by Jane Fallon
‘Not if it’s night shoots or split days. And … you know … if it was, then I’d need to sleep … it wouldn’t be much fun for you.’
‘I don’t know when I’ll get another chance to take time off,’ he’d said sulkily.
I replaced the now-empty saucepan. ‘Let me at least ask Production if they have any clue what might be happening then.’
If he shelled out for a ticket, that would be his own fault. Although, as he’d probably take the money out of our joint account, I’d be losing out, too, so, hopefully, I can stall him for as long as it takes.
He was down when I spoke to him. Fed up with work. Another of his rivals is being promoted over him – fallout from his no-show at the Icelandic pitch, he has no doubt – and he feels as if his glittering career is faltering. And I actually felt bad. Now I just look on him like a distant elderly relative who I have promised the family I’ll keep in touch with I get no pleasure from knowing it’s all down to me.
When we’re ready to sleep, I’m nervous to see how well Simon and I will fit together. I think about warning him that I hate feeling crowded, can’t stand someone draping themselves over me so I can’t move and I start to sweat from the heat of the covers and their body, but I decide that might come under the category of TMI, so I wait it out.
I turn on my side away from him and he leans over and kisses the back of my head then settles down behind me, but with just enough of a gap between us. Then he puts a hand on my hip, but lightly, not flopped over like a drunk python, the way Jack used to. I feel the dull thud of a determined cat at the end of the bed and then Oscar settles down in front of me. Simon reaches out a hand and tickles his head and he sighs contentedly. Oscar, not Simon. Or maybe it was both of them.
I have the best sleep of my life. By which I mean I’m out cold for a couple of hours and then one of us wakes the other. It’s hard to tell who, because the first thing I know is we’re in a clinch. Then we repeat the whole sequence. Twice. After the final time, Simon whispers to me that he has to get up. He had already warned me that he needed to leave the house before seven to get to the site in St John’s Wood, and I’d told him in no uncertain terms that he would be fending for himself. Fifteen minutes or so later, after I’ve heard him creeping around in the bathroom and getting dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he sits down beside me to say goodbye. He smells of toothpaste and my citrusy shower gel.
‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea,’ he says.
I reach up and circle my arms around his neck.
‘Thank you.’
‘And I fed Oscar so, hopefully, he’ll let you go back to sleep.’
‘Oh my God,’ I say, flopping back down. ‘You might be perfect.’
He smiles and reaches down, pushing the hair back from my face. I’m sure it’s sticking up in all directions, that I have yesterday’s mascara smeared under my eyes and questionable breath, but I don’t care. ‘Only “might be”? What else do I need to do? Hoover up before I go?’
‘Too noisy. And, besides, I don’t have a Hoover. Maybe go round on your hands and knees with a dustpan and brush. Actually, I don’t have one of those either. That’s why the rug’s so great – crumbs just blend in.’
‘You are taking that rug with you when you move, aren’t you? I mean, I sweated blood for that thing. It’s a symbol of my devotion.’
I laugh. ‘Of course. That was my main priority: “living room must be big enough to accommodate the rug”.’
He leans down and plants his lips on mine. ‘I really have to go,’ he says when we finally break apart. ‘See you tomorrow night.’
‘Lovely.’
‘Ring me if you get any news.’
‘Mmmm,’ I say, already feeling the pull of sleep. ‘I will.’
I think about how sweet he is to bring me a cup of tea that we both know I’m never going to get round to drinking. By the time I hear the front door close behind him, Oscar is back on the bed, full of breakfast and ready for a nap, so I settle back and start to run through the night in my head, but I’m too tired, too relaxed, too content to stay awake for longer than a couple of minutes. As I drift off, I allow myself to think that, finally, for once, everything is going to be okay. I allow myself to feel happy.
38
Mel
Oh, Simon Rigby, what are you doing?
I don’t quite know what I was expecting to happen when I – that is, Annabel Phillips – arranged an appointment to discuss the refurbishment, but it seemed important to find out as much as I could about this man Amy has moved on to. For example, how long it’s been going on. Does it predate her finding out about me and Jack? In which case, she’s every bit as bad as the pair of us.
It’s going to be quite apparent to Simon Rigby that this is a bit of a non-starter of a job as soon as he walks in, because my flat is already pretty perfect, if you ask me. I just need to keep him here long enough to get him talking, find a way to bring up his girlfriend, see where that leads.
I get changed into an outfit that I think says, ‘Posh bird’. Floral-print pencil skirt, a cream, short-sleeved cashmere top that I once bought in an effort to look more grown-up but then quickly realized that cream makes me look like a barely warmed-up corpse. But I’m not trying to seduce him (at least, not yet, although that’s something to consider), I just need him to believe I’m who I say I am and feel at ease in my company. I slip on a pair of heeled sandals to finish the outfit off, then I do that thing they tell you to do when you’re trying to sell your flat (it is now on the books of two agents, by the way, after Kat singularly failed to get me an offer. Four viewings so far, no bites) and brew up an aromatic pot of coffee. Then I sit at the kitchen island, drinking a glass of red wine for courage, and wait.
Eventually, just when I’m thinking of calling him to see if he’s having trouble finding the place, the entry phone buzzes and he’s here.
Simon Rigby, on first meeting, is as good-looking as he seemed to be from across the road. Just enough, but not too much. You wouldn’t feel as if you had to compete with him for mirror space or that every woman you met was going to throw herself in his direction. He’s dressed down in work clothes, but you can tell he’s got a bit of style. Firm handshake.
‘Would you like a drink? There’s wine, or I’ve got coffee on the go, if you’d prefer …’
I lead him through to the kitchen. He looks around, taking the place in.
‘Just water would be great,’ he says, so I get a bottle out of the fridge and pour him a glassful. ‘Nice place.’
‘Let me level with you,’ I say, intending to do no such thing. ‘My husband and I just split up and, to be honest, I don’t want to live in the place we decorated together. I want to change everything. Maybe take a couple of walls down, open it up.’
‘That makes sense.’ He walks around, tapping here and there. ‘Do you mind …?’
‘Help yourself,’ I say. So far, he seems professional and pleasant. I can see why Amy finds him attractive. I wrack my brain for a way to get him on to the subject of her.
‘This one could probably come down,’ he says, peering through the doorway to the adjoining living room.
‘That’s what I was thinking. Make it one big space. And I was thinking of maybe making the bathroom bigger by knocking into the hall cupboard.’ I take him over and show him where I mean. This would in fact be a great idea if I was staying.
‘You’d need to put some more storage in somewhere else, though, probably. How about a wall of cupboards along here?’ He indicates the hallway. ‘But with invisible fixings, so you can’t see them. If you did the whole wall, they’d only need to be about thirty deep and they’d still hold masses of stuff. It’s wide enough.’
‘I like that idea,’ I say, and I do.
‘Then you could turn the cupboard into a walk-in shower opening off the bathroom and use the space where the old shower was to maybe put a unit in.’
‘Or a bath,’ I say, getting into my role. ‘I’d really like a
claw-foot bath.’
‘That would probably work. If you tiled throughout, you wouldn’t need to put a door on the shower, and that’d make it feel bigger. What else?’
‘The terrace,’ I say, knowing I need to keep him there for a bit longer. ‘I’ve always wanted to do something radical with it. Build in a load of seating and maybe a cooking area. Turn it into an oasis.’
We head out to have a look. I have to get him talking about more personal stuff. ‘Where do you live yourself?’
‘Teddington,’ he says. ‘So just up the road. Although I seem to spend most of my working life in north London.’
‘Word of mouth, I suppose? You do one person’s place and they recommend you to a neighbour.’
‘Exactly. To be honest, the projects I do are usually on a bigger scale than you’re looking for but, if you really are flexible about the timescale, it would be a joy to be doing something a bit closer to home.’
‘Keep the other half happy,’ I say, and I can’t believe I’m coming out with something so cringeworthy. ‘Or does she not live out this way, too?’
I’m just thinking what a stupid and intrusive question that must have seemed. If I didn’t already know better, why wouldn’t I assume he and his girlfriend lived together? Or, indeed, that he didn’t have a boyfriend?
Thankfully, Simon Rigby doesn’t seem to be bothered. He’s happy to indulge me in small talk. And just as well, because the next thing he says blows my mind.
‘Wife,’ he says, smiling. He has a big, open, honest smile. The smile of a man who has nothing to hide. ‘I’m married. And yes, she’d be thrilled to have me home from work before nine occasionally.’
39
Amy
Kat, Greg and I are celebrating. Partly my own good fortune (for about the third time), but mostly because Kat has pulled off a big deal seemingly out of nowhere, by persuading a client they wanted to live in Highgate rather than Notting Hill.
We’re in the pub that will be my local when I move. In fairness, it’s pretty awful. The music is too loud, the staff snarling and unfriendly. But it has a little, sunny garden out the back, so we park ourselves there, ignoring the other drinkers, who are looking at Kat in her thick batwing glasses and Greg with his quiff as if they’ve just been transported in on a space ship. I’m looking forward to it going dark just to dim the spotlight on us.
The client exchanged on the thirteen-million-pound house of their dreams today so Kat is due a payday that will be a more than decent salary for the whole year. And the clients are happy, she tells us, because she managed to negotiate the price down from fourteen million, so it’s win–win for everyone.
‘They just knocked a million pounds off the price?’ I say, incredulous.
Kat shrugs. ‘At that level, the prices really aren’t based on anything except what they think someone might pay.’
I can tell she’s pleased with herself, though. This is the biggest deal she’s ever made and, naturally, she’s hoping the contented purchasers might tell their friends about what a good job she did.
‘What if you found someone their perfect house on day one and you made an offer and it was accepted immediately? Would you still earn the same amount?’
‘It’s never worked out like that yet but, in theory, yes. But I’d still see it through to completion, like I always do, and help them organize moving in or builders or whatever. And, you know, with this lot, it’s taken the best part of a year for them to see something they wanted to buy …’
‘I am very proud of my lovely wife,’ Greg says, slightly tipsy. We all chink glasses and a couple at a nearby table glare at us like they want to kill us. I refuse to let it dampen my mood.
‘Here’s to everything going well for once. It must be karma.’
‘I’m also very proud of you, my lovely friend,’ Greg adds, and Kat beams at me. I bask in their affection and my own good fortune for all of – what? – ninety seconds? And then my phone rings. Sara.
‘It’s my agent,’ I say. ‘I’d better take it.’
‘Amy?’ she says, the second I answer. Something about her sounds off.
‘Hi … Is everything –’
‘Sorry for calling you so late,’ she interrupts. I look at my phone. It’s twenty to eight. ‘But … I don’t know how to say this … I don’t know what’s going on …’
I feel the blood drain from my face. I put my drink down and press my phone against my ear to drown out the chatter.
‘What? What’s happened?’
Kat and Greg must have realized something is wrong because they’re staring at me, concerned looks on their faces. I indicate that I’m going to go and stand out on the street. I don’t think I can hear whatever it is she has to say with an audience.
‘It’s … God, I don’t even know where to start. It’s Blood Ties. It’s … well, I’ve been trying to get hold of them, obviously, because you’re meant to be starting in a week and I’d heard nothing. Nothing. I assume the scripts haven’t arrived?’
‘No. I would have told you.’ I sit down on someone’s front doorstep. I’m worried I might just fall over otherwise.
‘Shit. So I’ve been calling that Carrie. At Sunflower. Because hers was the only number I had. But I just left message after message and she didn’t return my call, and then, a couple of days ago, the number went dead.’
I hear myself let out a yelp. I know exactly where this is going.
‘So I started trying to find another number for Sunflower and there’s just no record of them anywhere. I know they’re supposed to be a new company and everything but … Then I started asking around. No one’s even heard of them, Amy. And I just got off the phone with a friend of mine who works at the BBC. I asked her to check the drama-commissioning slate, just in case it had changed title or they were making it under an umbrella company or something, but she said there’s nothing that could possibly be it. Not even anything in the early stages of development, let alone something that’s about to go into production …’
I feel numb. I have no idea what to say, how to react. An image of Mel’s wedding to Sam flashes into my head. The church decked out in a riot of sunflowers. I remember her saying, They just make you feel so happy, don’t they?
‘Are you still there?’ Sara says eventually.
I manage to say, ‘Yes, I am.’
‘I’m so sorry. I have no idea what’s going on or who this Carrie is, but it’s as if this is some kind of a hoax …’
‘That’s why they hired me without meeting me,’ I say. It’s all becoming clear. ‘That’s why I couldn’t find fucking 291A Camden High Street. Because it isn’t there.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she says. ‘Why would someone do this?’
I know why. Mel must be on to me. Somehow, she’s found out I’m back. That I know about her and Jack. She’s decided to fight fire with fire, and she knows exactly what will hurt me most.
I ignore her question. ‘So that’s definitely it? There is no Blood Ties?’
I hear her inhale slowly. ‘I don’t think so, no. Does someone have it in for you, do you think?’
‘I have no idea,’ I say. Despite everything, I don’t know Sara well enough to begin to tell her even the half of it. And I don’t want her to start thinking I’m a liability to have as a client.
‘Or me, maybe. Nothing like this has ever happened before … I really am sorry, Amy. Something else will come along, I promise.’
‘It’s okay,’ I say, but the traffic is so loud I doubt she can hear me.
On autopilot, I go back to where Kat and Greg are sitting. Their concerned expressions are too much for me. I slam my phone down on the table so hard the glass cracks.
40
I’m back at the call centre. Yesterday, I phoned the property company and told them I could no longer take the flat. At first, I thought they were going to refuse to return my deposit and first month’s rent (as is their policy) so I cried and pleaded and begged and, in the end, the ver
y sweet woman on the other end of the phone promised to try to sort it out somehow, although she did say she would at the very least have to offer the landlord a couple of weeks’ money so that he didn’t lose out completely. Then I called not-so-nice Fiona and asked if I could change my mind about moving out and she, thankfully, said, ‘Fine,’ mainly, I think, because finding someone new would be too much hassle. So I’m back where I started.
Oh, and I told the supervisor at Huntley Media Marketing I’ll do as many days as she can give me.
The rest of yesterday was spent alternately crying and throwing things across the room. How could Mel be this cruel? Okay, so I had let slip to all her friends, family and colleagues on Facebook about her affair with John and I’d ruined her prospect of a romantic weekend in Reykjavik WITH MY BOYFRIEND, but that was it. Nothing she couldn’t get past. So, maybe I’d made her job a bit uncomfortable for a while. But no one would have actually thought the rumour was true. And she hated her job, anyway. She was always saying she needed an excuse to leave. And let’s not forget I only did any of that in the first place because I found out she was sleeping WITH MY BOYFRIEND.
Did Jack know? Were they doing this together? I can’t imagine it somehow. Whatever I now think of him, I believe that guilt would be his overriding emotion if he knew I was on to them. He’s not a malicious person. Weak, disloyal, sneaky, maybe, but not sadistic. And I think Mel knows that.
Plus, there’s no way in hell she would want him to find out about her and John.
I went back to Kat and Greg’s when we left the pub shortly after I got Sara’s call. Both of them were steaming on my behalf.
‘See,’ Kat said, clicking down the street on the way home through King’s Cross. Her face was red with indignation. ‘I told you we shouldn’t have let her off so easily.’
‘How would doing more stuff to her have helped?’ I said, still through a veil of tears. ‘I should have just confronted them both when I found out and then never had to deal with either of them again.’