“Phil works for me, so he won’t be in today.” Kate smiled to herself. “But I’m sure Penny will be fine. I mean, she’s always saying how much she knows about interior design.”
“You’re a clever little minx, I’ll give you that,” Gareth said, giggling. “Maybe today isn’t going to be a total washout, after all.”
By eight fifteen Kate had eaten her breakfast, had two cups of tea, read all the junk mail she’d received that morning—along with a few leaflets on double glazing that had appeared over the weekend—and loaded the dishwasher. She’d also checked in with Phil, who was fitting a kitchen for his sister-in-law which she’d been asking him to do for several months now; knowing that the nagging was going to stop, he told Kate, made his life suddenly seem a million times better.
By eight forty-five, she had called her landline from her mobile, and her mobile from her landline to check both were working.
At nine sharp, having dialed Tom’s number five times and each time forced herself to hang up before it started ringing, she went online instead and found the numbers of five production companies to approach.
And by nine thirty she discovered that Footprint wasn’t the only production company to hold a Monday meeting which tied up all their executives for at least two hours.
Still, she told herself, she had all day. There was no rush.
She had all the time in the world.
In an office on the other side of London, Sal sat staring at her computer screen.
She’d barely slept the night before. How were you meant to sleep when you realized that your husband was lying to you? That your marriage was in its final stages?
It had been such a small thing that betrayed him. The oldest mistake in the book. Ed had been playing golf with clients, as he often did at the weekend. Unavoidable, he always told her—if he didn’t play, he wouldn’t get nominated by them in the quarterly analyst voting rounds, and that would mean no bonus, which would mean no money to throw at the mortgage. He was doing it for their future, he told her over and over again until she believed him, until she accepted it as fact.
And then Sal had decided to clean her car. She had no idea why— perhaps it was her subconscious pushing her, or perhaps it was just the early spring sun that made her want to make everything feel clean and new again. So she’d driven it round to the carwash, and they’d asked if she wanted the inside done, too, and she’d thought about it briefly and then said yes, why not. And they’d asked if there was anything in the boot, and she’d frowned and said she didn’t think so, and she’d opened it to check, and there were the golf clubs. Ed’s only set. The set they’d moved into her car months before when they needed to fill Ed’s car with Christmas presents on the way to his family’s for the holidays.
All this time, he’d been disappearing at weekends to play golf with no golf clubs.
She hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t dared to. Sunday night at eleven P.M. was not, in her book, the time for confrontations. And anyway, she needed to think. Needed time to absorb the horrible truth. Needed to pull herself together so that she could challenge him without bursting into tears, without falling to the floor and weeping because her life was over.
“Ed is my husband.”
She said the words aloud as if to remind herself or to check if the statement still rung true, still carried the reassurance and excitement with it.
She still remembered the first time she had said the words my husband. It was in the car on the way home from their wedding, and they were stopping briefly at their flat to get changed and pick up their bags before hurtling off to the airport. She’d said, “My husband will get the bags.” There had been no need to say it; the driver hadn’t asked her about the bags and nor did he appear to be interested in them, but she’d said it anyway because she wanted to feel the shape of the words in her mouth, wanted to see how they sounded in her voice.
My husband.
My husband, Ed.
Have you met my husband?
Oh, I was just telling my husband the other day …
For at least a year she’d managed to steer every conversation back to her husband. For slightly longer, she’d had her nails manicured every week because she wanted to draw attention to her hands, to her left hand, to her wedding ring. It symbolized something so fundamental: She was married, she was no longer searching, she was safe and sound.
Funny, she thought as she looked at her ring now, that she’d seen it almost as a shield when it was first placed on her finger. As if the ring would protect her like something out of a sci-fi movie; no one could touch her so long as she wore it.
In the event, it hadn’t turned out to be a particularly strong protective shield. In the event, it turned out that marriage didn’t protect you at all. It just diverted you for a while. Gave you the illusion of safety so that you didn’t notice the dissatisfaction creeping up behind you and gaining ground slowly but surely until it was walking at your side and it was too late to disentangle yourself from it.
Until your husband was lying to you and you were receiving inappropriate text messages from male colleagues.
Free tmrw fr drnk? x
She turned and reviewed the message again. Jim had inadvertently stumbled upon the key question, she realized. Was she free?
She hadn’t thought so. But now she wasn’t so sure. Perhaps Ed would be relieved if he found out that she’d kissed Jim. Perhaps he would see it as letting him off the hook. Ed would recommend a clean break. Luckily they didn’t have children to worry about. They could sell the house, split the proceeds….
Sal went white at the thought. She’d heard people talking about divorce, of course, but it had never been something that would happen to her. She and Ed … they loved each other. They did. They were good together….
Sal swallowed fiercely, closing her eyes and forcing the tears pricking behind her eyes to go back to where they came from. How dare Ed put her in this position? How dare life conspire to render her helpless and out of control? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
The truth was that she had no one, and she hadn’t even noticed it happening.
Sal found herself smiling sadly. She had planned her life meticulously so that she would never find herself in this predicament. Had been so careful to manage her relationships, friendships, house, and job into neat, ordered compartments to make absolutely sure that she had no areas of weakness, no breaches where the floodwaters of despair could find their way in. She’d seen what happened when you left things to chance—when you found yourself pregnant and alone and unable to cope. Her mother hadn’t been able to come to grips with the life she’d made for herself, failing to turn up on time to collect Sal from parties because she got waylaid or distracted, because the pills she took to keep herself on an even keel sometimes made her forgetful or sleepy or both. Sal’s mother had descended gradually into an all-consuming depression that made her so selfish and self-absorbed that sometimes she seemed not to remember who Sal was. She hadn’t turned up to Sal’s graduation from Oxford. Had asked her once how her degree was going when she was a year into her doctorate. And had killed herself two days before Sal’s twenty-fifth birthday. She hadn’t even left a note.
Sal missed her mother. Missed the mother she remembered from the old days, the mother who used to plait her hair when she was five and sing her songs and read her stories about dragons and princesses. Missed the mother who always wanted to hear about her day, who would put everything to one side so that she could focus entirely on Sal, her eyes lighting up as Sal told her about her lessons, her adventures, her friends, and her mortal enemies.
And now she missed Ed. Missed him so much she ached inside. Missed him like Adam and Eve must have missed paradise, because, she realized now, that’s what it had been like, being the center of Ed’s world, having him smile at her and tease her and desire her and make her feel that she was human again rather than the machine that everyone else thought she was. He was the only one who’d seen her ar
mor for what it was, who’d got inside and loved what he found so that she felt happier than she ever imagined possible.
Heavily, Sal reached for a tissue and took a deep breath. She would get over this, she told herself. She would figure out a way to get things back to normal. She would pull her socks up and paint a smile on her face, and she and Ed would work through their difficulties together. Sal did not do despair or depression. Would not do them.
This present mood was probably hormonal anyway, she told herself. In a couple of days’ time she’d get her period and then she’d feel much more able to cope. She’d no doubt wonder why she had allowed herself to be seduced into self-pity by a collection of hormones that she really ought to be able to control by now.
Bringing up her e-mail inbox, she clicked calendar. Last month her period came an hour before that awful presentation, which would make her next one due …
She frowned. That couldn’t be right.
Quickly she recounted the days. Forty-two. That was impossible. No one had a forty-two day cycle. Not unless …
Wide-eyed, she stared at her stomach. It was impossible. Had to be wrong. She couldn’t be pregnant now—not by mistake, not when her husband was having an affair and she was on the brink of her own. It simply couldn’t be true.
And then it dawned on her. She had spent her entire life micro-managing everything to avoid ending up like her mother, pregnant and alone, only for history to repeat itself anyway. Her worst nightmare had been organized so carefully out of the realms of possibility that she hadn’t noticed it slip in and bite her on the arse.
Tom looked worriedly at Mrs. Sandler. She was still losing weight. If she couldn’t keep her food down, they were going to have to stick her on a drip again.
“You realize, Mrs. Sandler,” he said, “that if you don’t eat, you’ll be here longer? I mean, I know the food here is a disaster, but the more you can eat, the sooner you’ll be able to eat food that doesn’t make you want to puke. A kind of virtuous circle, if you will. …”
“Call me Rose, please, doctor. I do try, you know,” Mrs. Sandler said with a weak smile. “I just can’t seem to keep it down.”
Tom grimaced. “I can’t see why,” he said, shaking his head. “You should be able to tolerate food by now.”
Rose smiled sheepishly. “It’s my nerves, Doctor,” she said. “Can’t ever seem to eat when I’m stressed. My Pat’s always on at me to eat more. He’s on the chubby side, see. Can’t see how I’d let myself get this thin.”
“And he’s got a good point,” Tom said. “So come on, what shall we do? How about I go and buy some nice fresh soup from the supermarket across the road? And some fresh bread. We’ll hide it from the nurses, ignore every health and safety regulation in the book, and have a gastronomic feast. What do you say?”
“You’re very kind, Doctor. But the hospital food’s fine. Really it is. My son’s coming in today. I’m sure I’ll feel better when I’ve seen him.”
Tom looked at her for a few seconds. “Well, good. That’s good.”
“He’s ever such a good boy, Doctor. Says he wants to be a doctor himself when he grows up. He was saying to me just the other day that he’s been really studying his science—”
“Which is great news,” Tom interrupted. He didn’t want to know about her son. Personal information led to personal involvement. “But about your eating, Rose … shall we try and focus on that?”
“It’s his school concert this week. Keeps asking me if I’m going to be there,” Rose continued sadly. “Told him I would be, but it’s looking less likely, isn’t it, Doctor?”
Tom sighed. Why did everyone always want to involve him in their lives? Why did they think that school plays and sons who wanted to be doctors had anything to do with him?
“If you don’t eat, Rose, how can you get better?” he asked pointedly.
“My boy’s only seven, that’s the thing, Doctor. Seven’s very young to lose a mother, isn’t it?”
Tom stared at her and found his throat tightening. “Rose, no one is losing anyone,” he said. “You are going to eat, then you are going to have another operation in a couple of days, and then you will get better. I’ve spoken to your consultant, and we’re just waiting for you to get your strength up before we schedule you in.”
Rose nodded. “But you couldn’t get it all last time, could you, Doctor?”
Tom shook his head. “We usually leave the traces to chemo,” he said. “It’s horrible, I know, but less invasive. But now we’re going back in. We’ll get it all out, Rose. We will.”
“I know you’ll do your best, Doctor,” Rose said with a small smile. “But this is cancer, not a splinter. I know what my chances are. And Liam, my son, well, he’s so young, and I’ve been in and out of hospital, losing my hair, throwing up…. I’m worried that the only memories he’s going to have of me are those. Being ill. Illness is so terribly selfish, Doctor, that’s the problem. It takes you away from the people you love. And I’d like him to have a happier memory. You know, maybe if I could go to his school concert tomorrow. See him play the violin. He’s been practicing so hard, you see….”
Tom sighed. “It’s out of the question. You’re in no fit state to leave the hospital,” he said sternly.
She bit her lip. “You see, it’s not guaranteed, is it? The surgery, I mean. It might not work.”
“Nothing is ever guaranteed in this world,” Tom said quietly. “Except…”
“Yes, Doctor?”
Tom reddened slightly. “Nothing. Sorry. Just this book a … a friend of mine bought. Promised love or her money back. Stupid thing. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Lucky her!” Rose said with another little smile. “Has it worked?”
Tom looked uncomfortable. “No. Well, no, no, it hasn’t.”
“Shame,” Rose said. “Yes, that is a shame. It’s all anyone really wants isn’t it? Love, I mean. That’s what I’m most scared of. That if I die, Pat and Liam will forget how much I love them. Loved them.”
Tears started to cascade down her face and Tom swallowed hard. It would be foolhardy to let her go to that stupid school concert. Against every policy.
“When’s the concert?” he found himself saying.
Rose’s eyes lit up. “Five o’clock, tomorrow afternoon, Doctor. It only lasts for an hour and a half.”
“You’ll go straight there and straight back. No detours. No popping in to see a neighbor. You go, you see your son, and you come back.”
“Yes, Doctor,” Rose said, her eyes shining.
Tom nodded curtly and started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back. “Nothing’s going to happen, Rose,” he promised. “You’re going to be fine. The surgery will be successful. And your son—Liam, is it?”
Rose nodded.
“He’s very lucky to have a mum like you,” Tom said. “He’s very lucky indeed.”
As he walked out of the ward, he passed Lucy. “Lucy, Mrs. Sandler needs to go to a school concert tomorrow,” he said, his voice businesslike.
“A school concert?”
“That’s right. It’s at five P.M., and she’ll be gone for a couple of hours, no more. I want you to make sure she’s got steroids with her and that she eats a proper meal before she goes.”
“You’re letting her go to the school concert?”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “That’s right, Lucy.”
Lucy smiled mischievously. “This is the same Mrs. Sandler whose personal problems you’re not interested in?”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “You’ll make the arrangements, Lucy?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Lucy said, grinning. “By the way, how come you didn’t come back the other night? I thought you just popped out for some milk.”
Tom startled a bit. “Work,” he said at once. “I… I realized I’d forgotten some paperwork. Needed to be in by eight A.M. for a patient’s insurance …”
“Whatever.” Lucy looked unconvinced, but shrugged. “So, doing anything tonig
ht? Got more paperwork, have you? Because I noticed we’re both off from four this afternoon. And there’s a certain someone I want to bump into, arm in arm with you, if that’s alright.”
Tom hesitated for just a moment, then shook his head. “Your ex-boyfriend, I assume?” he asked. “Well, okay then. I’m not doing anything else. In fact, I’m all yours.”
25
“Could you try looking a bit more romantic, Joe? If you could gaze at Penny adoringly that would be just great…. Yeah, that’s better. Okay, now, Penny, you look toward me…. Try to make your eyes a bit softer, love. There we are, that’s what we’re looking for….”
The photographer started clicking and Joe wondered if anyone ever got frostbite doing this. They were in Verbier. On the top of a mountain. In the freezing cold. And there was one other thing playing on his mind, too: At some point he was going to have to get down, and the only way people seemed to be doing that was on skis. Bearing in mind that they were on what was referred to as a red run, which Joe discovered meant “difficult,” and bearing in mind that he had never so much as stepped foot in a pair of skis before, he wasn’t entirely looking forward to it. Actually, he was terrified. And they wanted him to look romantic?
Eventually, the photographer from Tittle Tattle stopped and the journalist lady, Miranda Ridgeway joined them instead.
“So,” she said brightly. “Your first skiing trip. Are you both out-doorsy people?”
“Not really,” Penny said, annoyed. “I thought you were going to ask about my career? Channel Three is interested in Future: Perfect, you know. It’s about to really hit the big time.”
Miranda smiled, slightly less brightly. “Absolutely,” she said. “But I’m sure our readers would like to know a bit about you as a couple. So, Joe, when did you first realize that Penny was the one for you? When did you—dare I say it?—fall in love?”
Joe stared at her. Oh, man, did he really have to answer that?
The truth was that Penny was a total nightmare. She bitched from the minute she woke up until the minute she went to sleep. She looked like death without her makeup—he’d stumbled on her in the bathroom by mistake and, boy, he wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry—and she didn’t seem to even notice other people, let alone acknowledge them. The way she acted, you’d think she was the hottest property in LA, up for a million Oscars, rather than presenting some daytime drivel on British television. If his British agent, Bob, hadn’t been so excited by the idea of a spread in Tittle Tattle, Joe would have bailed out by now. This was the hardest work he’d ever done. And he kept having to kiss her for the cameras. Off the cameras, too.
The Hopeless Romantic's Handbook Page 18