by Adele Parks
‘Hello.’
The voice was sleepy and surprised, but it was not Greta, it was Sophie’s voice. He’d hit the wrong button. Lloyd momentarily considered hanging up, but he knew that Sophie would dial 1471, and then he’d look like a prat for hanging up. Best he bluff it out.
‘Hello, Sophie. Happy New Year.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lloyd. It’s late January. It’s not New Year,’ snapped Sophie, recognizing Lloyd’s voice in an instant.
‘Still never too late to say Happy New Year, is it?’
Sophie sighed. She hated New Year’s Eve and never stayed up to welcome the new year in, never had. Her policy was to ignore it. At least to ignore it in a personal sense, professionally it was a big night for her. This year she had had all four of her catering teams at important events. They’d all been great successes and had already led to further recommendations and leads for more work. One of the events was a private party for a breakfast TV presenter. The evening had been ‘Verrrry showbiz, daaarling’, and had been covered in one of the gossipy glossies. Sophie admitted that as far as New Year’s Eves went, this year hadn’t been bad. But she didn’t celebrate New Year. Why couldn’t Lloyd remember something as simple as that about her? And, most importantly, it wasn’t bloody New Year, so why was he calling?
‘I wasn’t sure if I’d catch you,’ said Lloyd. ‘I thought you might be working.’
Even pissed his voice betrayed a sneer. A sneer that said Sophie working was a problem, a betrayal. He still thought that her having a successful career was a bigger betrayal than him slipping his dick inside his personal assistant. Sophie sighed, and tried to remain patient.
‘I don’t have to attend quite as many events as I had to in the old days. It’s one of the perks of being a boss of an extremely competent staff. Besides, I don’t like leaving Joanna with baby-sitters too often, even if I could find one that was prepared to stay after midnight.’ Sophie wondered why she was bothering to explain this to him. Why did she always feel that she had to justify herself to him when he no longer meant anything to her?
‘Why the call?’
‘Just thought I’d see how you are. Oh, and Joanna, of course,’ drawled Lloyd, trying to sound, if not sober, then at least less drunk than was the case. It was wasted effort. His ex-wife knew him too well. She resisted pointing out that by ringing in the middle of the night he was unlikely to speak to Joanna.
Instead she said, ‘We’re fine, thank you. Presumably you couldn’t get hold of Greta. She’s probably in some club somewhere where the reception for mobile phones isn’t too good. Isn’t that what you always used to say to me when I tried to call you at an ungodly hour? When you failed to come home.’
Sophie wished that she didn’t say these things. She wished that she could stop ‘having a go’, to use the vernacular. But she couldn’t. She clearly remembered one particularly painful evening, and she wanted Lloyd to remember it, too. When their daughter had been about eight months old she had woken, screaming, in the middle of the night. It transpired that her temperature was 104 degrees. It was after midnight and Lloyd, who was supposed to be at a work function, was uncontactable. Intermittently, between bathing the baby with cold flannels, Sophie had tried his mobile number with increasing panic and desperation, until three in the morning when he finally came home.
His excuse was that the venue for the cocktail party was in a cellar and the reception on his phone had failed. But why hadn’t he picked up her messages in the cab? Wasn’t cocktail hour over by 9 p.m. at the latest? Sophie knew he had turned his phone off. It wasn’t until a few months later that she asked herself why he would have done that. It wasn’t as though Lloyd could have done anything to help Joanna, but Sophie would have found his presence a comfort. Joanna’s temperature subsided, and experience later dictated that the temperature had been the result of teething, no harm done. Except that it was another tiny incident where Sophie realized she could manage on her own and another tiny resentment that she stored against Lloyd. Resentments that, when finally totalled up, meant Sophie wanted to live on her own.
Sophie wished she’d stop rehashing their past. It never did any good. No matter how many times Lloyd reluctantly apologized for one or other of the crimes he’d committed, he couldn’t repair the damage he’d done.
‘For your information, I talked to Greta earlier on this evening,’ said Lloyd, although he knew his ex-wife was barely interested in facts. She was ensconced in her version of things. A world that he believed had little basis in reality. She could be so exasperating. So argumentative. So wilful. Spirited. Fun. Lloyd managed to shift from furious to curious in a matter of seconds.
He knew it was the drink, but at that moment he didn’t want Greta. At that moment he wanted Sophie, and his daughter, and his old life back. He wanted that more than anything in the world. If they were a family again, he wouldn’t be lonely. He wouldn’t be alone in a crowd any more. He wanted his old life. The life where he believed in happily ever after. The one where he was respected and envied.
His rambling desires were interrupted by a heavy sigh from Sophie.
‘Can I go now? Some of us have to be up early in the morning, and not to dash down a ski run, cutting the first snow, but to feed Cheerios to an unwilling two-year-old.’
Damn, Sophie mentally kicked herself. There, she’d done it again. The reprimand was loud and clear – Sophie’s life was lonely and damaged because of Lloyd’s selfish actions. The truth was Sophie was doing OK now, better than OK. She had long since left behind her the endless nights of reprisals, revenge plots and recriminations. She was sometimes genuinely happy. It wasn’t always easy. Juggling a career and a small child on her own was complicated, but her daughter was such a source of undisputed, exquisite joy that the complications were nothing more than inconvenient. Her work was also a great source of pride and, not to put too fine a point on it, income.
For the first time in a long time, Sophie felt in control of her life and destiny, and she liked that feeling. So why was it that she found her treacherous tongue could not resist waging a pointless battle with her ex-husband? It was clear that the war had already been fought, the casualties counted and the dead buried. Why couldn’t her treacherous tongue follow the instructions of her infinitely more sensible brain and behave with composure and serenity? Sophie wondered if she was over Lloyd. The loneliness had gone away, but her anger reared its ugly head at so many unexpected turns. She was angry with him when other women – her friends, for example – announced their second pregnancy or when she bumped into him and Greta in the high street, strolling along hand in hand, and smiling as though they hadn’t wreaked as much damage as an earthquake measuring seven on the Richter scale. She was angry when he announced he was taking a week’s skiing holiday.
‘What was your New Year wish?’ asked Lloyd.
Right at that moment, Sophie wished she had the courage simply to hang up on him, but she didn’t. Even now she was pathetically grateful for his attention. Habit, she supposed. Because she had been deprived of it for the past couple of years, she naturally hankered after it, like an ex-smoker gladly inhaling secondary smoke in a bar.
‘You don’t have New Year wishes. You’re confusing it with birthdays. You have New Year’s resolutions,’ she pointed out tetchily.
Lloyd didn’t bother to ask her what her New Year’s resolution was. He assumed he knew. It was likely to be to drink more water and lose half a stone in weight. Those had been Sophie’s New Year’s resolutions for all the years they’d known each other. Besides which, he suddenly found that he had an agenda, one which had been developed with the speed and intensity exclusive to a drunk. He planned to stick, unwaveringly, to the agenda. It was the only way to secure success.
‘My resolution is to grow my business by another 30 percent and to franchise the Highgate branch,’ said Sophie, even though he hadn’t asked. Lloyd barely registered what she had said, so intent was he to push ahead.
‘Well,
my New Year’s wish is that you were here, with the old gang.’
He let his voice drop slightly, and Sophie knew that his eyes would be misting over. The two things, the drop in tone and the misty eyes, always came hand in hand. It wasn’t exactly insincere, but it was a practised technique. His huge, melting, puppy-dog eyes had weakened her resolve on many, many occasions in the past. But they were less effective over a telephone line.
‘I wouldn’t be enjoying myself if I were there,’ said Sophie truthfully.
‘Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you, really?’ Incredulity was always amplified after a jar or two too many.
‘Mia would be making my life hell because I like make-up and I didn’t go to an ancient university. Mistakenly, she seems to link the two facts. She’d be making snide comments about my “party project” and ignoring the fact that I was nominated as Business Woman of the Year by Red magazine. Rich would be veering between correcting my grammar and accent, and trying it on.’
Lloyd lost his footing and slipped. He only managed to stay upright because he fell against the wall. He was glad that Sophie couldn’t see just how drunk he was. ‘Oh, no, no, no, no. Rich wouldn’t do that.’
‘Rich always did that. As did Jason. And Kate and Ted are OK, but I’ve been extremely disappointed with Kate of late. We were good friends, or so I thought. I’ve seen her once since you and I split up. I think that was due to curiosity – she wanted to hear me dish the dirt. Maybe I should have obliged. At least I’d have been more interesting, then maybe she would have called a second time. I don’t think it’s very decent of her to ditch me and Joanna quite as unceremoniously as she has. Even lepers get visitors, and leprosy is medically proven to be infectious. As far as I know, divorce isn’t.’
Sophie took a deep breath. She’d been meaning to say that for a while.
‘Rich wouldn’t be trying it on. He’s engaged now. You’d really like his fiancée, Tash.’ Lloyd giggled, as though indulging a small child. ‘I think she’s running into the same problems with Mia as you did.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘Why do you say that? I’m sure they’ll be very happy,’ argued Lloyd. Sophie tutted, but realized she didn’t know enough about the situation to comment. These weren’t her people any more. These weren’t her problems. ‘Soph, I thought you might pop on a plane and come to join us.’ Lloyd’s voice was urgent and drunken. If he could get Sophie out to Avoriaz, away from all the distraction of her work, then maybe he would have a chance at convincing her just how sorry he was. He knew he’d been foolish, made a terrible mess, but the game was over now. He wanted to put things back to normal. ‘I bet you could get a flight or, if not, there’s a train from Waterloo. It comes all the way into Cluses.’ He wondered if he sounded desperate.
He absolutely hated rejection.
And so he added, ‘The wedding is on Friday. You’re a pal of Rich’s, too.’
Put this way, he hoped his proposal sounded friendly, rather than romantic. A rejection of his friendship was easier to bear.
Sophie was almost amused at Lloyd’s stupidity. She knew that he wanted her, very, very much. But she also knew that he wouldn’t want her in the morning when he sobered up. If he remembered this conversation at all, he’d be mortified. He’d had plenty of opportunities to make it work between them. Opportunities he had shrugged away, with a casualness that was insulting. He was always prone to nostalgia, and that was all this was. Where should she start with pointing out just how silly a plan that would be?
‘What would I do with Joanna? The wedding party is a child-free zone, isn’t it? And what about Greta? I can’t imagine she’d be too happy to hear I joined the little ski trip. And what about my work? You have no grasp on reality, Lloyd. Besides, I’d be damned if I’d just melt back into that scene at the first offer after months of being out in the cold. I’m surprised you have. Go sleep off the beer, and lay off the spirits.’
Stung, Lloyd yelled, ‘You can’t tell me what to do any more, Sophie.’
‘I won’t even try if you stop calling me. Goodnight.’
For the second time in less than fifteen minutes, Lloyd found himself listening to the empty tone of a dead line. He didn’t know what to do, so he decided to ignore Sophie’s advice to go to sleep and to stop drinking. His only regret was that she couldn’t see him march straight back into the club.
21. Not so Polite Small Talk
Mia left her dance partner on the floor and went to stand with Rich, Tash, Kate, Ted and Lloyd.
‘He looks really keen,’ commented Lloyd, pointing to the French guy that Mia had left languishing.
She shrugged and didn’t even treat the guy to a smile. She’d spotted Scaley and Jayne emerging. They’d obviously found a private bit of the bar to chat and God knows what else. Damn. She was going to have to get a move on. Mia took a deep breath and once again tried to quash the rising panic she felt. She told herself that it was not impossible that Scaley Jase would have more than one flirtation on this holiday. In fact, it was probable.
‘So what happened with the Frog Prince?’ asked Jason, nodding towards the bloke Mia had left stranded. ‘He’s a good-looking guy.’
‘Dull,’ said Mia, by way of explanation.
‘Well, you didn’t give him much of a chance to shine. He can hardly impress you with his conversation on the dance floor. He was a good mover, surely that ought to have got him through to the second round, even by your strict criteria. You never know, Mia, you might even have had some fun.’ Mia shot Jason a withering look. He ignored it and carried on. ‘Your problem is that you are already rehearsing your exit before you’ve even got their mobile number. What are you so scared of?’
‘Inadequacy.’
‘Yours?’
Mia looked scornful. ‘Theirs.’
It was true. No man had ever been good enough for her. Bright enough, sensitive enough, funny enough, passionate enough, rich enough, single enough. They might have had one or two of these qualities, but never the full house. No one except maybe Scaley. He was the last person on earth she would admit that to. She turned away from him and picked up a conversation with Kate.
Lloyd had bought a bottle of beer and paid with the last of his loose change. He’d hoped it would help him forget about the two abruptly ended calls, but he’d drained it and the calls were still the only thing on his mind, although he was half-heartedly joining in with a conversation about French cheeses. Lloyd was desperately trying to appear sober and therefore coming across as very drunk. ‘It is my round,’ he articulated carefully. ‘Can I interest anyone in a nightcap?’
‘Yeah, I’ll have one more drink,’ said Tash, as she’d finally come up for air after kissing Rich for what seemed to the others for ever and seemed to her not long enough. ‘But better make it water. I want to be in a half-decent state tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have malt,’ said Jayne, ‘Glenmorangie Black, darling. No ice, no water, as it comes.’
‘Hey, that’s Rich’s favourite nightcap,’ said Tash.
‘I’ll bring whisky for everyone, and I’ll make mine a double,’ said Lloyd. It was only when he’d ordered a bottle of malt and eight glasses that he remembered that he’d run out of ready cash and needed to change more sterling into euros. He tried to pay with Visa, but the busy bartender was unimpressed and uncooperative. Kate kindly led him back to his seat and instructed Ted to take care of the bill.
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ said Kate to Lloyd. ‘You are going to feel lousy in the morning.’
He slouched next to her and rested his head on her shoulders. The intimacy didn’t seem inappropriate, more motherly than flirty. Kate’s role in the gang had always been that of mother hen. If they’d been alone, he would have told her about the disastrous phone calls. He was unsure which one would have the most disastrous consequences. He hadn’t called Greta back, which he’d meant to, and he’d asked Sophie to come back, which he didn’t mean to. Fuck. Kate stroked his hair, and he allowed himself t
o feel temporarily soothed. He’d stay drunk and avoid the repercussions, that was the answer.
‘This reminds me of old days in uni bar,’ said Lloyd, sentimentally. ‘Do you remember when Jason ran the bar and we’d have those lock-ins?’ The uni crowd nodded and smiled. ‘I think that was the last time I felt this cocooned,’ added Lloyd.
‘No, it’s just that that was the last time you felt this drunk,’ laughed Jason.
Ted came back from the bar with the whisky and water. Everyone accepted a glass, despite worries about early starts on the slopes tomorrow.
‘I didn’t really expect to be invited here,’ said Lloyd suddenly. The stark truth was spluttered, despite his desire to be affable.
‘Lloyd, buddy, you are one of my oldest and best friends. I couldn’t get married without you being here,’ said Rich.
‘But you could go and play footers every week and not ask me along,’ said Lloyd sulkily. The combination of the term ‘footers’ and the sulky tones made Lloyd appear about age eight. Luckily he was too drunk to be self-conscious. Besides, he had a point. Or, rather, he had Sophie’s point. Rich had been avoiding him. Rich had, and so had Jason, and Mia, and Ted and Kate, and the whole bloody lot of them.
‘What are you talking about? You’re welcome to come along to footie anytime,’ lied Rich, embarrassed.
‘Since Sophie and I split up, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen you.’ Unfortunately Lloyd had the grim determination of a drunk. He wasn’t going to let his point go. He was oblivious to the discomfort he was causing the others.
‘Rubbish,’ replied Rich, without turning to face Lloyd. ‘It’s nothing to do with your split. If we’ve seen less of each other of late, it’s because we’re all busy. My biggest crime has been falling in love with Tash. She’s all-consuming. But look at her, can you blame me?’ Rich smiled proudly, oblivious to how insensitive his comment was. ‘The timing is coincidence.’
‘You are all the same. No one wants to see me or meet Greta.’ Lloyd pointed an accusatory finger around the table. Unfortunately, he used the same hand as he held his whisky in, and it slopped on to his jeans. It wasn’t very dignified.