by Jane Fallon
‘Nice to meet you,’ the woman says, moving off, any suspicions gone. I shove Kat through Mel’s door.
‘Jesus!’
‘Right, Ms Pembridge, what would you like to see first?’
‘Oh, God, what are we doing?’
‘It’s fine. If she says anything to Mel, it’ll be that she saw an estate agent showing a woman the flat. Perfect.’
The front door leads on to a hallway and then the big, airy living room, which smells of polish and lilies. Surfaces gleam. Nothing that shouldn’t be on display is on display.
‘For Christ’s sake, don’t touch anything you don’t have to.’ On autopilot, I bend down and take my shoes off. Mel hates people wearing shoes indoors.
I know exactly where Mel keeps all her personal stuff, so I head straight for it after Kat has double-locked the door. I don’t know what I’d do if Mel suddenly decided to come home and meet whoever was viewing her place. Hide under the bed? Jump off the balcony? Feign amnesia? On balance, jumping seems like the best bet.
I riffle through her desk, no idea what I’m looking for. I want to find a way to mess with her life the way she’s messed with mine, if I’m being honest. Because she’s Mel, everything is tidy and in place. Unpaid bills on one side, a pile with a Post-it note on saying ‘Filing’ on the other, already in alphabetical order. An ornate box containing her passport, various loyalty and membership cards, and the paper part of her driver’s licence. There’s nothing interesting, nothing that stands out. While I scour through her files – all orange box files arranged in a row on a shelf by the desk, labelled things like ‘Bank’ and ‘Insurance’ – Kat mooches around, trying not to make a mess.
She presses a key on Mel’s ancient desktop computer and it springs into life. ‘Might as well catch up on Twitter.’
‘Remember exactly what was on there,’ I say as I come through. My search has turned up precisely nothing of any interest. ‘Exactly.’
Like everyone else, Mel leaves her computer unsecured at home. It’s plugged in, turned on and happy to fill in any necessary passwords. It’s quickly apparent there have been no new DMs since the last time we looked. We open her mail. There are two unread messages at the top of her inbox.
‘Don’t touch those,’ I say, and Kat looks at me in a way I can only describe as ‘Do you think I’m an idiot?’
She scrolls down. ‘What shall I look for?’
‘I don’t know. Search “Jack”.’
There are a few emails back and forth to his work address, but they’re anodyne. Nothing his assistant would find odd. And we know that they do most of their communicating privately on Twitter.
‘This is pointless. Look up that cow she works with. Shaz. Carpenter.’
‘What’s her real name?’
‘I don’t know. Sharon, I guess.’
Kat enters ‘Sharon’ and comes up with an email address that contains the same company name as Mel’s.
We scroll through, skim-reading, looking for anything that catches our eye. The latest thread – ‘Oh Jesus, I think I let the fucking cat out’ – makes my blood boil.
Oh, shit. Haha!
No, I really think I might have. It’s gone, anyway, and Jack is totally blaming me for leaving the window open. I can’t even remember opening the fucking thing in the first place. And even if I did, you wouldn’t think it would be stupid enough to fling itself out there.
Does A know???
No, God, she’d go crazy. J out posting flyers and asking the neighbours.
We move back through inane stuff about their work colleagues, weekends, families.
All boring and routine. Something catches my eye further down the list.
Fuck Fuck Fuck!!!!!
‘Go to that one,’ I say, pointing. Kat pushes her glasses up her nose and clicks on it. The first thing we see is Shaz’s response, dated three days after Mel’s party.
Whoa! That came out of nowhere (no pun intended!!!). John as in … JOHN WELLER??? You fucked him???? I need you to tell me all. Ring me NOW!!!
And before that, Mel’s message.
It just happened! Me and John!! Shit, what have I done?? Goes without saying, don’t tell ANYONE!!!
‘Who’s John?’ Kat says.
‘Her boss. Jesus, she’s cheated on Jack already. This is priceless.’
‘Wow. What if I just accidentally forwarded this on to Jack?’ Her finger hovers over the key.
‘No! She’d know it was you. She knows you’re here today, remember.’
‘Does this John have a girlfriend?’
I feel myself grimace. ‘A wife, I think. Mel’s been going on for ages about whether to seduce him to stop him giving her a hard time at work. I thought she was joking.’
‘I’ll print them off, then. You never know.’
Mel has always been the kind of person who takes what she wants. Lip gloss from Boots, because she didn’t see why she should pay for it; other people’s homework to copy, because she couldn’t be bothered to do it herself; other people’s husbands … just because she could. Over the years, there have been several married men. It always ends in tears, although usually not hers.
Eventually, after trying and getting nowhere for more than two years, being supported by her indulgent mum and dad, attending casting calls and chasing after modelling jobs she was never going to be tall enough to get and auditions for girl bands she was already too old to appeal to, Mel had reluctantly decided to apply to drama school. She still viewed it as a waste of her time but I think she was starting to panic that her reign was running out. She was losing her title of star of our little town.
I helped her fill in the forms in my room in halls. By now, I was convinced that I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. I had no idea how I was going to go about it or why anyone would ever be interested in hiring me but I didn’t really care. Unlike Mel, my dream wasn’t to be a star, it was to act. All I needed was to get by just enough so that I could keep on doing it and not have to be swallowed up by another, all-consuming, career. I kept my secret to myself, though. I decided that, once Mel had been accepted by somewhere fabulous like RADA, I’d come clean.
Except that she never was. She tried them all, working her way down the list from the prestigious to the downright dodgy-sounding. Most of them gave her an audition. I tried to suggest that maybe she should drop her over-perfected pieces chosen by Sylvia and do something more contemporary, more natural, but of course she just told me I had no idea what I was talking about. She was the one with the agent.
It was painful to watch. By the time the academic year was over, she had been rejected by every one. I don’t think any of them had even suggested she try again next year. I remember she wanted to come up for a few days, but I had the leading role in our end-of-year production, The Deep Blue Sea, and I was spending every waking moment rehearsing, so I had to keep putting her off, telling her I was revising for exams. Which, to be fair, I was. Occasionally.
But it was hard, because I so wanted to be there for her. Even though she wouldn’t admit it, she was devastated by all the rejection, I could tell. She covered it by saying that she’d been right all along about drama school being for people who had no experience. Her version of the truth, the one she chose to present to the world, was that they clearly thought she was too advanced already, that there would be nothing they could teach her.
In the end, one night when I called her from the payphone in halls, she asked me outright why I was avoiding her. Her mum and dad had bought her a mobile by this time, a big, bricky thing with an aerial that could take someone’s eye out. She was the only person I knew who had one. I decided I couldn’t lie completely so I told her I’d been roped in to help out with a play and that it was proving more time-consuming than I’d anticipated. And then, of course, I’d felt bad that I wasn’t telling her the whole truth, so I did.
‘Actually, Mel, don’t laugh … but I’m in it.’
‘In what?’ Already I could hear a no
te of panic in her voice.
‘The play. I don’t know, they must have been desperate.’
‘You’re acting? I thought standing up in front of people was your worst nightmare?’
‘It was. I mean, it still is … just … not so much like this … I enjoy it, how weird is that?’
‘What? Has it already started?’
So then, of course, I had to tell her I’d already appeared in a couple of things, but I hadn’t wanted to mention them because it was all a bit embarrassing and I thought she might laugh (I didn’t, I thought she’d be pissed off with me and, as it turned out, I was right. She didn’t actually say that acting was her thing, not mine, but I could feel the statement hanging out there, waiting to be said).
‘Wow,’ she said, unconvincingly enthusiastic. ‘That’s amazing. Well, I’ll have to come up and see it. When did you say it opened?’
‘We only do about six performances and it’s in a tiny little space …’ I said, but even as the words came out of my mouth I knew there was no putting her off. I could have tried to interpret it as her being supportive but I knew it was more about her feeling threatened and wanting to try to derail my newfound ambitions.
‘That’s okay. God, it’s not as if I’m doing much else at the moment and, besides, I haven’t seen you for ages.’
So that was that.
She showed up on the second night of the run – thankfully, not the first. I had lied and said we were all sold out that night because, even though I’d found my confidence, I still wasn’t sure I could get through my largest role yet with Mel’s critical eyes boring into me. Anyway, she was polite but uneffusive about my performance, got quite drunk afterwards, insulted Pia and Kieron and ended up going back with my on-stage husband, Will, who she knew I was mad keen on and who I knew, or thought I knew, liked me, but who I had decided to give a wide berth to until the run was over. I had had big plans for the last-night party, which was going to be held in Kieron’s shared house in Streatham. I’d confided in Mel just after I introduced her to him.
Afterwards, I put it down to her feeling a bit out of place among my new friends. She couldn’t have understood what I’d told her about my feelings for him (not in the slightest bit romantic, luckily. Pure lust) because, if she had, she would never have made a play for him herself. I made excuses in my head for the way she behaved and I made myself believe them, even though there was no evidence being presented in her favour.
After we find out about Mel and John, Kat and I are at a bit of a loss what to do next.
‘What are we doing here again?’ she asks.
‘Looking for ammunition,’ is all I can come up with.
19
I don’t tell Kat that Simon is going to bring the rug round. I don’t know why. Well, I do: because she would be unbearably smug about having given him my number in the first place and then she’d want to have a blow-by-blow re-enactment of everything that was said. For some reason, I do put some make-up on and change out of my scruffy, baggy cut-offs and into a reasonably decent pair of jeans. I know I’m being ridiculous. I know it’s way too soon for me to even be thinking about hooking up with someone else. I tell myself I’m just being polite but, deep down, I also know I want him to like what he sees. Because I could do with the ego boost – nothing else, just to be clear. I can barely even remember what he looks like.
He arrives right on time and I’m a bit disappointed to see he’s brought one of his team with him. Of course he has, because even with two of them they struggle to get the giant slab of carpet up the stairs, while I fuss around making coffee and shouting encouragement.
‘This is so kind of you,’ I say, for the hundredth time when they appear on the top landing.
The other bloke, Martin, who is clearly there only under duress, gives me a forced grin. More of a grimace. A random spring heatwave has just started and it must be eighty degrees in the windowless hallway. No wonder he hates me. I would, too.
‘Do you want milk and sugar?’ I say, waving a mug at him.
‘Have you got anything cold?’ he says grumpily.
‘Only water, I’m afraid. Tap water … Sorry …’
‘Tap water would be lovely.’ Thankfully, Simon and his end of the rug have appeared in the room. ‘And coffee after for me, if that’s okay?’
‘Great,’ I say, fussing around. I don’t know why I’m acting so twittery. I tell myself to calm down. It doesn’t work. ‘The thing is,’ I go on, ‘I don’t have any glasses yet. And I only have two mugs and I’ve just put coffee in them.’
This pitiful statement seems to thaw Martin out a bit and he cracks a smile.
‘Been here long?’
‘A week or so,’ I say, pulling an apologetic face. ‘Tell you what, I’ll nip downstairs and get some bottles of water.’
By the time I get back, they have moved what little furniture I have out of the way, laid the rug down and are in the process of moving everything back. The place certainly looks more homely, if a little like a seventies film set.
‘Brilliant.’ I hand them each a bottle. ‘Thank you both so much.’
Martin takes a long swig from his. ‘I’m going to get back, boss.’
Simon nods, and I feel a bit awkward because they’ve clearly prearranged this, that Martin would take the van and Simon would find his own way back. I should be annoyed that he’s just assumed I would be amenable to that. But, on the other hand, I am, so I guess I haven’t really got a case.
‘I’ll see you in a bit. I mean, if that’s all right with you, Amy? I was just going to stay and drink that coffee.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’m not doing anything.’
Part of me wonders if he’s going to try and seduce me, right here and now, on my new brown-and-orange rug that I’m planning on shampooing as soon as I can borrow a machine. Who knows where it’s been? I’m hoping he doesn’t because, even though he seems nice and he’s definitely quite attractive, I’ve never really been a sex-on-impulse person. I like the build-up, the anticipation. That’s half the point, as far as I’m concerned.
I’m thinking about the best way to let him down gently when I hear my name and realize I’ve been staring into space for what must be a good few minutes. Simon is sitting at the kitchen table – not on the more seduction-friendly sofa – looking at me quizzically.
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ I go and sit opposite him.
‘The table looks good,’ he says, running his hand over the sanded surface. In so far as I’m aware, no one has ever used discussing furniture upcycling as a come-on.
‘I just need to paint it. I already feel as if it’s one of those things that I’m never going to get around to.’
‘I could get one of the guys –’
‘No!’ I interrupt, a bit more forcefully than I mean to. ‘You’ve done enough, really. Did you want milk in that, by the way? Or even a fresh one? It’s a bit cold now.’
‘Lovely, thanks.’
I distract myself by making more coffee and Simon proves surprisingly easy to talk to.
‘So, how did you end up here? With no furniture?’
I tell him about Jack and Mel and how I’ve had to start again from next to nothing, leaving out the bit about them not knowing I know yet and my quest to hit them where it hurts. I know that, by omission, I’m allowing him to think that Jack and I have had a clean break but I don’t want to sound like a psycho on our first date. If this is a date. I don’t really know what the rules are any more. ‘That’s rough,’ he says. ‘Your fiancé and your best friend. Jesus.’
‘And my job.’ I feel as if I can confide in him. Maybe because he’s so far removed from everyone who knows me I don’t have to worry about it getting back. And he hardly seems the type to spend his time on Twitter or calling the tabloids, leaking plot secrets.
‘No wonder you were in my skip. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean … Sorry, I was attempting a joke. I’m crap at jokes. You might as well know that
now.’
I laugh. He’s obviously nervous, too. Why hadn’t it even occurred to me that he might be? He’s the one making all the moves, so he’s much more exposed than I am.
‘Would you like to go and have lunch somewhere?’ he says after a while. ‘We might both relax a bit more on neutral ground.’
‘I’d love to. Although there is literally nowhere to go around here. I mean … there’s the café downstairs, but that’s, like, a health hazard …’
‘It’s a lovely day. Is there a bench or something we could go and sit on?’ He’s right, it is. The spring sun is warm, and even my little flat is looking cheerier.
‘I have no idea.’
‘There must be something. Come on.’
We buy lavash bread, hummus and olives from the convenience store, along with some dodgy-looking blue cheese, a bag of little tomatoes and two bottles of Diet Sprite. Then we walk away from the main road and eventually find a patch of green that looks as if it doesn’t belong to anyone in particular and set up camp on the grass. It actually feels way more intimate than sitting down in a restaurant together would.
‘How did you get into doing up rich people’s houses?’ I ask as we pass the olive tub back and forth.
He tells me he trained as a set designer but then the first job he was able to get out of college was as a runner working for an interior-design company.
‘I realized I was good at it. And I loved it, too. It took me years to get enough experience to set up on my own though, obviously.’
‘You should team up with Kat. Did she tell you she’s a property-finder?’
He nods. ‘We’ve exchanged cards. You never know. I often hear about properties that are being done up to sell, so it’d work both ways.’
He tells me he’s divorced. All a bit acrimonious, but he has his kid (a girl, Ruby, twelve) most weekends, so that’s all that matters. He doesn’t offer up the story of what went wrong with his marriage, and I don’t ask. God knows, I don’t want him quizzing me too much about the finer details of my own situation.