The Other Us

by Fiona Harper

  Old me, boring me, would laugh it off, say that we couldn’t, we shouldn’t, and save the fun and games for later. Present me is so tired of putting off the pleasure of the moment to do what’s expected of me. ‘Thank God for the bed,’ I say as we lurch in that direction and crash down on it.

  Jude smiles wickedly at me as he starts to unbutton my blouse. ‘Thank you, darling Meg, for suggesting we went with this new idea of “staging” the home to help it sell.’ He nuzzles into the side of my neck as I struggle with his shirt buttons, my fingers too shaky to do any good, but, before he gets very far, he freezes.

  ‘What was that?’

  I push my rumpled hair away from my face. We both stay still.

  ‘Yoo-hoo!’ we hear in a shrill voice from the flight below. ‘Mr Hansen?’

  Jude and I look at each other in panic. He swears. ‘They’re early!’ he mouths at me as he tucks his shirt back in and runs a hand through my hair.

  I don’t have time to ask who because I’m trying to do my shirt up with roughly the same amount of success as I had taking Jude’s off him. He ends up having to help me as I try to smooth my hair down and locate my left shoe, which flew off when we landed on the bed.

  We hear footsteps on the newly varnished floorboards downstairs and muffled voices. ‘The Whitleys,’ Jude whispers as we give ourselves one last check. I spot my shoe in the corner of the room and run over to fetch it as Jude opens the bedroom door. ‘I must have forgotten to lock the front door. Hardly surprising, since you had me a little … distracted.’

  We share a conspiratorial smile as I fetch my shoe and he opens the door, and heads towards the landing. One moment he’s my Jude – the ordinary boy made good – and then something happens: he seems to get taller and straighter and his walk is less swagger and more confident grace. He even talks a little differently, not so much the accent but in his choice of words, slight tweaks in his intonation. I’d seen him pull the same trick many times in our uni days when he was around his high-flying friends.

  ‘Mrs Whitley,’ he says as a middle-aged lady in a coral suit appears from the double doors that lead into the drawing room. Jude glides down the last few stairs and takes her hand. I half think he’s going to kiss it, but he doesn’t. ‘How lovely to see you again! And Mr Whitley … nice to meet you finally.’ A man appears behind her, hands in pockets, and looks questioningly at his wife. It’s obvious who wears the trousers in this relationship.

  ‘We found the front door open,’ Mrs Whitley says, not taking her eyes off Jude, who’s radiating charm and charisma, ‘so we stepped inside. I hope you don’t mind we’re a tad early.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jude says smoothly, as if he hadn’t just groaned with frustration when we’d heard her foghorn voice travelling up the stairwell.

  ‘And who is this young lady?’ I’ve just slipped down the stairs and I’m trying to hide myself behind him. She leans to get a better look at me and at the same time, Jude steps away, leaving me exposed. I smile and fervently hope my blouse buttons are all done back up the right way.

  ‘This is Meg Greene,’ Jude replies, not missing a beat. ‘My interior designer.’

  It takes every ounce of effort I have to not let my eyes pop open wide at his lie. Instead I follow his lead and smile back warmly, faking a confidence I don’t feel, and I shake her hand. I grip her round fingers firmly. ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say as I release them again.

  Part of me is expecting her to narrow her eyes, look me up and down, then tell Jude he must have made some mistake, that this scrap of a girl couldn’t possibly be that important, but she nods and turns back to Jude, both dismissing me and swallowing his untruth in the same moment.

  I trail behind them as Jude shows them the house. It seems the Whitleys have been looking for property in this area and spotted the scaffolding. They’re so excited about it they’ve jumped the gun and haven’t waited for it to go on the market, but sought Jude out directly. I almost lose my composure when he mentions the asking price. Mrs Whitley, however, doesn’t bat an eyelid and just nods.

  We arrive at the master bedroom and she glances around. ‘This is a lovely room, but I can’t seem to imagine what to do with those windows,’ Mrs Hamilton says. There are three sets of paned floor-to-ceiling windows that lead out onto the small balcony, the centre pair being a set of French doors. ‘Pinch pleat or a pelmet? What do you think, dear?’ And she turns and looks at me.

  In a moment of stage fright, I’m tempted to turn tail and sprint away, but I’m aware Jude must have poured a lot of money into this. He probably needs this sale desperately. So I take a deep breath, frown and stare at the windows, pretend I’m using my professional expertise to size them up when really my mind is a blank.

  But then it hits me. I can see it. ‘You know, I wouldn’t bother with curtains,’ I say. ‘There’d be so much material you’d lose a lot of that wonderful natural light when they’re opened, even if they were fastened with tie-backs, and that’s what makes this room. I’d suggest white venetian blinds with voile curtains at the sides. Although the blinds would be enough on their own to allow both light and privacy, the sheer panels would soften the look.’

  Mrs Whitley blinks and looks at the windows again. At first she frowns, but then her features soften and she turns to look at me. ‘It’s very different,’ she says. ‘Not many people have those sort of blinds these days.’

  I hold her gaze, even though I’m aware my legs feel shaky. Blagging has never been my strong suit, but Jude must be rubbing off on me, because I say, ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, Mrs Whitley, but you don’t strike me as the sort of woman who likes to follow the herd.’

  She gives a tiny laugh and she turns to Jude. ‘The girl’s a genius, Mr Hansen. If we seal the deal, I insist she oversees the rest of the interiors.’

  I’m glad she’s facing the other way and can’t see the look of terror on my face. Jude just smiles and nods, giving nothing away, promising nothing, and leads the couple back downstairs and efficiently dispatches them out the front door.

  I slump against the newel post at the bottom of the stairs when it’s fully closed. We both start laughing. ‘Oh, my goodness! Why on earth did you tell them I was an interior designer?’

  Jude smiles back at me. ‘Well, it sounded more professional than saying I’d brought my girlfriend round to have a nose. I know I’m young to be doing this kind of thing, so impression is everything.’

  I sit down on the second step. ‘I honestly don’t know how you manage to keep a straight face telling such huge fibs!’ I start laughing again at the ridiculousness of it.

  Jude comes to sit beside me. He leans his elbows on his knees then twists his head to look at me. ‘Is it so absurd?’

  I’m still smiling, but my brow creases. ‘Of course it is. I’m a graphic designer – at least I’m trying to be. It’s what I trained for.’

  He kisses me on the side of my head. ‘One thing I love about you is your clarity, the way you see a goal and fix on it, but it does mean you don’t always see alternative possibilities when they crop up.’

  If Dan had said that to me in our old life, I would have taken it as criticism, but the upside of getting to live this life again is that I’m aware I need someone to point out the flaws in my thinking, my personality, so I don’t get stuck in the same rut again. So instead of getting in a huff with Jude, I wait for him to continue.

  ‘You could be an interior designer if you wanted to be.’

  My eyes widen. It’s as if Jude has just told me I could win an Oscar or walk on the moon. ‘But – ’

  He grabs my hands. ‘I mean it, Meg.’

  ‘Really?’

  He smiles at me. ‘Of course,’ he adds softly. ‘After all, it was you who suggested we do this new thing of staging the house, of not having it empty when we showed it to prospective buyers, and it worked, didn’t it? The Whitleys were sold.’

  ‘But it was only a few basic pieces, some cheap cushions and a couple of ca
ndlesticks!’ I’d paid attention as we’d taken the tour, curious about my input.

  He shakes his head. ‘But look what you did with it. There might not be much here, but the house feels almost fully furnished.’

  I look again, let my imagination loose and in an instant I can picture this living room with off-white walls, big white sofas and dark wood furniture with splashes of crimson all around in the form of cushions and vases, lampshades and modern art.

  However, while that is all crystal clear in my head, I can’t visualise myself in the middle of that scene, flipping through swatch books, pointing at walls and explaining to decorators where I want what. Someone else, maybe. Some faceless woman in a flawlessly cut suit. But not me.

  But then I look back at Jude, and I see the excitement, the belief in his eyes. ‘Maybe,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I’m sitting alone, looking at the clock in a cute little Italian restaurant only ten minutes’ walk from Waterloo station, where the 11.58 from Wimbledon pulled in over forty minutes ago. Becca’s train. She should have been here by now if she’d actually managed to catch that one. Some things never change.

  According to the black-leather Filofax I found in my handbag, I jumped more than a whole year. Sixteen months, to be exact, and Becca is listed as having an address in Merton. She must have moved closer to work.

  I try not to think about it too hard, because it scares me to feel time rush past me like this. The sensation is similar to one of those rides at a theme park that spins you in three different directions at once then spits you out onto solid ground, leaving you queasy and disoriented.

  There aren’t many entries in my smart new Filofax – a gift from Jude our first Christmas, I discovered – that are meet-ups with Becca. I went back through this year and last year but I’ve only found one mention of her name. What’s happened? Why have we drifted apart so much?

  I’m starting to get irritated with the other Maggie, the one that inhabits this place when I’m in my other life. She’s been making choices I don’t approve of in my absence. Anyway, I’m here now, and it’s time to set things right.

  Becca arrives ten minutes later, looking flushed but not particularly apologetic. I decide to let it slide.

  ‘Went the wrong way out of Waterloo and got lost,’ she says breathlessly.

  I smile, but I know it looks bright and plastic. ‘I thought this might be easier for you than crossing south London on tubes and buses to get to my flat.’

  ‘’Spose so,’ she says, casting a wary eye over our surroundings. ‘This is a bit posh, though, isn’t it?’

  I shrug. ‘Jude has a business associate who brought us here a while ago. He’s raved about it ever since.’ Now, that had been noted in my Filofax in great detail. In fact, one favour ‘other’ Maggie has done me is to record what’s been going on in my life religiously, not just times and dates, either. I’ve found mini-journal entries on some of the lined pages too. Sadly, nothing much about Becca.

  However, I see her reaction to Jude’s name. Her upper lip curls slightly and she looks away. Her mouth doesn’t move, but I hear her words as if she’d spoken them out loud. ‘Oh, him.’ I have the answer to my question.

  I bristle but part of me is relieved to be able to turn the sense of irritation outwards, to stop blaming just myself for our lack of contact. I search around for something to say, but I struggle. I want to be able to tell her about the wonderful house Jude showed me last month, the fact he’s already accepted an offer from the Whitleys and is looking for more property like it. I want to tell her I’m seriously considering juggling a new career alongside my graphic design but I can’t, because all these bits of news are tainted by a man she hates.

  ‘How are things?’ I finally say.

  She shrugs. ‘Much the same.’

  Thanks, I think. For giving me so much to go on.

  ‘What about your love life?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve met a new guy,’ she says, her eyes sparkling. ‘He’s amazing.’

  My stomach sinks. She always said that about her ‘guys’ and not one of them ever turns out to be amazing. ‘Oh, really?’ I say, trying to sound as keen as she is. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Grant,’ she says, and I almost spit out my Perrier.

  ‘Grant what?’ I reply, my voice hoarse, my mind trying to buoy itself up with the vague hope this is another man, another Grant.

  ‘Grant Buchanan,’ she says, sighing wistfully.

  I nod. On the outside I am calm and composed. On the inside I am screaming.

  Already?

  In my original life she didn’t meet him until she was nearly thirty, didn’t marry him until she was thirty-one. How can it be so soon? We’re only twenty-three!

  As I listen to her drone on about him, how handsome he is, how he’s so ‘in charge’ and exciting, I start to feel sick. What if this is something I did? What if the current state of our friendship has drawn him to her, as if he sensed she was without back-up, that she was vulnerable? After all, it was during that low patch I had when Sophie was about five and I realised the dream of a second baby might never happen that he had swooped in on her the first time. My heart starts to kick a little harder.

  But as we order our meals I see that glow in her eyes, how happy she is. I don’t know how to say what I’ve got to say. How do I tell her this guy is bad news? I have no proof but memories from another life. In this one I haven’t even had the displeasure of meeting him.

  We order, and she continues to gush about a guy that will one day shred her self-confidence so entirely she’ll believe she’s lucky to have him treat her like dirt, a guy who’s going to tie her brain in knots with his mind games. ‘Aren’t you jumping in a little quickly?’ I ask, as she outlines her plans to move in with him, even though they’ve only known each other three months and have been romantically involved for one.

  She gives me a look. ‘You’re one to talk.’

  Ah. I suppose she’s right there. In this life, my choice to be with Jude must have seemed rather sudden and dramatic. She doesn’t understand it was twenty-plus years in the coming.

  ‘I know.’ I take a breath, not content to leave difficult conversations in the place of surrender, as I usually do with Becca. ‘But I’d known Jude for a couple of years before things finally fell into place. You don’t even know this guy. Not really.’ I try to smile, try to let her know that I’m not lecturing, just concerned, but it doesn’t want to sit right on my face.

  Becca’s mouth pinches. ‘And during most of those many years you knew Jude – ’ she pauses, as if she’s slightly disgusted with herself at having had to say his name ‘ – he either ignored you completely or treated you like crap. At least Grant has always been good to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, even though her words have stung. ‘I just care about you. I want to make sure you’re with someone who’s going to treat you the right way.’

  Becca gives me a long look. ‘Sometimes we just have to accept our friends’ choices.’

  Hah! I want to shout back. Like you’ve accepted Jude? Is that really what she thinks she’s done?

  ‘Why don’t you come over for dinner and meet him?’ she says, and I see her waiting to weigh up my answer. ‘Judge for yourself?’

  My eyes open wide. ‘You want me – and Jude – to come over for dinner?’ For a moment, hope floats like a balloon inside my chest. There’s nothing more I’d like than to mend these burned bridges that separate me from my best friend, all petty irritations aside. And maybe this is my opportunity. I can work on her about ditching Grant later. But then I see Becca’s uncomfortable expression and my balloon of hope is popped.

  Not Jude and me.

  Just me.

  Hypocrite.

  The word cycles in my head until I have no other option but to spit it out of my mouth. I see Becca wince as it hits home, but I can’t find it within myself to feel any pity. How can she ask this of me when s
he’s not prepared to give even an inch herself?

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, as I stand up and sling my handbag over my shoulder. ‘I don’t think I can stay and do this. If you want me to meet and rave about this wonderful Grant, then at least you could try with Jude.’

  ‘That’s different! And don’t be silly. You can’t leave … not over this.’

  ‘You can’t ask one thing of me then refuse to do it yourself.’

  Becca looks back at me, shocked. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m about to leave or because she’s finally got an inkling of her own unreasonable stubbornness. I’m too furious to care. Even though the food hasn’t arrived yet, I throw down enough cash to cover both our meals, which feels like another tiny victory, and then I turn around and walk away.

  I wonder if she’ll try to stop me. If, for once, she’ll be the one to offer the olive branch, but, as I stride towards the door, she yells out after me: ‘You don’t know him as well as you think you do! There are things you don’t know …’

  I let the sound of my clacking heels drown her out as I leave the restaurant and head back out onto the busy street.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Push, Maggie! Push!’

  Maggie? Why is Jude calling me Maggie? He hasn’t done that for years. And push what, for goodness’ sake?

  And then the squeezing begins. Deep down in my abdomen. It feels as if I’m trying to turn myself inside out. My body takes over while my mind races to catch up. Dan’s face comes into blurry focus above me. He looks dishevelled but there’s a glow behind the tiredness.

  How? Why? I start to think but then the squeezing starts again and I can’t concentrate on anything else for a few moments.

  Dan grins at me. ‘Thought you dozed off between contractions there for a minute,’ he says chirpily, and I determine that as soon as I’m done here I’m going to smack that grin off his face and into next Tuesday.

  But then the realisation hits me. I’m only moments away from having a baby. My baby. And I’m filled with a strange energising joy that causes me to curl myself up further, push harder. I don’t care about the pain when the next contraction hits and I bear down for all I’m worth. Instead of screaming or grunting, I laugh, a stream of pure joy bubbling out of me.