by Jane Fallon
We talk about my acting and following your passion for its own sake rather than the potential rewards, and about our childhoods (like me, he was the middle child of three; like me, he was a watcher not a doer) and our small-town upbringings. I’m amazed by the similarities between us.
By the time he says he has to go back to work I feel as if I’ve known him for years, and I think he feels the same because as we say goodbye he asks if I’d like to go for a proper meal sometime – one with tables and waiters, not dandelions and ants – and I don’t even hesitate before I say yes. As I say goodbye to him at the bus stop and walk back in the direction of my flat, I can hardly keep the smile off my face.
20
‘The thing is, Ames. It’s Oscar …’
Jack and I are talking. I’m at the place I now call home, getting ready for Kat and Greg to come over. It’s the first time I will have cooked anything other than toast on my reclaimed cooker, but I want to do something to repay them for everything they’ve done for me. Plus, they’re dropping off their Vax, so it’s win–win. I haven’t quite worked out where we can all sit yet, but I figure we’ll sort it out when they get here. I have, though, been out and bought a set of four wine glasses and another two mugs, along with four plates (no more eating out of cereal bowls) and three more knives and forks. I almost went crazy and splashed out on a set of four but, as Woman in Park seems to have gone to some other lucky person, I forced myself to be frugal.
Yesterday, I called the supervisor at the call centre and said I might be up for doing a few shifts and, because they have a policy of pretty much only employing out-of-work actors (I assume because they think we have nice voices and can convincingly pretend to be enthusiastic about the possibilities of purchasing a subscription to Garden Pond Weekly. Plus, most of us are desperate. And broke) and so are used to people coming and going at little or no notice, she just said fine and wrote down the times I said I was available without asking any questions. So, on Tuesday, I’ll be back on the phones. It could be worse. It could be cold-calling rather than following up on an interest someone has foolishly owned up to in a survey somewhere. Of course, the pay is terrible, but who else is going to put up with me wanting to work only when it suits me, and the flexibility to cancel at the last moment?
Now, I try to imagine how I would react if what Jack was telling me was a surprise, if there wasn’t a black, purring bundle asleep on my bed in the other room right now. Panic.
‘What? Is he ill?’
‘It’s … shit, I’m just going to say it … he’s gone missing.’
‘What do you mean? When? How did he get out? Oh my God!’
‘A couple of days ago. I was hoping he’d turn up …’
I manage to resist saying, ‘Actually, Jack, it’s been over a week.’ I force a sob. ‘A couple of days? Jesus. Have you asked around the neighbours?’
‘Of course. And I’ve put up flyers and called a load of shelters and all the local vets. Everyone’s looking out for him.’
‘I don’t understand. How did he get out?’
He ignores that question for a second time. ‘I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Amy.’
‘Poor baby. He could be anywhere by now. He could have been run over! Or picked up by one of those dog-fighting gangs as bait …’ Even I think I might be laying it on a bit too thick as I say this.
‘You mustn’t think like that. He’s probably hiding somewhere or something, scared to come out.’
‘You’re supposed to put his litter tray outside and then he might recognize the smell. I read that somewhere. Oh God, Jack, this is awful. What if he’s hurt himself?’
‘You hear about missing cats turning up all the time –’
‘Do you? I don’t understand though, how did he get out?’
Third time lucky. ‘He must have slipped through my feet when I had the door open and I didn’t notice. I feel awful.’
‘What? And the street door was open, too? What’re the chances of that?’
‘Or, maybe, I opened the bathroom window a bit – really, no more than a crack, and only for a second –’
‘You didn’t let him in there while it was open?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know.’
‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I didn’t do it deliberately, obviously,’ he says petulantly.
I realize I have to tone it down a bit. I don’t want a full-scale row, I just want him to be eaten up with guilt.
‘Oh God, I can’t bear it. Where do you think he is now?’
‘I’ll find him. I promise. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you … when all you can do is worry, thousands of miles away, I mean.’
‘No, you were right to. Otherwise, how would I ever trust that things were okay in the future? You need to always tell me exactly what’s going on, however bad.’
‘Of course,’ he says, without a hint of irony. ‘I promise.’
‘Oh,’ he says a couple of minutes later. I’m thinking I can duck out of the call early, citing being upset about Oscar, but he has suddenly remembered something he meant to say just as I’m about to hang up. ‘Guess what? I have to go to Reykjavik at the weekend. We have a client who wants to meet there.’
Jack and I always talked about going to Reykjavik. He knows it’s my dream destination. So it strikes me as a little bit of a coincidence. Plus, although work has taken him abroad a few times over the years, it’s hardly a regular occurrence. And a weekend? Really? I start with that.
‘Oh my God, really? On a weekend, though?’
‘That’s the only time they can do, apparently. I feel bad though, babe, going without you …’
Yes, of course he does.
‘I’m not even going to pretend I’m not jealous. Reykjavik?’
‘I know! I’ll try and keep my eyes on the floor. Not see anything until we get a chance to go together.’ He laughs to show me he’s joking, in a caring, sweet, thoughtful boyfriend kind of way.
‘And so soon? This weekend?’
‘Yep. I leave Friday afternoon and get back late Sunday night. So it’s not as if I’ll really get any time there.’
‘No but … still amazing. Who’s the client?’
‘Some yoghurt-type product. They’re launching over here. Well, obviously …’
‘And they’re all going in on a Saturday just to meet you?’
‘Seems so. Just so I can pitch for it, you know. I imagine they’re meeting other agencies, too.’
‘But they’re paying to fly you out? That must be good, right?’
He gives a little self-deprecating laugh. ‘I guess so.’
‘Wow. Well, you’d better start doing your homework. “Buy some yoghurt-type product” isn’t going to cut it, I imagine.’
After he’s ended the call, I ring Mel. I’m pretty sure they’re not together because Jack seemed very relaxed and happy to talk to me.
‘Hello!’ I say when she answers. ‘I’m literally just calling to say that and then go. I realized I haven’t talked to you for ages – my schedule’s been insane – so I thought I’d ring and say let’s put aside a time on the weekend and really catch up …’
I leave it hanging out there. Wait for her excuse.
‘Shit, I’m having a spa weekend. Chewton Glen.’
I stop myself from saying, ‘On your own?’ or ‘How can you afford that?’ Mel hates going anywhere on her own. She needs an audience. And I know she’s broke until the flat is sold.
‘Oh! Well, not to worry. Next week, maybe. Have a lovely time …’
‘Can’t we chat now?’
‘No. They’ve just called me, I’m actually walking to set. I’ve got this huge two-hander scene. Five pages. They’ve given my character a love interest now and built a whole new set for my apartment and everything.’
Clearly, Mel does not want to engage with this potentially career-boosting piece of good news.
‘Okay, well, talk to you soon.’
‘I miss you,’ I say,
happy that I’ve rattled her.
Kat and Greg have been to an early-evening screening of Barbarella at some too-cool-for-school cinema club in Shoreditch. Afterwards, they arrive at mine in a taxi, clutching a bottle of Prosecco and a huge, ribbon-tied box.
‘Housewarming present,’ Kat says, thrusting it into my hands.
‘What? No. You already got me most of my furniture, technically.’
‘Honestly, it’s less impressive than it looks. Wow, nice rug by the way.’
‘Simon,’ I say, rolling my eyes and going red at the same time, thus giving away that something is going on.
‘You’re blushing,’ Kat says gleefully. ‘Why are you blushing?’
‘I’m not,’ is all I can manage. I turn my attention to the box, pull off the wrapping. Inside is an oatmeal-coloured lampshade that perfectly matches the sofa, with a taupe geometric motif around the rim.
‘It’s gorgeous,’ I say, balancing it on top of the wooden standard lamp. ‘And it’s the perfect size.’
Kat beams. ‘We went for neutrals because we weren’t sure –’
‘I love it. You know you shouldn’t have, but thanks.’
I fiddle around, fixing it to the wooden stand, while Greg pours the Prosecco.
‘He’s taking her to Reykjavik for the weekend.’
Kat gasps. She knows me well enough to know how much that must hurt. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yep. He says he’s going for work but –’
‘Could he be?’ Greg says. ‘I mean, he’s had to go away before, right? When the two of you went to Copenhagen, wasn’t that because he had some pitch to do?’
‘Yes. I mean, it’s possible. Either way, he’s taking Mel. Well, that’s what he’s planning, anyway …’
‘Oh shit,’ Greg says, putting down the bottle. ‘What are you going to do?’
21
I assume that stealing someone’s passport is illegal. Even if they are your soon-to-be-ex fiancé who is taking your best friend away for a romantic weekend in your dream destination. Even if you’re intending to return it again in a few days. So I don’t. I just let myself in (after watching them leave for work one after another, and then making myself wait an agonizing fifteen minutes just in case. I amuse myself by looking for Lost Cat posters with Oscar’s face on and am gratified to spot three. I pull one down and stuff it in my pocket to show him later) and hide the passport somewhere he will never think to look. Which is under the bath. Pushed right to the back, behind the pipes.
It’s just possible he might discover it if he has enough time and he takes the flat apart piece by piece. But I know Jack. He leaves everything to the last minute. He likes to give off the impression he’s a seasoned traveller just breezing out the door, no big deal.
First, though, I go through his emails and ascertain that, surprisingly, this trip is indeed work-related. He has a meeting scheduled on the Saturday afternoon at three at the headquarters of Volcano Skyr. There are notes attached reminding him of the virtues of the product – fat free, all natural, blah blah. Other than that, his time is his own. He’s staying at the Hotel Borg, which, if I remember rightly, is the smart hotel he and I selected when we planned a fantasy trip once. In fact, we’d decided to save the trip for our honeymoon. Even though we hadn’t even started planning the wedding, we had the itinerary for the two weeks after it worked out in detail. Five days in Iceland, five in the north of Sweden and four in Stockholm. It occurs to me that, now my stint in New York is over, we could have set the date. That was what had always held us back, not knowing when I might have enough free time to plan it, let alone actually do it.
Kat, meanwhile, is at Mel’s, where, she texts to tell me, there is a confirmation for a flight to Iceland sitting tucked into Mel’s passport on top of her desk. Her clothes are laid out neatly on the bed and the smaller of her two suitcases is on the floor next to them. The icing on the cake, she tells me, is a guide book – Iceland’s Top 10 – lined up neatly with her magazines on the coffee table.
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ she texts when I respond.
‘Definitely.’
I check my secret hiding place once more. There’s nothing more I need to do.
Except that just before I leave I have a flash of inspiration. I call Kat back and she tells me she’s already left Mel’s.
‘I just wanted to get out of there. It’s scary doing it on your own.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I say. ‘Can I do this? I don’t know if I can –’
‘What?’
‘You’ve given her her keys back, right?’
‘Yes, and I told her neither of my buyers is interested. She was quite pissed off with me. You have to tell me what you’re up to.’
‘So there’s no reason she would think it was you –’
‘What? Think what was me?’
‘Did she even have Facebook on her desktop? I mean, bookmarked or whatever?’
‘Not obviously, no. I didn’t see it …’
‘Great. So no suspicion as far as you’re concerned. She probably just uses her laptop, which is here, or her phone. When she uses it at all, because she hates Facebook. I remember her saying that every time she went on there she felt this overwhelming wave of doom, worrying about which person she’d been happily avoiding for twenty years was going to pop up with a friend request next …’
Kat interrupts me. ‘Amy Forrester, just tell me what the hell you’re planning! The suspense is practically killing me.’
‘Shit, sorry. Okay. What if I changed her Facebook status? Just … I don’t know … I was thinking of something like, “Sleeping with my boss”.’
I type it in, just to try it for size, as I wait for her reaction. My finger hovers over the ‘Save changes’ key but I make myself wait. I need to be sure it’s foolproof.
Kat gasps. ‘Won’t someone just tell her?’
‘Yes, but that means whoever it is will have seen it. And God knows who else, too. Most people would probably just send a funny comment or something, or even a message saying, “Have you been hacked?” and the beauty of that is she won’t see those either.’
‘Are you sure she doesn’t get notifications?’
‘No way. Actually, shit, I’m going to check.’
I scrabble around and find her settings. Notifications are most definitely off.
‘This might be genius,’ Kat says when I tell her. ‘Or the worst idea ever. I can’t work it out.’
‘Shall I just do it? Fuck the consequences.’
There’s a pause. ‘Do it.’
‘Oh my God, really? I thought you might talk me out of it.’
‘Well, don’t do it, then. I don’t want this to be on me.’
‘No, I can’t. It’s too …’
My heart leaps up to my ears and crashes back down again. There’s a noise. Someone is coming up the stairs.
‘Shit! Fuck! Kat, someone’s coming. I’ve gotta go. Don’t call me back.’
‘Jesus …’ I hear her say as I hang up.
I slam the laptop shut and then think I should have exited the page first, but there’s no time now because I can hear a key in the door. I grab my cardigan, which I’d draped over the back of the chair, and run into the bedroom. Thankfully, I know that I can fit under the bed because of retrieving Mel’s necklace the other day, so I shove myself under there, huddle back against the wall, and wait.
Jack is whistling to himself as he comes through the door. I hold my breath. Flick my phone on to silent just in case.
I catch a flash of him as he passes the bedroom door, hear the fridge open and close and a ring pull being pulled. I look at my phone – five past three. Why on earth would he be home at this time? He’s not acting like he’s sick. He wanders into the bathroom, still whistling as he pees. Lets out a loud fart. I hear the taps start to run. He’s having a bath. So long as he doesn’t leave the door wide open, I should be able to make it out while he’s splashing around in there. Jack in the bath is like
an angry shark in a tank at the aquarium. He’s a one-man tsunami. I allow myself to breathe again and then the noise of running water stops as suddenly as it started. There’s no way, with our dodgy plumbing, that the bath is even a fifth full yet.
I see a pair of bare feet walking towards me. Close my eyes as if that might help. There’s a creak as he flings himself back on to the bed. The struts under the mattress groan and I congratulate myself for insisting that we bought an expensive frame, otherwise I’d have been flattened by now.
‘Melissa Moynahan, please.’
He’s on the phone.
‘Thanks.’
I can’t help it, I’m interested to hear how they speak to each other. I mean, obviously, I’ve witnessed them speaking to each other thousands of times, but never, by definition, when no one else has been around. A few seconds later, and I’m not so interested. I’m in danger of chucking up my lunch.
‘Hey,’ he says when she answers. ‘How’s it going? … At home. Bill wants me to go and sweet-talk this client with him over dinner so I came home to change … the Dorchester … I know … I know … I was about to have a bath but then I started thinking about this morning and I got a bit horny …’
Yes, my dear friends, this is where this is going. I’ll spare you the details. The gist seems to be that he’s called her on her office phone rather than her mobile because it turns him on to think she’s sat there surrounded by her unsuspecting colleagues while he ‘gets her wet’ by burbling sub-porn clichés at her.
‘I want to lick your minky,’ he groans at one point. I have to stop myself from laughing out loud, but then I remember it’s been a very long time since he suggested that doing that to me – using any word at all – would be a huge turn-on.
At least it doesn’t take him long. I imagine Mel is sitting there filing her nails or drinking a cup of tea like a bored sex-chat-line worker. Or maybe this is the kind of thing she likes. Who knows? I certainly don’t want to.
As soon as it’s over, he makes his excuses and leaves. That is, he tells her he won’t be home till late and that he needs to get ready quickly and get out of the door. The bed groans again, the bare feet pad away, the taps fire up again. I lie there motionless.