The Pretence

by Linus Peters

  “I have to go now. Juliana’s coming.”

  “No, wait, wait!”

  “Simon, it’s almost light.”

  “But tell me about the Japanese man. Who is he?”

  “I can’t say. He’s very well-known. There’d be a scandal.”

  “You mean he’s married?”

  “Don’t ask me any questions, because I won’t answer you.

  “Sorry, I must go. He’s waiting for me. Sayonara.”

  Charlie came out of hospital but didn’t return to the office straight away, instead easing himself back through a little work at home, arranging that he would phone us every morning to discuss the day’s activities. He was so reluctant to speak about what had happened, we didn’t know if he’d been operated on, if they’d decided on a wait-and-see policy, or if he’d had his entire ass-and-tackle removed. Whatever, there was no point in asking him. He’d just clam up, clumsily change the subject, or clear his throat for so long that eventually you were embarrassed into putting him out of his misery by moving onto something else yourself. Charlie’s old school. Old public school. And such things simply don’t get discussed.

  Luca was asked to fill a temporary, and largely figurehead, managerial role while he was away. I actually asked Charlie why he hadn’t considered me for the job, but he just laughed and said nothing would get done, that I was to decisions what a beaver was to logs in a river, and the whole place would be jammed up in a matter of days. However, Luca set about his task a little too forcefully. Firing some ‘bitch’ he’d never got on with and trying to replace her with a friend of his who’d just arrived from Italy. When Charlie heard, Luca was told to reinstate the dismissed woman immediately, that hiring and firing was not part of his remit, and all that was required was for him to just keep things turning over.

  Luca promptly lost his temper, flying into a flurry of hurt pride and Italian invective, and going home to sulk for a couple of days.

  I guess it was the phone calls that finally disturbed our fragile peace, that caused the many recently glued cracks in my life to gape open again. One evening I was at home reading, the phone started to ring, and realising Juliana was in the bathroom, I went to answer it.

  There was a momentary pause, then it went down. I mean, wrong number, right? Some rude bastard who couldn’t even be bothered to apologise for their stupidity. And that was what I thought, too. Okay, yes, it did go through my mind, for the briefest of moments, that it had been someone for her, who didn’t want to speak to me, but I immediately dismissed the idea.

  “Who was it?” Juliana asked, appearing at the end of the hallway, her hair wet, a large white towel wrapped around her.

  “Don’t know. Wrong number, I guess.”

  “That’s the second time,” she said, making for the bedroom. “Happened just before you got home.”

  For a moment I stayed where I was, feeling that bit uneasy. Had that been a touch too pat? A little too smooth? Had I just witnessed the use of a well-rehearsed and proven trick?

  I followed her into the bedroom.

  “Did anyone speak?” I asked.

  “No,” she said, seemingly unconcerned. She began to comb her hair in front of the mirror, little drops of water collecting at the ends. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Same thing,” I said. “Just put it down.”

  I left her and returned to the phone and ‘1471ed’ it. Just as I’d suspected, the caller had withheld their number. I mean, it could’ve been anything, and the most likely explanation was that it was a wrong number, but the way things were, I really didn’t need any further prodding of my imagination.

  The following day it happened again. Over dinner. Once more the phone was put down, and once more I was left feeling decidedly uneasy.

  “Another wrong number?” she asked, as I walked back into the sitting room.

  “Apparently,” I muttered.

  I returned to the table and she caught the expression on my face as I sat down.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said, trying to play it down. Though I couldn’t resist pursuing the subject a little further. “Have you ever given our phone number to anyone?”

  “No!” she said, the single syllable somehow gathering in force.

  Immediately I went quiet. I mean, we both knew what we were talking about here. If only we could save ourselves the distress of actually saying it.

  “Change the number if you’re so worried,” she said.

  For a moment we met each other’s stare. There was a challenge there and we both knew it.

  “Probably just coincidence,” I shrugged. “Won’t happen again.”

  The following day Luca invited Juliana and me out for a meal. Clara had returned to Italy some time ago, but was back over for a few days, and he thought it would be nice to meet up.

  My first reaction was to refuse, to make up some excuse. I wasn’t as forthcoming with Luca as I used to be. In fact, ever since the night of the big confession, of Juliana telling me about being a prostitute, I’d barely mentioned her or us. However, after a bit of coaxing, I eventually thought why not? We were a normal couple now. All of the ghosts had been dragged out of the closet, and, though they’d struggled, eventually been shown the door. The time had surely come for us to start behaving like everyone else?

  Juliana was painfully nervous. And maybe, as a consequence, rather overdressed for where we were going, but damn it all, she looked so great, I wasn’t about to say anything. She wore this short black dress, low here, tight there, and it occurred to me that Luca was going to need a napkin more for his drooling than the food.

  We met them at eight. In some gastro-pub in Primrose Hill. Clara was, well, what Clara is: warm, funny, charming, and to be fair to her, she practically made as much fuss of Juliana as Luca did.

  “God, you are so beautiful!” she kept saying. “I just want to sit and look at you all night.”

  Certain other races of the world might’ve thought that a bit suspect. Even Luca and I got our hopes up a couple of times when she gave Juliana a hug and kissed her on the cheek, but, in fact, Clara was simply well-adjusted enough to be able to appreciate another woman for what she was. Actually, it made for a really nice atmosphere, them getting on like that, and it appeared as if Juliana and our first real social engagement was going to be a great success.

  Naturally, Luca flirted with her outrageously; trying that little bit too hard, having one of those evenings when even I began to wonder if maybe he should tone it down. But I don’t think that the fact that he was quietly floundering, that Juliana was being just that bit disapproving, was the reason why he made such a tactless error. It wouldn’t have even occurred to him that it wasn’t a good idea to mention that Clara and I once used to be a couple. I mean, with normal people, it wouldn’t have mattered. But with Juliana, you just never knew.

  I knew it had registered, that she’d reacted, but at first I wasn’t sure how. A few minutes later I realised she’d filled her wine glass twice in quick succession. Then she started to dig at Clara. Not subtly, but in that very obvious manner she occasionally has, making humourless jokes about Italian women.

  “Why do Italian men grow moustaches?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” replied Luca, the only one game enough to answer, who, despite the fact that the evening was now plainly lurching towards disaster, was still somehow managing to go through the motions. “I didn’t know we did.”

  “Because they want to look like their mothers,” Juliana told him.

  Silence ruled, Luca nodded his head as if to acknowledge that a joke had been made, but no more. Whilst Clara looked hurt that someone who, until a few moments ago she would have probably happily called her ‘new friend’, was now obviously intent upon hurting her.

  Yet worse was to follow. After numerous other jokes in similar vein, Juliana started to flirt overtly with Luca, and in such a manner, even he became embarrassed. She hung onto every word he said, laughed loudly at his jokes,
completely ignored me when I spoke to her, and later, even ran her hand up and down his thigh.

  I mean, it was too crass, too clumsy, to get jealous over. Especially as Luca kept giving me these helpless looks whenever she turned away, begging to know what he should do. Yet what did hurt was to see this other side of her: teenage, reckless, out of control. All that class demeaned, self-esteem trampled underfoot, and, by implication, an endless line of men queuing up to take advantage.

  “This is ridiculous. I’m going,” Clara sighed, perfectly adequately putting into words what everyone else was thinking. “Goodnight, Simon. It’s been lovely to see you again,” she said, putting on her coat.

  “Goodnight,” I replied, feeling angry that even kissing her on the cheek felt like a betrayal.

  She turned to go, Luca in close attendance. “Goodnight, Juliana. I don’t know what your problem is, but I would do something about it if I were you.”

  To be honest, I was scared what the reply might be. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Juliana had told her to ‘fuck off’. Yet one look was enough to see that she was already feeling that little bit sorry for the scene she’d created.

  Luca hesitated for a moment, reaching for his wallet, and I knew he’d remembered the bill.

  “No, Luca, forget it,” I said. “This one’s on us.”

  We gave them a few minutes to get clear, then followed out into the street. Not a word was spoken in the cab, not a word was said until we arrived home.

  “Why?” I asked, almost the second I closed the front door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was an old girlfriend?” she demanded.

  “It wasn’t important! We just saw each other a few times, that was all.”

  “Did you sleep with her?” she asked, following me into the kitchen as I went to make myself coffee.

  I turned and glared at her. “You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Did I sleep with her! Did I sleep with her!” I shouted. “What about all the men you’ve slept with? If Luca had dipped into his wallet tonight there’d have been another.”

  I regretted that almost the instant I said it, but sometimes you’ve just got to let everything go, let it fly and see what happens.

  She got so close to me, glaring into my face, I was ready to block the swing. However, instead of throwing punches, she burst into tears and ran from the room.

  “Juliana! ... Juliana!” I shouted, hearing the bathroom door slam shut.

  I followed her out, knocking on the bathroom door. I mean, I didn’t think she was going to do anything stupid, but the way she was, who could be sure?

  “Juliana!” I shouted again, and I heard the shower being turned on.

  “Go away!” she cried.

  I gave a very long sigh, and at that precise moment, the phone rang. I strolled distractedly over to it, not really thinking about anything other than what a shit of an evening it had turned out to be.

  “Hello,” I said, half-expecting to hear the concerned voice of Luca on the other end. “Hello!” I repeated, when nobody replied.

  It took me several seconds to work out it was happening again, that someone was calling up and not saying anything.

  “Look, for fuck’s sake!” I said, instantly losing my temper. “Who is this?”

  There was another pause, then finally a female voice that I vaguely recognised. “Hello.”

  “Yes?” I demanded.

  “Simon, it’s me ..... Frances.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was so unexpected, from such an unlikely source, it was as if I’d been hit by friendly fire. After all this time, everything that had happened, this time it really was her. And I don’t know if I was too stunned, or maybe, in that moment, too preoccupied, to know just how to react.

  “Jesus,” was all I could manage say.

  “I’m sorry. I keep calling you but I’m never brave enough to say anything. And a woman answered so I thought I’d leave it. But I couldn’t.”

  “Where are you?” I blurted out.

  “In London. I came back from New York last month.”

  I rather snorted to myself, realising in that moment that Andy had been right. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No, I know. I’m sorry. Would you like me to go? ... I’ll phone you in a day or two, when you’ve had chance to recover.”

  “No. I’m fine,” I lied.

  Again there was a long pause.

  “Simon, can we meet?” she finally said, the words coming out in a sudden rush, as if, if she didn’t say them now, she knew she never would.

  I couldn’t answer. It was all too much. Instead giving out this kind of low weary moan, as if the last few years, everything that had happened, were suddenly weighing so heavily upon me, I was in danger of being crushed.

  “Just for a cup of coffee or something?” she added. “I know you must have another life now.”

  Again I hesitated. “I don’t know.”

  She went silent for a moment. “Oh...” she sighed, her voice tapering away to nothing.

  In a way, I can’t help but think that maybe that should’ve been it. The end of the story. ‘So Frances came back?’ ... ‘Oh yes. Finally. When it no longer mattered. By that time, of course, I couldn’t even be bothered to see her’.

  “What’s your number?” I asked, rummaging for a pen.

  She gave me her mobile number and I wrote it down and immediately hid it in the secret compartment of my wallet.

  “I don’t know .. Frances,“ I said, hesitating over the name, momentarily confused at just what I could and couldn’t say. “Things are complicated.”

  “Just to talk,” she reassured me.

  “Maybe,” I said, hearing the shower go off in the bathroom. “I’ve got to go.”

  “It’s nice to hear your voice,” she said, anxious to say it before I rang off.

  “Is it?” I replied, rather stupidly. I was about to replace the receiver, to say goodbye, when I heard myself ask. “Have you got anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Right. Bye,” I said, putting down the receiver and hastily walking away from the phone.

  Don’t ask me why I asked her that. I really don’t know. Maybe it was some automatic response left over from yesterday that I’d forgotten to erase. Maybe I just wanted to know if we were on an equal footing. Whatever the reason, it worried the hell out of me that I had asked, what impression I might have given.

  I wandered dazedly into the kitchen, seemingly incapable of absorbing what had just happened.

  What did I think? ... What did I feel? ... Did I feel anything? I ignored the coffee I’d been about to pour myself and instead opened a beer. I couldn’t see her. No matter what we’d meant to each other. Not the way things were with Juliana.

  At that precise moment, almost as if in confirmation of the fact, I heard the bathroom door open and her coming down the hallway. She bounded into the kitchen, wearing just a pair of knickers, leaping at me, wrapping her legs round my waist.

  “Simon, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please, forgive me!”

  I stared at her blankly. All that dazzling beauty, that perfect body, in my arms, and I must’ve looked a bit like she did for that brief moment when she first awoke in my bed and couldn’t register the person in front of her.

  “What?” I eventually asked.

  “I was just jealous! Please! Don’t shut me out.”

  I released the grip of her legs and they slowly slid down my body. “It’s okay,” I told her, unable to concentrate on her ... on us.

  “I’ll never do it again! I promise!” she said, grabbing hold as if without me she might drown.

  “Juliana! ... It’s all right!” I reassured her.

  She took the beer out of my hand and placed it on the draining-board. “Let’s go to bed.”

  I stared into her face, still unable to concentrate, but realising I had to, that otherwise I’d give myself away. “Okay,” I said, r
eleasing myself from her grip. “Give me a few moment to have a shower.”

  “Simon!” she pleaded, trying to drag me towards the bedroom.

  “I won’t be long,” I assured her, desperately needing a little more time on my own to think about what had happened.

  “I’ll come with you,” she said.

  “You just had a shower!” I reminded her.

  I had to almost wrench myself away, but eventually she let me go. Just as I was about to lock the bathroom door, she called after me.

  “Who was on the phone?”

  “Oh! ... Er, Luca.”

  “Does he hate me?” she asked.

  “No ... No, he just wanted to say not to worry. These things happen,” I replied, amazed at how this situation was producing such instant and easy lies.

  “I bet he does hate me,” I heard her shout, as I turned the tap on.

  Later, when I joined her in bed, she was instantly all over me: kissing, licking, caressing. I guess in her eyes it was atonement, a way of reconfirming our relationship, but it almost seemed as if something about the evening, the jagged sense of everyone’s discomfort, feeling me slip away then wrenching me back again, had excited her in some way. When she climaxed she must have awakened the whole damn street. Only then was she normal again, did it seem she returned to an accepted rhythm, and she snuggled up to me as if apologising for the fact that I’d just had to witness her having some kind of fit, a malfunction, then fell asleep.

  Yet for me the act had been one of body and mind separation. I know I responded, that we locked and writhed and ran through a good many of our pleasures, but it was a bit like dancing to one tune and singing another.

  Frances! ... Frances! After all this time ... What did she want? Was I going to meet her? No, I couldn’t. No way. Life was fraught enough with Juliana as it was, let alone risking anything further.

  Just at that moment, almost as if something leaked out of my head and into hers, she stirred, half-waking and kissing me on the cheek, “Don’t ever leave me,” she mumbled, then promptly fell back to sleep.

  I lay there for a moment, wondering if she realised what she’d just said, then gave her a hug.