*
‘Cheers. So how’s life in the country?’ Phil asks. ‘New wife, new house… all good, I hope?’
I take a long pull of my beer. It’s cold and goes down well. It could get messy tonight and I don’t care. How to answer that? Living the eternal bachelor life right in the heart of London, Phil’s one of my oldest friends. He knows me pretty well.
‘Yeah, it’s good.’
‘You got the babe.’
I laugh. ‘It’s all relative, mate.’
‘I never thought you’d leave Ness, to be honest. You and her…’ His voice trails off. ‘So what happened? You had an affair? Got caught, right?’
I fill Phil in on the details. He makes the right noises.
‘And so, the country? How’s that going? You were always such a city boy.’
‘I’d be all right if I was still working. You’ve heard, right? About the investigation?’
Phil looks at his beer. ‘Yeah. People talk…’
‘It’s killing me, mate. That’s why I’m in town. Paid back the money and got myself a brief.’
‘Good you’ve paid it back, but I have to ask: why did you do it? You must have known how it would look. Stealing money from a charity.’ He shakes his head. ‘That’s pretty low!’
I sigh. ‘It was only ever supposed to be a loan. Stell and I were buying a house. I needed to move quickly. I had no liquid cash after the divorce so I borrowed it from the charity account for a couple of months.’
‘OK. So what happened? How come they found out?’
‘Just bad luck. A vigilant trustee sticking his nose in.’ I run my hand through my hair and exhale. It’s so good to talk to Phil. ‘I don’t know what shit’s going on in my life at the moment. It’s just started to fall apart. It’s like – I don’t know – there’s this curse on things suddenly.’ I laugh at how pathetic I sound. ‘Not a curse. But it never used to be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, having a potential criminal case hanging over me for starters. But it’s more than just that. I thought I’d be sorted once I moved in with Stell but now it’s my health. I get this tightness in my chest…’ I realise I’m sounding like a whingey old man. ‘My memory. You’re my age, aren’t you? Do you forget stuff these days?’
Phil laughs. ‘Yeah. All the time.’
‘Like what, though?’
‘My name. Where I live.’ Phil laughs.
‘Seriously.’
‘What are you forgetting? Things like walking into a room and forgetting what you came in for? That’s normal.’
‘No. Where things are in the kitchen. Conversations. Events. I lose stuff. I put things down and I can’t remember where they are. Phone calls and messages. I could go on.’
‘Hmm.’
‘There are text messages. Emails I have no memory of sending.’
‘But you sent them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What else?’
I stare at my beer. Can I tell him about the bruises? I’m so ashamed.
‘Whole evenings. Stell will be funny with me the next day and I don’t know why. Then she’ll remind me we had a row or something. There was one night I got so drunk I threw up, but I have no memory of it at all.’
Phil sits back. ‘Wow. That’s not good. Are you drinking? Like, much more than usual?’
‘Not more than usual. You know. I’m no saint, but the odd whisky or whatever. Not a lot. I’m actually trying to keep off it because – well…’
‘What – “well”?’
I look at the bar, suddenly shy. ‘Well apparently alcohol stops the little fellas swimming or something.’ I look at Phil, feeling somehow as if I’m confessing to a monstrous crime. ‘We’ve been trying for a baby.’
He looks sideways back at me. We don’t usually talk so intimately. ‘Well, look at you! I never thought I’d see the day!’
He ribs me and I take it. It’s this that I’ve missed up in the village with Stell. I love that joshing, that teasing, and the beer tastes so much better in the pub with my mates than it ever does with Stell. Before I know it, the bell for last orders has rung and we’re the last ones propping up the bar. Phil knows a cocktail bar around the corner that’ll serve till 1 a.m. and we bundle over and start on the Jägerbombs. I have no defence: it seems like a good idea at the time, though I realise my thinking may be skewed and, at the back of my mind, I can picture Stell pacing the kitchen, looking at the clock, gnashing her teeth and wondering where I am. But I’m having a brilliant time and I know she’ll want me to have a bit of fun. Let my hair down and all that.
‘One for the road,’ Phil slurs when we’re several Jägerbombs down. ‘What time’s your last train anyway?’
I look at my watch and burst out laughing. ‘Gone!’ I put on a station announcer voice. ‘“The vomit express has left the station.” I’d say it was halfway home by now.’
‘Crash at mine.’
‘Nah. There’s a night bus.’
He looks at me and we both crack up. It’s as if it was the funniest thing anyone’s ever said. Phil bangs his hand on the bar, whimpering, ‘Night bus! Night bus!’ through tears of laughter. I haven’t laughed like this in ages – my stomach muscles are aching and my face is wet with tears.
‘One for the road, mate,’ Phil says when we’ve both calmed down, ‘and you’re coming home with me.’
I don’t argue. He lives close enough to walk. But I do pull out my phone and, with clumsy, drunken fingers, prod in a message to Stell: Sorry, hon. Met up with Phil. Missed the last train. Am crashing at his. Love u X
It’s 1 a.m.
THIRTY-TWO
Stella
George comes in whistling. It’s a bright morning and, under different circumstances, we might have been preparing to have people over for lunch – nipping out to the butcher to pick up a joint, par-boiling potatoes to roast, making batter for Yorkshire puddings, preparing vegetables, setting the table with the crystal glasses. I think I’d have done an apple crumble and my fingers rub together subconsciously as I imagine rubbing the cold, hard butter into the flour and sugar to make the crumble topping. And custard. I’d have done custard – rich and creamy with those luscious vanilla pods I found at the new organic shop.
By twelve-thirty we’d be opening the wine to breathe – inhaling the scent of a nice Bordeaux and pouring ourselves a snifter before the guests arrive, clinking our glasses together and maybe having a bit of a kiss. But no. I’m sitting in the kitchen with nothing inside me except three strong coffees, feeling as if I’ve been hit by a truck. My head’s thick and my eyes are scratchy – I haven’t dared look in the mirror for fear of what I’ll see. I’m hunched over the table, my shoulders up by my ears, the tension in them impossible to shift – and in he comes through the front door, whistling a cheery little tune. Then, before I’ve really had a chance to finalise what I’m going to say, he’s here in the kitchen, beaming at me, his arms full of tulips. He looks tired, as if he’s trying to hide a night of no sleep.
‘Hey, gorgeous!’ he says. ‘How are you? I picked these up for you on the way home. They had buckets of them at the station – got you a bunch in each colour. I know they’re your favourite.’
He’s right: they are. Their colours make me feel optimistic about spring and the potential advent of summer and its deep blue skies, but today I give the tulips little more than a cursory glance. George puts them down by the sink and comes over. He bends over me and tries to kiss me, but I don’t look up – he kisses my hair instead, then gives it a little stroke. I shake his hand off.
‘What’s up? Are you OK?’
I push him away. On the table in front of me is my phone. I glare at it but he doesn’t understand.
‘Is something wrong? Have I forgotten something? Were we due somewhere?’ I don’t respond. ‘It’s not your birthday, is it?’ He looks upwards, as if trying to recall. ‘Our anniversary? Can’t be. What is it, Stell?’
‘What’s up?’
I say slowly to the table, then I look up at George and repeat myself. ‘What’s up? What do you think is up?’ I slam my hand on the table with my last word and it’s as if all the anger inside me explodes in his face like a volcano. ‘Let’s see, George. What do you think is up?’
He pulls out a chair and sits across the table from me, his hands clasped in front of him.
‘You’re pissed that I stayed out?’
‘Goodness, George, you’re good. Got it in one.’
‘But… but I messaged you.’
‘Oh yes,’ I scoff. ‘You messaged me. That makes it all right then, does it?’
‘Well – umm – yes? I mean, I’m sorry it was so late, but at least you didn’t need to worry.’
‘At least I didn’t need to worry. Yes, that’s very thoughtful of you. Thank you. I suppose I should be grateful for the fact that I knew exactly where you were and what you were presumably doing. Without your wedding ring on, if I may say so.’
George looks at his hand and frowns. ‘I’m really sorry. I lost it ages ago. I was going to get it replaced, but…’
I raise my eyebrows at him.
George rubs his temples. I imagine he’s got a headache – drunk too much, slept too little and is having trouble following the conversation – but I don’t feel any sympathy.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘I’m tired. I’ve no idea what you’re getting at. I missed the last train. I told you that. You got the message, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yeah. I saw it. I don’t know why you bothered sending it. As if I could have got any sleep after that!’
‘After what? What are you talking about?’
I shove my phone over to him. ‘This! After this, how was I supposed to get any sleep?’
George picks up my phone and taps the screen to bring it to life. As he reads the message, his mouth drops open and he starts shaking his head.
‘No! I didn’t send this!’
I shrug. ‘What am I supposed to think? It’s come from your phone. See: George Wolsey.’
‘But my phone was with me all night!’
‘I rest my case.’ I grab my phone back from where George has dropped it on the table. ‘Guess who I’ve bumped into?’ I read out loud. ‘Grabbing a quick bite with Ness. Won’t be late! Won’t be late, eh? Well, I suppose technically you’re not late.’ I look at my watch. ‘You’re actually reasonably early. And then—’ I open another message. ‘Oh, here it is: Missed the last train – going to bunk at Ness’s. Great, George. Absolutely great. Thanks for that. As I said, I’d almost rather have not known where you were. Then maybe I could have got some sleep!’
‘Stell.’ George shoves the chair back and starts pacing the kitchen. He’s running his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t know what’s happened. I don’t know how you got that message, but I promise you – hand on my heart – I didn’t meet Ness. I haven’t seen Ness for over a year! I was with Phil! I came out from the solicitor’s. It was a lovely evening, I felt like going for a drink so I called Phil. Yeah, things got a little out of hand and for that I apologise, but it was his house I crashed at and that’s what I told you – here, look!’
George grabs his phone from his pocket, scrolls to the text messages. ‘Look! Here it is!’ He shoves the phone in my face. Indeed, there is a message saying he’s missed the train and is crashing at Phil’s. I push the phone away.
‘I don’t know what you’ve done with your phone – if that even is your phone – but I know what message I got from you last night and that’s all that matters. Maybe you were so drunk you deleted it. Or maybe you realised you shouldn’t have told me. I don’t know. I don’t know you at all sometimes.’ I shake my head. ‘So what did you and Ness do – top and tail? Offer to sleep in the spare room?’ I laugh bitterly and carry on before George has a chance to reply. ‘In what world did you think that would be all right? In what world is it OK to spend the night with your ex-wife at her house?’ I’m shouting now. I get up, too: we’re standing at opposite ends of the kitchen, each of us with our back to a counter. ‘What’s going on?’
George is shaking his head. ‘Nothing! Nothing’s going on! Don’t make this something it’s not.’ But even as he speaks, I see something in his eyes as he mentions Ness and it knocks the breath out of me: he’s seen her. I’d bet my life on it.
‘For fuck’s sake, George! How much more do you want me to take? The jealousy, the temper, the blackouts, the bruises – and now Ness? If you’re not going to keep your end of the deal, I can’t do this. I can’t!’ I grab my bag and keys and bang through the front door, slamming it behind me.
*
I slow down as I reach the end of the lane and turn into Main Street, and my anger dissolves as fast as it had built in the kitchen. It really is a beautiful day, and the cherry blossoms are in full bloom – probably only a few days to go before they start falling. The wisteria’s starting to come out, too, and I breathe in the scent of the earth, the flowers and the distant smell of horses. The air up here is so clean compared to London, it feels like a tonic. But what is it that George is hiding? Has he really seen Ness? I don’t doubt what I saw in his eyes. Is he having regrets about leaving her? About marrying me? After all I’ve put up with from him? The thought throws me, and then there’s a tap on my shoulder.
‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ says Dr Grant. ‘Hello.’
‘Morning. Yes. I was just thinking the same. The cherry blossoms are beautiful. The village is so pretty.’
‘Hmm. It’s probably a bit late now but, down by the wood – you know at the end of Main Street? – we get a carpet of bluebells in early April. It’s quite a sight – our hidden treasure.’
‘I’ll look out for it next year,’ I say with a smile. I do like Dr Grant. We chat about flowers a little. I never thought I had it in me to like a flower that wasn’t in a vase. Sometimes I surprise myself.
When the conversation lulls, Dr Grant gives a little cough.
‘Sleeping better?’
‘Oh – umm, off and on. I might need to get another prescription.’
‘OK. Well, come into the surgery and we’ll have a chat about it.’ He pauses. ‘I just saw your other half walking up from the station, by the way. Lovely flowers.’
‘Oh yes. He brought tulips. My favourite.’ Big smile.
‘Not guilt flowers, I hope!’
I look at the pavement, then back up at Dr Grant. He’s not stupid. Given the time and the fact George was in a suit, it must have been pretty obvious that he was coming home the morning after. I give a little shrug.
‘He missed me. He had a boys’ night in London last night.’ Another smile. ‘Stayed over… you know how it is. But I don’t mind. At least there was no snoring!’ I pause. ‘No, I’m just joking. I’m lucky to have him!’
I look away as I say this but, even so, I feel Dr Grant looking at me. I know that he’s weighing up whether to say something or not. He looks down and then back up at my face. I can see what he’s thinking.
‘I hope everything’s OK?’
‘Yes. Yes of course!’ Now I give the doctor a really bright smile and a little laugh. ‘Gosh, everyone argues, don’t they?’ I roll my eyes. ‘Show me a couple who say they never row and I’ll show you a pair of liars!’
Dr Grant leans forward and touches my hand. ‘I’m always here if you need to talk.’
THIRTY-THREE
George
Stell slams the door and I collapse at the kitchen table, my head in my hands. What happened last night? I remember leaving the solicitor’s; calling Ness. There was a plan about meeting up, then I met Phil. I did meet Phil, didn’t I? I remember the conversation, the bar, laughing. But what did I do after that? Did I rock up at Ness’s? I was drunk – really drunk – and it wouldn’t be my first blackout so it’s feasible. Unlikely, but feasible, and so unnerving. It’s as if other people know more about my life than I do; like I’m experiencing only 80 per cent of my life, and relying on others to fill in the gaps. And so, sp
eaking of gaps, I pick up the phone and dial Phil’s number. No response. Conscious of how often I’m doing it these days, I call Ness. No reply there, either, so I send a message: Strange question, but did we meet up last night?
In the study, I switch on the laptop. While it fires up, I wipe my hands on my trousers, aware of the clamminess of my fingers. As soon as I can open the browser, I type in ‘memory test’ and pick one of the ones that comes up: matching animals. I click through them feeling as if I’m in primary school and my score at the end is 89 per cent. That can’t be bad.
Did I see Ness last night?
A part of me likes the idea that I might have done.
*
I find Stell in the pub. She’s sitting with a coffee and the papers at a big table by the bay window. A sunbeam’s falling on her hair and it looks as if she’s in her very own spotlight. Her sweater’s too big for her – she’s shoved it up her arms a little and I can see her narrow wrists, her long, slim fingers clasped around the paper, and the diamond bracelet I bought her catching the light. As I watch, she raises a hand and pushes a strand of hair back behind her ear and I see better the profile of her lips. The whole effect gives her a vulnerability, a fragility, that makes me want to scoop her up, wrap her in cotton wool and make sure that nothing bad ever happens to her. I walk over to her. When my shadow falls onto her paper, she looks up.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi,’ she says.
I indicate to the table. ‘May I?’
She shuffles along the bench seat in silence, making space for me to sit next to her. This is good. Better than I imagined. I sit next to her and take her hand. She lets me. Again, better than I’d hoped. I pick up her hand and kiss it gently. Her skin smells of the hand cream she keeps by the bed. I can picture the tube with the red and blue logo; the way she sometimes screws the cap back wonky because her hands are greasy with cream. Unbidden, the thought comes into my head of the things she sometimes does to me with her hands greasy with cream, and I have to stamp on that thought at once.
‘I’m sorry, princess,’ I say. ‘I don’t know how you got that message, but you have to believe me: I didn’t see Ness and I certainly didn’t stay with her.’
The One That Got Away Page 21