “But my feelings are sorted.” Her eyes were starting to sting with tears.

  “So you keep saying, but I need to be certain you’re certain.” He paused. “Tell you what, why don’t you take Christmas to think things over one last time? Then maybe you should speak to Adam. Phone me in the new year.”

  He leaned over, kissed her briefly and stood up. Then without so much as a “Merry Christmas,” he was gone, leaving Rachel bewildered, but at the same time wanting to kick herself.

  She ran her fingers through her hair. The moment she’d started to have feelings for Matt she should have taken stock of her relationship with Adam, faced up to the fact it wasn’t working and finished it. That way Matt wouldn’t have been hurt, he wouldn’t be furious with her for being dishonest, and by now everything would have been sorted out.

  She had no choice, she decided, but to call Adam immediately and find out when he was coming home. If it was within a few days she would wait and tell him it was over face-to-face, as she’d always intended. If he was planning to stay any longer she would just have to end it on the phone.

  She imagined Matt’s reaction once she’d told him she’d done the deed. He would wrap her in his arms, tell her she was forgiven and how sorry he was for doubting her. Then they’d have spectacular makeup sex and be back on track again.

  Not that finishing with Adam was going to be remotely easy—or anything but sad.

  Two glasses of wine inside her for Dutch courage (in case it turned out he was staying on in South Africa and she had to finish with him now), she went into the hall and dialed his hotel.

  “Ah’m sorry,” the chap on reception said. “Mr. Landsberg and his friends have all gone to a Christmas Eve wildebeest roast. Ah’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Anus-ol,” Tractor said, picking Shelley’s hemorrhoid cream up off her hospital locker and studying the name. “That’s disgusting. I mean, what they’ve done is put the words anus and hole together. So, if you think about it, they’ve named the stuff ‘arsehole.’ ”

  “No, they haven’t,” Rachel said witheringly. “You don’t pronounce it anus-ol. It’s anyu-sol. The sol bit means solve.”

  Shelley had gone to the loo, leaving Tractor and Rachel sitting by her bed. Satchmo was asleep in his crib.

  “Oh, right,” Tractor said slowly as the penny dropped. “I get it. But you’d think they’d’ve come up with something a bit sexier . . . like, say, PileDriver. Arsehole’s not exactly an easy concept to market, is it?”

  “Unlike Imperial Cereal, of course.”

  “You may mock,” he said, waving his finger at Rachel, “but you and Matt will be laughing the other side of your smug faces when I get the call from Kellogg’s.”

  “Maybe,” Rachel giggled. She was getting to like Tractor. There was something about his wackiness and almost childlike optimism that she found appealing.

  She hesitated a moment. “Tractor, have you spoken to Matt this morning?”

  He said he’d seen him briefly, just as he was leaving for Nottingham. One of his mother’s sisters lived there and his family always spent Christmas with her. “I thought he wasn’t going this year—because he wanted to spend time with you—but he changed his mind at the last minute. Rachel, has something happened between the two of you?”

  “Sort of.”

  She explained.

  “Course you know why he reacted like that, don’t you?”

  She frowned and shook her head.

  “It’s happened to him before—women not being up-front with him. A few years ago he got involved with this nurse. Gorgeous she was—bum on her like two perfectly formed . . . Anyway, she was married. A year they’d been going out before she told him. And then it was only to kiss him good-bye and say she was staying with her husband. I know none of us likes not being given the complete picture, but Matt’s got a real thing about it.”

  “God,” Rachel said, looking particularly troubled now, “I had no idea.”

  Just then Shelley reappeared. “Who’s got a real thing about what?” she asked, climbing back into bed.

  Rachel told her story for a second time.

  “Look,” Tractor said when she’d finished, “you two sit and have a natter. I’m having me dinner at our Bridget’s in Feltham. I’d better get moving.”

  He stood
up, kissed Shelley on the cheek and said “Bye” to Rachel.

  As he walked past Satchmo’s crib, he paused to look in. “You know, Shelley,” he said, winking, “he’s got your chins.”

  “What d’you mean ‘chins’?” she said, feigning offense. “Bloody cheek. Now bugger off.”

  But he didn’t move. He looked back down at the baby. “Tell you what, my old Tyco racing set’s just sitting in our mam’s loft doing nothing. Maybe I should drive up to Liverpool after Christmas and get it. Kids love it.”

  “Tractor, that’s really kind, but Satchmo’s really busy between feeds at the moment, what with him playing Fussball with my dad.”

  She and Rachel looked at each other and started giggling. Eventually Tractor saw the joke.

  “Oh, right,” he said. “Maybe I should wait until he’s a bit bigger.”

  “I think that might be best,” Shelley said, still laughing.

  He turned to go.

  “Oh, Tractor,” she called after him. “By the way . . . thanks again for the choccies.”

  “My pleasure,” he smiled.

  “You know, Rache,” Shelley said once he’d gone, “Tractor’s got such a brilliant sense of humor. He arrived at the crack of dawn this morning and for two hours I don’t think I’ve stopped laughing. I mean, just look at these.”

  She reached down, opened the locker and brought out a box of cellophane-wrapped novelty chocolates. “Course,” she said, “I probably won’t eat them. They’re full of preservatives. But it’s the thought that counts.” She put the box down by her side. “Rache, don’t worry about Matt. He adores you. Once you’ve finished with Adam, he’ll come round. I know he will.”

  “God, I hope so,” Rachel said gloomily.

  Shelley’s face broke into a smile. “Come on, it’s Christmas. Sod the preservatives. How d’you fancy a chocolate penis?”

  * * * * *

  “So did Shelley like the giant booger you got her?”

  “Sam, for your information that ‘booger’ set me back thirty-five quid—and yes, she loved it.”

  Joe looked curiously at Rachel. She explained she’d bought Shelley a silver ring for Christmas.

  “And stuck to the band there’s this huge nugget of translucent fluorescent green plastic. It’s all sort of jagged and pitted.”

  “You’re right, Sam,” Joe said, winking at him. “Does sound exactly like a giant booger.”

  “Will you two just stop making fun,” Rachel said, hitting Joe playfully on the shoulder with a cushion.

  “No, please. Don’t hit me,” Joe pleaded. “I feel sick. I shouldn’t have had that third helping of Armagnac soufflé.”

  Rachel jeered and promptly bashed him again.

  It was nearly four and Greg’s magnificent, much-fretted-over “fusion” Christmas lunch of crab and prawn wonton laksa, perfectly cooked turkey served on individual vegetable mountains, and a Sri Lankan syrup-and-cashew nut cake thing as well as the Armagnac soufflé and Christmas pudding, was finally over.

  Greg, whose hostess flush had developed into a severe postculinary stress headache and who had been forced to down three Nurofen as a result, was loading the dishwasher, having steadfastly refused all offers of help. Rachel and Joe, weary and bloated from all the eating and boozing, were lolling on the white Conran sofa with Sam between them.

  Rachel couldn’t believe what a thoroughly enjoyable and relaxed day she’d had. Not only had Joe and Greg refused to let her lift a finger, but they hadn’t stopped going on about what they would do to Pitsy if they got hold of her. For the first time Rachel was aware that the residual anger she felt toward Joe had all but disappeared. She had decided not to say anything about what was going on with Matt because she didn’t want to spoil the jolly atmosphere.

  “You know, Greg,” Rachel said as he reappeared, carrying a tray of coffee and truffles, “that lunch wasn’t so much a meal as an edible art form. That prune and Armagnac soufflé.”

  Greg blushed with pleasure as he put the tray down on the coffee table. “Yes, and although I say it myself, the turkey rather tickled the palate too.”

  “That’s because you left the bloody feathers on,” Joe said, winking at Rachel.

  Greg started pouring coffee in a mock huff, but everybody else, including Sam, collapsed with laughter.

  While the adults sat drinking their coffee, Sam started to become boisterous and irritating. When he wasn’t clambering over Rachel or Joe, he was telling unfunny jokes or trying to get their attention with daft riddles and tedious “OK-which-hand’s-it-in?” magic tricks.

  “Come on, Sam,” Joe said eventually, “why don’t you go back on the Internet? There must be some Barbra sites you haven’t found yet.”

  The three of them had joined to buy Sam a computer for Christmas. Overjoyed, he’d spent the whole morning in his bedroom at Joe’s surfing the Internet. Now, because he was tired and wanted attention after all the adult conversation, he was reluctant to go back.

  “You just want to get rid of me, don’t you?” he sulked.

  It took them nearly ten minutes to convince him they didn’t. Finally, muttering something about not having asked to be born, he disappeared into his bedroom.

  “You know, Rache,” Joe said, “it’s amazing. He’ll be a stroppy teenager before we know it.”

  When they’d finished coffee, Greg suggested a walk. “Might clear my head,” he said.

  “I’m in,” Joe said. “Rache?”

  “Do you mind if I don’t? I’d rather lie here and have a nap, if that’s OK.”

  Joe called to Sam to ask him if he wanted to come, but by now he was so engrossed in the Internet that all Joe got by way of reply was, “Shh. Go away. I’m busy.”

  Rachel dozed off almost immediately.

  “Mum.”

  She had no idea how long she’d been asleep, when she became vaguely aware of Sam’s voice somewhere in the distance.

  “What?” she said drowsily. She half opened her eyes. He was standing at the foot of the sofa.

  “Mum. Do you think we’re going to get snow?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Rachel groaned, putting a cushion over her head.

  “But Mum, they’ve got six feet up in London.”

  “Sam, no jokes now, darling, I’m asleep.”

  “No, Mum, Mum. My friend Emily’s dad had to dig them out of their house yesterday.”

  “You haven’t got a friend called Emily.”

  “I have. She’s really nice. We’ve been telling each other jokes. She said maybe we could go to the movies sometime.”

  “Oh God, why do you kids insist on using that word? We’re English; we go to the cinema.”

  “Whatever, but can I go?”

  “I suppose. Find out exactly where she lives. And why she’s telling you weird stories about snow.”

  He trotted off. A minute later he was back. “Cobble Hills,” he announced. “Is that anywhere near Muswell Hill?”

  She took the cushion off her head. “Er, not as such,” she said. “I think you’ll probably find she lives in the other London. It’s in Canada. That would explain the snow.”

  Sam’s face fell. “Oh right,” he said dejectedly. “She sent me a photograph. She looks really pretty. I thought maybe she could be my girlfriend. She’s thirteen, so I said I was twelve.”

  Rachel giggled. “Oh, Sam. What a shame she’s so far away.”

  He disappeared back to the computer, no doubt to give Emily the bad news that the trip to the movies was off.

  Rachel sat up. It was a moment before the full impact of her son’s brief encounter on the Internet hit her. Emily was a girl. Sam thought she was pretty. He wanted to go to the pictures with her, this older woman. He’d even lied about his age.

  “Way to go, kiddo,” Rachel murmured. “Way to go.”

  She carried on sitting there, a gormless smile on her face. She didn’t hear the front door open, or Greg and Joe walk back into the room.

  “Rachel. Come
in, Rachel,” Joe said, waving his hand in front of her face.

  “Oh what? Sorry,” she said vacantly. “I was miles away.”

  “You OK?” Joe asked. “You look a bit flushed.”

  “No, I’m fine, absolutely fine. Couldn’t be better.” She paused. “Joe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This may sound like an odd question, but how old were you when you hit puberty?”

  “Me?” He looked puzzled. “God knows. Although I do remember having my first wet dream about Bradley Lebetkin when we were still at primary school. So, I suppose I’d have been about ten, going on eleven.”

  “So deep down you were always certain about your sexuality—even though you married me?”

  “Pretty much, though I didn’t admit it to myself. Why?”

  “Oh, no reason,” she said.

  * * * * *

  Rachel got home about ten, having left Sam behind. He was staying on with Joe and Greg for another few days. It was only as she stood in the hall taking off her coat that she saw the red light flashing on her answer machine.

  She flicked the switch and rewound the tape.

  There was a message from her mother wanting to know how she was and another from Lenny asking the same. He also said he’d had a go at trying to find Pitsy, but hadn’t had any luck.

  “Her flatmate said she hadn’t seen her since yesterday. Meanwhile, I managed to find an e-mail address for Noeleen Piccolo. I’ve left her a message telling her all about Pitsy and to keep a lookout for her on the Sydney circuit. It occurred to me that our hairy friend may be so scared of you finding her that she’s hotfooted it back to Oz for a few weeks until her Channel 6 show starts. I don’t know if anything’ll come of it, but Pitsy is such a vicious cow, I couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.”

  She wished he were there so that she could hug him.

  “You are a star, Lenny,” she said aloud. “Do you know that? A bloomin’ star.”

  The third message was from Adam. Apparently he’d been trying to reach her ever since the competition to find out how it went, but since all he’d been getting was her answer machine he’d ended up phoning Faye. She’d told him about Pitsy.