by Fallon, Jane
Her phone rang as she was stepping out of the shower and she thought about ignoring it, but when she looked at the caller ID and saw it was Katie her curiosity took over. They hadn't spoken for a couple of weeks. Stephanie had been meaning to call to ask how Katie was coping on her own but she could never quite get up the enthusiasm. Katie had left her a couple of messages, sounding very positive, but still keen to talk about James and what a shit he was, and was there anything else they could do to get their own back? Stephanie had tried to tell her weeks ago that she thought they should move on, get on with sorting out how their lives would be in the future, but she wasn't sure Katie had taken it in. Now, presented with a ringing phone and Katie's name flashing up, she didn't feel she could just reject the call, so she decided to keep it short and, hopefully, light.
‘Katie, hi.’
Katie launched straight in. ‘Guess what? I just saw James.’ She paused as if waiting for Stephanie to react in amazement.
Stephanie, who had a fair idea why James was in Lower Shippingham, didn't. ‘At the surgery?’ Stephanie said. ‘He mentioned he was going up to sort it out so he could sell it.’
Katie gasped. ‘You knew and you didn't warn me? I nearly had a heart-attack when I saw him.’
‘I didn't think, sorry. He's only there for two days and I knew he'd go out of his way not to bump into you. Or anyone else, for that matter.’
‘How much is he selling it for?’ Katie asked. She had been thinking for a while, she told Stephanie, about swapping her cottage for somewhere she could live that would also accommodate her ever-expanding business. Find somewhere with a couple of treatment rooms and maybe take someone on part-time to deal with her less-important clients. Get a much overdue foothold on the property ladder.
‘No idea,’ Stephanie said. ‘He wants a quick sale, I think. He's nearly out of money.’ As soon as she'd said it she regretted it. It was too personal, too tangible a weapon to give to someone who would have no hesitation in using it. ‘What I mean is, it's all tied up in the house and I have no intention of moving.’
‘Quite right too.’ And then, changing the subject, Katie said kindly, ‘How are you coping?’
‘Oh, fine, you know,’ Stephanie said, giving nothing away. ‘Surprisingly well, actually. I'm over him completely.’
‘God, me too,’ Katie said. ‘But it must be harder for you. You've got Finn, after all.’
‘Finn's fine,’ Stephanie said. ‘We're both fine.’
45
It had been a stressful day so far. Bertie Sullivan, the much-loved pug belonging to Charles Sullivan, Tory councillor for Westminster, was having trouble breathing. He lay strung out on the operating-table, eyes rolling back in his head while James tried frantically to decide what to do for the best. It had been a routine operation. Bertie had had an abscess on one of his back teeth, which had had to be removed. It was a procedure James had done, what? Probably a thousand times over the years. Nothing had ever gone wrong.
This morning, though, he hadn't been thinking straight. Tony, the estate agent, had been on the phone to say that after several weeks of no interest they had received an offer on the surgery. A very low offer but one that, Tony said, reflected the state of the place and which he would advise James to accept, given that he was in dire need of the cash. The offer, he told James, had come from a Miss Katie Cartwright, a very nice lady who had nothing to sell and a very healthy bank balance, due to her thriving business. Maybe you know her, he said, ‘Lower Shippingham being such a small place and all.’ She was very pretty — James would remember if he'd ever seen her. In fact, he was thinking of asking her out himself because she'd mentioned she was single. James hadn't bothered to comment. To say now, ‘Oh, yes, I used to live with her,’ seemed to be extending an invitation to a conversation he didn't want to find himself having.
He had told Tony he would need to think about it, mull it over for a few hours. The offer was so low the money was hardly going to enable him to set up a whole new life, but on the other hand he could pay off his debts and put down a deposit on a tiny flat in a not-too-dodgy part of London. Somewhere that Finn could come and stay overnight, even if James had to give up his bed and sleep on the sofa. He had to get out of the Chalk Farm Travel Motel, there was no doubt about it. The longer he was there the more he could feel himself turning into one of those hopeless single men you saw in sitcoms. He felt like a 1970s travelling salesman, living out of a suitcase, wearing increasingly threadbare clothes, eating takeaways and counting the pennies. And Stephanie would never see sense and come back to him while he was living like that. There was also the Katie factor. If he sold the surgery to her at a knockdown price then maybe she would feel she had evened the score a little. Maybe he would feel a little bit better about the way he had treated her.
He was trawling through the pros and cons, and indulging himself in his usual routine of beating himself up about how he had behaved in the past, when he noticed that Bertie was choking. He poked about in the dog's mouth and could see, lodged far down in the back of Bertie's throat, a piece of cotton wool, dropped in there, no doubt, when James had been calculating how much the estate agent's fees would be or which solicitors in Lincoln were the cheapest. Amanda, the nurse, had nipped out to check on another patient while he was finishing up. After all, hadn't he done this a thousand times? He thought about calling her, then decided it was simpler and quicker if he just dealt with it himself rather than explain how he had managed to drop a swab down a valued patient's throat. He didn't need to panic, he just needed to get it out. James poked about with his fingers and then forceps, growing increasingly edgy. Before he could even think about whether he should perform an emergency tracheotomy Bertie went limp. Once he was apparently unconscious, James was able to fish out the offending swab easily. He dropped it on the floor. When Amanda breezed back in she found him trying to force oxygen by tube into a dog who, apparently, had been in perfect health until five minutes before.
‘What happened?’ She rushed over to the operating-table to help.
James reluctantly turned away from Bertie. ‘I have no idea. He was fine a minute ago.’
He couldn't bring himself to confess. Not now — not with everything else that was happening. He had lost patients before, scores of them in different ways, of course he had, but never, as far as he knew, had he killed off an animal because he had lost his concentration. OK, so everyone made mistakes, but there was no way he could own up to the fact that he had fucked up the most basic of procedures because he was thinking about his personal life and what a mess he had made of it. It was hardly going to be a comfort to Charles Sullivan that at the moment his beloved dog had died James had been wondering whether to look for somewhere to live in Swiss Cottage or Queen's Park. Better that he never knew.
Better that they could imply that Bertie must have had an undiagnosed weak heart or dodgy bronchial system. Better that Amanda could testify to the fact that James had been desperately trying to save the dog's life, rather than that he was responsible for its death in the first place.
Charles Sullivan, when James called to give him the bad news, was distraught but grateful for the efforts that had apparently been made to keep his pet alive. He declined an investigative post-mortem, as pet owners always did, and asked instead if he could collect Bertie's body so that he could bury him in the park. When he arrived, his eyes red from crying, he gave James a manly hug and thanked him again. James, who was feeling like a prize shit, shed genuine tears when he told Charles how sorry he was.
It happened to every vet at some point in their career, death by human error, he knew that, but the guilt he felt was almost overwhelming. He thought about Finn and how he would feel if anything happened to Sebastian, and he tried not to think about Charles's ten-year-old daughter who had come with him when he had first brought Bertie in. By the time he got to Belsize Avenue at six fifteen for his prearranged visit with Finn, he was feeling thoroughly miserable.
‘Hi, mate,’
he said, as Finn opened the door, his face alight at the prospect of spending some time with his father.
Stephanie was in the kitchen, talking on the phone to Natasha. She had been intending to spend the evening sorting out her bedroom wardrobes — one pile for charity, another for things not worn for over a year and a third of definite keeps — just to be out of James's way. Michael was working — photographing the celebrating cast at the opening night of some play or other — and with Finn being entertained by James she would have the chance to spend some time on herself, a luxury that was increasingly rare these days. It seemed only polite, though, to say hello to her husband on the way.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked, thinking that he didn't look as if he was doing too well but not really wanting, or expecting, any answer other than ‘Fine’.
‘Shit, if I'm being honest.’
Stephanie flicked her eyes towards Finn.
‘Sorry,’ James said. ‘I mean, not too good. I had a bad day.’
She had no choice then but to sit and listen to the details of what had happened. When it became obvious it was a story that would give Finn nightmares she sent him off to brush David so that he could show James how well he was taking care of him.
Finn sighed, knowing he was going to be missing out on something. ‘I don't want to,’ he said petulantly.
‘Tell you what,’ James said. ‘Give his cage a good clean-out and then I'll show you how to give him a bath.’
‘Cool,’ Finn said, running out into the garden.
Stephanie eyed James sceptically. ‘Are you meant to bath guinea pigs?’ she said.
‘Not really, but it won't hurt him just once.’
By the time Finn was done James had told her everything: the fight with Richard, Katie's offer on the surgery, his preoccupation with his financial worries, his part in Bertie's untimely death. Stephanie had resisted the urge to say, ‘Well, you brought it all on yourself.’ In fact, she'd found she was feeling a bit sorry for him.
‘If I was you I'd take whatever I could get for the surgery. If you're in real trouble we could talk about selling the house, maybe. Get something smaller for me and Finn.’ She had meant it. She didn't want to punish him any more.
But James wasn't having any of it. ‘Absolutely not. That's not why I told you… I mean, I wouldn't want you to think I was trying to play the sympathy card. You and Finn have done nothing wrong. Nothing would make me take your home away from you. I just need to get back on my feet, that's all. And you're right, getting rid of the surgery is a start. And then, maybe, I can get some more work down here. Set up on my own eventually. I'll tell the agent to accept her offer.’
Stephanie realized he still felt awkward saying Katie's name in front of her. As if she still cared.
‘You don't mind me selling to… her… do you?’ he asked now, nervously.
‘Of course not. Don't be stupid. In fact, I think it's a great idea. You owe her something too, James.’
Secretly Stephanie was hoping that Katie would think this was all the payback she needed: screw James out of a few thousand pounds and then move on. She didn't blame her, she thought. It was understandable that she wanted blood.
James put his hand on her arm and Stephanie stiffened.
She had to stop herself from pulling away abruptly, from pushing him off her.
‘Thank you, Steph, for being so… good about everything. I don't — I mean I didn't — deserve you.’
Stephanie patted his arm half-heartedly and he took his hand away, as if he knew it had been an inappropriate gesture. ‘It's fine,’ she said. ‘I want you to get yourself sorted as much as you do. For Finn's sake. So we can just get on with things, you know.’ God, she wished he would stop giving her that look, that cross between a hurt puppy and a hopeful child. She stood up to put some physical distance between them and, thankfully, Finn burst in, David in hand. James, to give him credit, snapped out of his self-pity and into jolly-dad mode.
‘OK, the first thing you have to remember is that you should only do this once a year.’
Stephanie laughed — she knew he was hoping that Finn would have forgotten all about guinea-pig baths by the time twelve months had gone by. She left them to it, hoping David wouldn't be too traumatized by the experience. James would make sure he wasn't, she knew, because, contrary to how he was feeling right now, James was both a good father and a good vet. He was just a shit husband.
46
That James accepted her offer on the surgery so quickly took Katie completely by surprise. She had expected him to hold out for more money or even to turn her down flat so that he wouldn't have to face the embarrassment of having to deal with her. She couldn't wait to get on the phone to Stephanie and tell her.
‘Great,’ Stephanie said, when she had broken the news. ‘Well done.’
Stephanie didn't sound as delighted as Katie had anticipated, and then it hit her why that might be. ‘Oh, God, Stephanie, I hope you don't think I'm doing this to try and screw you out of money as well. Shit, I hadn't even thought of that. Do you want me to go back and up my offer? I will, if you want me to.’ She felt genuinely upset that it hadn't even crossed her mind that James getting a knock-down price for the surgery would have an effect on Stephanie too once they got round to sorting out a divorce settlement. She would never have wanted Stephanie to suffer any more than she already had.
‘It's not that,’ Stephanie said. ‘That hadn't even occurred to me. It's just… I don't know… I'm feeling a bit sorry for him at the moment —’
Katie couldn't help but jump in before Stephanie had had a chance to finish her sentence. ‘Sorry for him? After what he's done? Come on…’
And then Stephanie told her how down he had been when she'd last seen him and how he was still living in a motel, and some story about a dog dying, which, even though Katie loved dogs, seemed vaguely comical. It all seemed fairly trivial. The man wasn't dying of cancer or on Death Row, he was just feeling a little bit sorry for himself because he'd made his own bed (well, two beds to be fair) and now he was having to lie in it (them). Stephanie had mentioned that the dog had belonged to a Tory councillor, and Katie had laughed and said that must have been James's worst nightmare, a potential falling-out with such a pillar of the community, but Stephanie had said he didn't seem to care about that kind of thing any more: he was just upset that he had made such a terrible mistake and, anyway, as far as Charles Sullivan knew, Bertie had died of natural causes.
‘God,’ Katie heard herself say, ‘if I found out something like that had happened to Stanley I'd go ballistic.’
As soon as she had told Katie about the dog Stephanie knew she shouldn't have. There had been a hint of excitement in Katie's voice when she had said goodbye and Stephanie felt as if she had loaded the gun and then handed it over. She thought about calling Katie back and saying, ‘Forget what I just told you, I made it up,’ or even going straight to the point and asking her not to do anything rash, but she felt like that would fan the flames. She would just have to hope that the excitement of the new premises and the satisfaction of the small victory she had won would take the edge off Katie's desire for revenge.
She was spending the day shopping with Meredith for the upcoming soap awards. Meredith had been nominated in the best actress category specifically for a harrowing episode in which she'd learned that the man she was about to marry already had a wife and three children, who had conveniently just moved into the same area. She was up against an actress whose character had died a prolonged death from cancer (which she had been winning the battle against by all accounts, until she had asked the producers for a substantial salary increase) and another whose alter ego had recently been jailed for drug-running. There was no doubt about it, she had confided to Stephanie, death always won out at awards because the judges knew that this would be the last chance they would get to fawn over the genius of that particular actor. But, spurred on by her triumph at the BAFTAs, she was intending to go along and knock them dead in
an outfit, the design of which she was happy to leave entirely to Stephanie.
Currently they were in Ronit Zilkha, Meredith in the changing room trying on one enormous creation after another while Stephanie paced outside like an expectant father. She was dreading the fact that it was nearly lunchtime and she had no doubt that she would be expected to indulge Meredith in at least two courses in the restaurant at Harvey Nichols. She was quite fond of Meredith, these days — it was easy to feel benign towards someone who followed your instructions blindly — but they didn't have much to talk about. Besides, she wanted time on her own to think about the bombshell Michael had dropped on her this morning.
Meredith, however, was having none of it, and at a quarter to two they finally sat down to starters of scallops and butternut-squash soup, and Stephanie scoured her brain for something to talk about. Luckily Meredith blathered on for a while about some new storyline she was involved in and how unfair it was that some of the cast had been granted permission to take a break from filming for the lucrative panto season while others — herself included — had been refused. Stephanie tried to look sympathetic about the fact that Meredith would spend the next winter only making four thousand pounds a week instead of ten, but it wasn't easy. After that the conversation ground to a halt and Stephanie, desperate to fill the silence, found herself saying, ‘So, my boyfriend wants us to move in together.’