by Jane Fallon
‘Because then she would have got exactly what she wanted,’ Kat said. I looked around and Greg, a full foot taller than her and eight inches on me, was struggling to keep up with the pair of us. It was as if we were powered by rage.
‘Jack?’
She looked as me as if I was crazy. ‘Your life. Or, at least, if she can’t actually have your life, then she doesn’t want you to be having it either. Sam left her, so why should you be planning your wedding? Her job sucks, so why should you be doing everything she’s ever dreamed of?’
‘She’s right,’ Greg piped up from behind us. He sounded out of breath. ‘I mean, it’s not as if she hasn’t got form.’
As the first of our guests arrived for our Christmas party, we were all already half cut. We’d hit that happy ‘I love you so much, you’re my best friends ever’ place, overcome by warm, fuzzy, sentimental happiness. Except for Mel. Not that she wasn’t happy, she just wasn’t drinking after that first glass of punch. She told me she wanted to make sure she was on her best behaviour. She wanted to try and make a better impression on my friends. She had realized how important they were to me and that she needed to make an effort. I threw my arms around her and hugged her.
‘I’m so glad you’re here.’
‘Me, too,’ she’d said, hugging me back. ‘I miss you.’
What I remember of the party itself was noise, chaos, singing, dancing, drinking. Lights and tinsel everywhere. One of our neighbours knocking and asking us to turn the music down, then accepting the offer of a drink. Last seen wearing reindeer antlers and singing along to ‘Barbie Girl’. Every now and then, the five of us residents would find ourselves in the same space and another group hug would materialize out of nowhere. Whenever I looked for Mel, I found her easily. She always stood out but, tonight, she was especially radiant. I remember her glowing in the light from the candles we had lit. Skin luminous, hair on fire, smiling, smiling, smiling.
Some of us were drunker than others. I realized I’d hit my limit early on and loaded up on water while I waited for the spirits to kick in, before I carried on. Kieron, Tom and Pia must have done the same, or else they all had a far greater tolerance than me, because none of them ever tipped over from happy drunk to car crash. Alistair, on the other hand, who had always been a lightweight where alcohol was concerned, was slurring by ten o’clock, but we were all so used to seeing him like that by this point that we just rolled our eyes affectionately and left him to it. He was also, bizarrely, the only one of us who never suffered from hangovers, getting up bright-eyed at the crack of dawn the morning after and clearing up the detritus while the rest of us pulled the covers over our heads, groaning.
I remember seeing Mel chatting to him and them both laughing. I remember being so thankful that she’d let her guard down with him and given him a chance. Privately, she might still refer to him as ‘nice but dim’, but I remember hoping she’d come to realize what a good bloke he was – they all were, but Alistair especially. He had only ever been friendly towards her. This was the boy who picked up worms or beetles from the pavement and moved them out of harm’s way before anyone trod on them, for God’s sake. He helped old ladies across roads and once travelled halfway across London to return a wallet he’d found in the street. He was incapable of maliciousness.
And then it was later and the numbers were starting to thin out a bit as people headed off to find night buses. A few had already crashed out on the floor in Kieron’s room. The stragglers were crammed into the kitchen or on the stairs.
‘Have you seen Al?’ Pia was leaning against the sink. I was hunting through open cans of lager for one that might contain some liquid.
‘He’s probably passed out.’
‘He’s such a lightweight,’ she said affectionately.
‘I’m knackered,’ I said. ‘Do you think this lot are staying?’
‘God knows. I’m just going to leave them to it in a minute.’
‘Me, too.’ I looked around. ‘Where’s Mel?’
Pia shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘Maybe she got lucky,’ I said, laughing. It felt as if life was going to be so much easier now the ice wall between my friends had thawed.
Pia pulled a face. ‘I hope for your sake they’re not in your room.’
‘Oh God. If they are, I’m getting in with you.’
She followed me as I mounted the stairs, happy to leave the few remaining revellers to it. We stopped as we got to the door to her and Alistair’s room. ‘Really,’ she said. ‘Come back down if Mel’s got someone in there. Al’s such a gent I’m sure he wouldn’t mind moving on to the floor.’
She leaned forward unsteadily, gave me a hug. ‘Hopefully, she’s just passed out as well. Although she wasn’t drinking –’
I stopped dead as Pia opened the door to the bedroom and I saw a flash of copper, a lightning strike of ghostly white skin. Mel, stark naked, was sitting astride Alistair, his hands enthusiastically grabbing at her boobs. She knew we were there, I had no doubt about it. She hesitated just enough to make it obvious she had heard the door opening. But she made no effort to cover up. She just threw herself into the task even more enthusiastically, head back, eyes closed. I stood there, rooted to the spot. My first thought was that Pia shouldn’t be seeing this. I went to shut the door again but she stuck out an arm and stopped me.
‘No,’ she said. And she must have said it just loudly enough for it to penetrate Alistair’s fug of booze and bliss because he opened his eyes wide and then sat bolt upright, half throwing Mel across the bed.
‘Shit, no!’ he said, as if he’d only just realized what he was doing. He grabbed the covers and pulled them up over himself. Mel, on the other hand, sat up and stretched like a contented cat then smiled a beatific smile directly at Pia.
‘Awkward,’ she said, with a fake little laugh. I hated her in that moment.
‘Pia …’ Alistair said pleadingly, but she turned on her heels and walked back down the stairs.
‘Put some clothes on, Mel, for fuck’s sake,’ I hissed before I followed.
41
Mel
So, what to do with my shiny new piece of information?
Obviously, I need to let Amy know. She’s always had a rule for herself: no married men. She stuck to it, too. So I’m pretty sure she’s clueless about the lovely Mrs Rigby. Georgie, she’s called, by the way.
I remember there was this bloke once. A couple of years after I’d moved up to London. Amy was in a play with him at some tiny community theatre in Stoke Newington or somewhere. One of those things that no one goes to see but the actor hopes they might get a decent review in the local paper which they can quote on their CV. I can’t remember what he was called but I do know that he wasn’t even married, he just lived with his girlfriend, and he did a lot of that ‘It’ll bring more intensity to our performance’ kind of crap, which Amy lapped up, as if she were a thirsty camel who’d found an oasis in a desert. She wouldn’t cross the line, though, however much he pushed. Even when I encouraged her just to go for it, to think of it like a holiday romance. What happens in Stoke Newington stays in Stoke Newington, and all that.
‘It’s the worst thing you can do to another woman,’ she’d said to me haughtily.
I’d just shrugged and said, ‘You don’t even know her, what do you care?’
‘God, Mel,’ she’d said, with a roll of her eyes. ‘Imagine if every woman thought like that. We have to look out for each other.’
She’d announced this in the full knowledge that I had far fewer scruples where things like that were concerned, by the way. Got up on her high horse and gave me a lecture about how, if no woman ever knowingly slept with a married man, then no other woman would ever have to go through finding out her husband was cheating on her or something. It didn’t quite make sense to me, because isn’t the whole point that attached people don’t usually announce that they are when they’re trying to cop off with someone?
So, I’m one hu
ndred million per cent certain that, when she finds out, she’ll dump him. But it’d be great if she was really into him first. If she’d started to think this was the man who was going to save her from her heartbreak over Jack. On the other hand, I don’t want to wait so long that he develops a conscience or, more likely, starts to worry about getting caught and bails. It’s only fun if she thinks he’s the one. If it really puts her principles to the test.
Other things I found out about Simon Rigby and his lovely family are: wife Georgie makes ceramics (that sounds like a made-up career to me. Something someone does as a hobby but tries to fool the rest of us into thinking they actually make a living from it, not just that they dabble a bit and sell one pot every three years); his daughter is twelve and called Ruby; and Georgie is really keen to leave London and move down to the West Country for a gentler pace of life.
‘What would you do, then?’ I asked sweetly. ‘Move your business down there?’
‘Not sure,’ he’d said. ‘It’s got momentum here. Half of my work is recommendations. More, probably. It would take me a long time to build that up again.’
‘How would that work, though?’ I knew that was far too personal a question to ask someone I’d known for fifteen minutes, but I had nothing to lose. And he didn’t seem to mind.
‘No idea. Split my time? Employ more people and delegate? There’d be a way, if we definitely decided to do it.’
Nothing in the way he spoke about his situation implied that he wasn’t happy with his wife, that he thought she was a pain in the arse for wanting to move them halfway across the country. And he didn’t flirt with me. Not a bit. The image he projected was that of a happily married man. Which probably meant he was experienced at what he was doing. That he’d done it more than once.
He left after about half an hour, promising that he would come back to me with some ideas and an approximation of how much various options might cost. Annabel Phillips thanked him very much for his time and told him she was looking forward to seeing what he came up with. When he left, I started shaking. I’d pulled it off. It gave me a buzz I haven’t had in years. Stage fright mixed with adrenaline mixed with euphoria.
As soon as he was out of the door, I googled Georgie Rigby Ceramics, obviously, and came up with one Georgie Rigby-Taylor who makes godawful misshapen-looking vases that are available to buy – according to her website – for hundreds of pounds each. Of course, there’s no evidence any of them have ever actually sold. There’s a picture of her, though, her face clay-streaked, tendrils of hair falling into her eyes, and she’s attractive in that blonde, fragile, artsy kind of way. Nothing like Amy, so Simon clearly doesn’t have a type. I felt an unprecedented pang of pity for beautiful, wan Georgie, immersed in her ugly art, oblivious to her husband’s betrayal. For now, that is. Sadly, I’m not sure how long her delusion can last.
42
Amy
Simon is burning with anger on my behalf. I’ve never really seen him cross before and it somehow takes the edge off my own rage, as if I’ve handed over the baton. He wants me to take him to Mel. He wants to tell her what he thinks of her.
And, I’m not going to lie, it’s tempting. I like imagining the shock on her face when I turn up, new boyfriend in tow. Someone who cares about me. Someone who’ll fight my corner. But I’m not going to let it happen. I don’t want him involved in that other, messy side of my life. Instead, I allow him to make a fuss of me, bringing me a takeaway from the local Lebanese restaurant and making soothing noises about how something else will come along and blow the fake job out of the water. I don’t for a minute believe him but I appreciate the effort.
He’d turned up with two huge outdoor candles, as pleased with himself as a five-year-old bringing home the cake he’s made in school. Each was inside an intricate crimson metal lantern. The smell was heavenly – jasmine or honeysuckle – even before they were lit.
‘Where did you find those?’ I asked, as he lined up the ladder and started his ascent. ‘How dare you? I bought them,’ he said, mock-indignant. ‘Selfridges’ finest.’
‘I love them.’
I followed him up with the takeaway and a bottle of wine.
‘Nice,’ he said, indicating the nasturtiums that were now planted up in one of the long planters. That was a hard day’s work, lugging the bag of soil up the ladder, but I wanted to show willing.
‘Well, I’m stuck here now. I thought I might as well. Maybe I should stay at yours tomorrow night?’ I say now, as we lean back, looking up at the sky, stuffed from the meal and two glasses of wine down. ‘Just for a change.’
‘My sister and her kid are coming to stay tomorrow night,’ he says, pulling an apologetic face. ‘I forgot to tell you. So I won’t be around at all.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
My mobile rings. Usually, I turn the volume down whenever Simon and I are together. It’s easier to ignore my other life if it’s not shouting in my face. But tonight, I forgot. I pick it up.
‘It’s her.’
‘Answer it,’ he says, and then immediately follows up with ‘Don’t! I was joking!’
‘Yeah, don’t give up the day job.’ I let the phone ring out.
‘God, you really know how to crush a man’s dreams.’
I nuzzle back on my chair and he reaches a hand out and takes one of mine.
‘What time do you have to go?’ I know he has a meeting much nearer to his home first thing. He looks at his watch. ‘Half an hour?’
‘Sex or dessert? There’s half a cheesecake in the fridge from when Kat and Greg came over.’
He smiles a lascivious smile. ‘What flavour?’
‘Popcorn and something. God knows. She made it from some seventies American recipe. It’s unbelievably good.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘That, then. We can have sex any time.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’
As I spoon the creamy dessert into bowls, I try not to get too excited about the fact that Simon and I seem to have reached the ‘couple’ stage. Not the ‘been together for years, barely even notice the other person any more’ phase, or even the ‘secure enough to break wind loudly in their presence’ phase, thankfully, but we’ve started to feel like a pair, not just two people who fancy the pants off each other. I like it.
On Friday, Kat takes the day off and we mooch around the Courtauld Institute in an attempt, in her words, to ‘take my mind off things’.
‘How come I’m back at square one again?’
‘Is there something else you could do other than the call centre?’ she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. ‘Something that pays better?’
‘Nothing that would let me go off and audition at a moment’s notice. Or where I could just call them up in the morning and say I had another job for a few days and they wouldn’t care. Maybe this is it. Maybe now’s the time I have to acknowledge defeat and give up.’
‘No!’ she shouts, and I jump. As do two American tourists who were gazing intently at a Van Gogh a second ago. ‘Not yet. Not while Murder in Manhattan is still going out and you’re still in it! Anything could happen. You can come back and stay with us for free for as long as you want if it all gets too much.’
I lean over and give her a hug. As usual, she squirms away. ‘You’re a really good friend,’ I say. ‘I love you to bits, I really do.’
Kat, never one for compliments or sentimentality, blushes a deep red. ‘Shut up. You, too. Whatever.’
‘It has to stop,’ I say, sinking down on to one of the benches. ‘Whatever’s going on between me and Mel, I should never have started it.’
Kat snorts. ‘She started it. Her and Jack. Don’t ever forget that.’
‘Who cares? It doesn’t matter who started it. In the greater scheme of things.’
Kat’s not giving up that easily. ‘Well, you have to finish it. Once and for all. We just have to think of how.’
There was no big row. No Jeremy Kyle-style accusations and recriminations. But everything
changed. Mel, possibly realizing that she had gone too far even for her, left to go home early in the morning. I had feigned sleep when she’d come upstairs a few minutes after me, and again in the morning when I heard her get up, even though, at one point, she had shaken my shoulder. What was she going to do?
‘I know you can hear me, Amy,’ she had said, sitting on the bed beside me. ‘It wasn’t all my fault. He was all over me like a fucking octopus. He’s the one that made promises to Pia, not me.’
I ignored her. Stifled my desire to say what I knew to be true, that she’d gone into overdrive to seduce him. That Pia was his first real girlfriend, he had zero experience with casual sex and the drink had clouded his judgement. Of course, he’d thought all his Christmases had come at once when someone like her had basically offered him a quick one with no strings attached. Yes, he’d behaved appallingly, yes, he was the one with the girlfriend, but I knew, without a doubt, that Mel had been the driving force. That this was her way of getting back at Pia for her Centre Stage comment. That her whole weekend – the charm offensive, the not drinking while the rest of us partied – had been building up to it. It was a side of her I’d never seen. A truly vindictive side. And, I won’t lie, I was shocked by the cold calculation behind it.
I crossed my fingers under the covers and hoped she would just leave. I had no idea how I was going to face my friends and having Mel there would make it ten times harder.
‘Okay, I’m going,’ I heard Mel say. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow.’
I waited until I heard her clumping down the stairs and only then did I open my eyes to check she had taken her bag with her.
There was no Alistair already downstairs cleaning the house and no sign of Pia either. I threw myself into tidying the kitchen instead, a kind of penance. After about half an hour of my shifting half-full cans of lager from one spot to another without achieving anything, Kieron shuffled in, bleary-eyed.