by Fallon, Jane
‘Wow,’ Meredith said, putting down her fork. ‘That didn't take long.’
‘Nearly three months,’ Stephanie said. ‘Is it too soon? I think it might be too soon.’ Why was she talking to Meredith about this? she thought. Mrs In-the-closet-lesbian. Probably never had a relationship in her life.
‘That depends. I once moved in with someone after a week.’
Stephanie nearly choked. She resisted the urge to voice the question she was dying to ask.
Meredith was still talking: ‘To be honest, it was a stupid thing to do, though. I moved out again a month later.’
Stephanie laughed. ‘Well, that helps me a lot.’
‘I think that if you're worried it's too soon then it's too soon.’
‘That's what I think.’
If she was honest, she didn't know what she thought.
Michael had mentioned it over breakfast as if he was discussing a new kind of cereal or the state of the Dow Jones. It had come so out of nowhere that at first she'd laughed and then he'd said that he was deadly serious, and that it was crazy for them to keep two separate homes when they spent so much time together. Besides, he was serious about this relationship and he wanted to move it on to a stronger footing. It would make most sense, he'd said, if he sold his place and then, if she wanted, he could use the money to buy a half-share in her house. He knew she wouldn't want to move.
Stephanie's first thought had been Finn. He and Michael got along fine, although they didn't share much common ground and, when it got right down to it, Michael wasn't and would never be his father. And then she thought about how she felt, and how she felt was blank. She had a feeling she should have been elated. It was the promise of a whole new life with a kind, decent man, who clearly adored her. There was no chance that Michael was ever going to set up a secret life somewhere else, sneaking off to the countryside and some other poor woman he'd conned into loving him every few days. He was smart and he was talented. There was just a lingering anxiety, hovering somewhere on the periphery of her brain, that she couldn't quite put her finger on.
‘Well,’ Meredith continued, ‘you either tell him you want to wait a bit or else you do a trial run. Move in together for a couple of weeks and then decide. But don't go promising him it's permanent before you're sure.’
Stephanie sighed. ‘You're right, I know you are. But, if I'm being honest, I'm scared. What if I say no and then he never asks again?’ Why was she telling Meredith all this? She really had no idea.
Meredith snorted. ‘What — and then you stay as you are, just you and Finn? Is that really so bad? Come on, Stephanie, don't tell me you've turned into one of those women who'd rather live with Fred West than be on their own?’
Stephanie laughed. ‘Of course not. Although he did have nice hair.’
‘If he's really into you, he'll still want to move in in six months’ time. And if he doesn't, it proves you were right to wait, don't you think?’
‘I know that makes sense.’ Stephanie ran her hand over her eyes. ‘I guess I just don't understand why I'm not jumping up and down. I mean, who'd have thought six months ago that I'd meet someone else so quickly? Someone who's attractive and kind and smart and who loves me…’ She tailed off, not knowing what else to say.
‘But?’ Meredith said, raising an eyebrow.
Stephanie looked at her quizzically.
Meredith continued: ‘There was a “but” coming.’
‘But… I don't know. But… he's a bit… he's not… He likes jazz and talking about world cinema. All his friends are artists and photographers and musicians. Or, at least, they're trying to be. Not that there's anything wrong with that, except that they take it all so seriously. And so does he.’ She had no idea if Meredith understood what she was going on about. She barely understood it herself. ‘I think that's what my “but” was — “But he's a bit too cool for his own good.”’
Meredith nodded. ‘He sounds…’
‘Dull? He's not dull, he's really not, he's just a bit… serious.’
‘I was actually going to say that he sounds interesting. I'm just not sure he sounds very you, if you know what I mean. Sorry if that's presumptuous.’
Stephanie sighed. ‘Sometimes I do wish he'd lighten up a bit.’
‘Well, if you really insist on taking the advice of an embittered old spinster who's never lived with anyone herself except for four weeks in 1989 then here's what I think…’ Meredith, ever the actress, paused as if for effect. ‘Do nothing. There's no rush. You can't lose anything by waiting, except for a bit of sleep, maybe.’
‘Is that the only piece of advice anyone ever gives? Do nothing?’
‘I'm naturally lazy. Doing nothing always seems like the best answer to me.’
Stephanie smiled gratefully. ‘Thanks, Meredith, I appreciate you listening.’
‘She's right, of course,’ Natasha said smugly. ‘Although why you'd be asking that dried-up old misery for advice when you could have asked me I don't know.’
‘Well, she said exactly the same as you would have said, so what's the difference? Besides, I like her.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since she decided I was a genius. Actually, she's been very sweet lately.’
Natasha snorted. ‘You'll be going out on a date with her next. No wonder she's trying to put you off Michael, she thinks she's in with a shot.’
‘OK, let's move on from the 1970s.’
‘Just tell me this,’ Natasha said, suddenly serious. ‘When was the last time you made him laugh?’
‘He laughs.’ Stephanie was indignant. ‘What do you mean? I thought you liked him. He likes you.’
‘I do like him, he's smart and thoughtful. He's just not exactly hilarious to be around, that's all I'm saying.’
‘I like being with him. He's kind and clever and an adult. Plus he's never going to mess me around.’
‘Great. And I can understand why that seems like the most important thing at the moment but… it doesn't mean you should make it permanent, that's all. Not until you're sure at least and you're clearly not sure at the moment.’
Stephanie sat down heavily on the sofa. She suddenly felt miserable. Overwhelmed by a wave of uncharacteristic self-pity, she burst into tears.
Natasha looked horrified. ‘I wasn't having a go! Oh, God, sorry, Steph.’
Stephanie rarely cried and, consequently, whenever she did it was as if everything she had been bottling up since the last time saw an opportunity and came flooding out and then she couldn't stop. Now she tried to say, ‘No, it's nothing to do with what you just said,’ but it was too hard to speak and cry at the same time and the crying won out. She shook her head in the hope that Natasha would know what she meant. Whether she did or not, Natasha came and sat beside her and patted her leg helplessly. Stephanie knew she must be making her uneasy — she didn't think that in all their years of friendship Natasha had ever seen her cry — but she had no way of stopping. She didn't even know what she was crying about, just that she felt empty and hopeless and as if her whole life had gone to shit.
‘It's good for you to let it all out,’ Natasha was saying. ‘You always put a brave face on everything. It's just not… natural. Look at you. Most people would have fallen apart after what happened to you but you barely missed a breath. It's not healthy.’
‘What do you mean? I was trying to hold it together. I thought that was the right thing to do.’
‘It's not a criticism, Steph. I'm just saying that no one could go through what you've just gone through without breaking down at some point. It's just taken you longer than most, that's all. It's a good thing. If I didn't hate everything and anything New Age I'd be saying things like “You can't start to heal until you've allowed yourself to break completely.” But obviously I'm never going to say that so I'm just going to say that all those things, like getting your revenge on James —’
‘Which you said was a good thing.’
‘— which I said was a good thing — and
Michael were like self-preservation. They helped you get through the worst of it. They gave you something to focus on. They helped put off the moment when you really took in what had happened till now, till you were strong enough to deal with it. And now that you've got it all out of your system, you can move on, that's all.’
‘Me and Michael are fine, OK?’ Stephanie said defensively. ‘I know you don't like him but that's your problem.’ She ignored Natasha's protestations. ‘You never liked James and now you don't like Michael.’
She knew as soon as she said it that it was a childish thing to say. The truth was that Natasha had been right to be wary of James: she had only ever had Stephanie's best interests at heart. And if Stephanie had let herself dwell on it she would have known that she would have to agree that there was something in what Natasha had said about her relationship with Michael that was right too. But she wasn't about to let herself dwell on it.
‘I'm going to let him move in,’ she said, somewhat petulantly. ‘He's right — we're good together.’
‘Well, if that's what you want to do, then good for you,’ Natasha said. ‘I only wanted to make sure you were certain. I really am pleased for you, if it makes you happy.’ She held out her arms to give Stephanie a hug but Stephanie was having none of it. She was sick of Natasha telling her what was right and what was wrong, what to do. She conveniently forgot that it was always she who pressed Natasha for advice, that Natasha was the person she called at one or two in the morning when she didn't know what to do, that Natasha would always drop everything and listen to her moaning on whenever she had a problem.
Stephanie stood up and reached for her coat. ‘I have to go,’ she said coldly, and left without saying goodbye.
47
The one professional mistake that James had made — the only one that mattered, really, when it came to it — was not to have held his hands up and taken the blame for what had happened to Bertie. Charles Sullivan might have been angry, he might have taken his custom away and entrusted the care of his cat and his one remaining dog to another vet, he might even have threatened to sue for some kind of compensation, but what he almost certainly wouldn't have done was demand that Harry get rid of James. And even in the unlikely event that he had done, had James's recent behaviour not been so erratic, his appearance so unkempt, then Harry would surely not have listened. As it was, Harry was so preoccupied with his own doubts about James's state of mind that when he got the call from the woman purporting to be Charles Sullivan's aide, and he was told that Charles had been given reason to believe that James had effectively killed Bertie through incompetence — exhibit A, the swab that had got itself lodged in Bertie's throat — he didn't think twice about calling James in to explain himself.
‘It was a genuine mistake,’ James said immediately, believing — wrongly, of course — that Amanda, the nurse, must have worked out what had happened and reported back.
‘You're telling me that it's true? That you caused the accidental death of Charles Sullivan's dog and then tried to cover that fact up?’
‘I'm sorry,’ James said. ‘But you know how it is. These things happen.’
‘No, no James,’ Harry said. ‘You misunderstand me. I'm not angry about what happened to Bertie, I'm angry that you made me look like a bloody fool. I'm angry that you put me in a situation where I had to defend your actions without knowing the facts.’
James shuffled from one foot to the other. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered.
‘It's the deception,’ Harry continued, in full flow now. ‘The fact that I was put on the spot and forced to bluff my way through the conversation so it didn't look like I had no idea what was happening at my own practice. I had to tell her I was already investigating what had happened. Surely you can see how unacceptable that is?’
‘It won't happen again,’ James mumbled, looking at his shoes.
‘I know it won't, James, because… and I'm sorry, I really am… I'm afraid I'm going to have to let you go.’
James looked up for the first time. This couldn't be happening. ‘Please don't do this, Harry.’
Harry was still talking: ‘We can make it official with all the attendant publicity that might bring or else you can just agree to leave at the end of the week. It's up to you to do what you think is the right thing.’
James had no doubt that the right thing to do was the thing he was going to do. It was what he should have done in the first place and then he wouldn't have been in this mess. It was what he should have done a year ago too, when Katie and Stanley first appeared in his surgery.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I'll deal with any appointments that have already been made and then I'll go. Don't worry, I won't make it any more difficult for you than it already is.’
‘Thank you,’ Harry said, turning back to some paperwork on his desk to indicate that their chat was over.
James walked out into the corridor in a daze. This was it. He was unemployed. He had gone from having his own successful business along with a beautiful house and an equally beautiful wife (not to mention the mistress, but he was trying to gloss over that even in his private thoughts) to being out of work and living alone and unloved in a motel in the space of three short months. He had no job, no home, no partner, no money, no self-esteem. No dignity, he thought bitterly.
Next step would probably be to grow his hair long and move out on to the streets where he could sit in a cardboard box all day, maybe with a mangy-looking dog on a piece of string. He had heard you could hire them for a few hours from modern-day Fagins who kept them by the dozen. The skinnier the better. People were far more likely to give money to a homeless person's dog than to the person himself, apparently. That just about summed up the world, James thought miserably. Maybe he should become an alcoholic or get a crack habit, although how he was meant to afford to do either of those things now he didn't really know. God, he couldn't even be a proper tramp. How pitiful was that? He'd have to turn to crime to fund the drug habit he hadn't yet acquired. No wonder Stephanie didn't want him any more. He was just considering which was more effective, pills or hanging, when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID: Finn. Of course, Finn, he thought. Finn still loved him. Finn was a reason to carry on.
‘Hi, mate,’ he said, his eyes watering at the thought of his son.
‘Where are you?’ Finn sounded angry. ‘You promised you'd be here.’
James panicked. Be where? He looked at his watch. It was five to four already. How had that happened? Shit, he thought, his heart lurching. Finn's football match. Somewhere back when he had been feeling more like a normal human being he had promised his son that of course he would be at the game and that he would arrange with Harry to have one of the other vets see his patients. The kick-off was at four. Fuck.
‘I got held up. I'm leaving now. I'm so sorry, Finnster, I should have rung you.’ He started stuffing things like keys and money into his pockets to make a quick getaway.
‘You forgot about it,’ Finn was shouting now. ‘You never do anything with me. I hate you.’
James listened as Finn pressed the button to end the call. Great. He raced through reception with his head down. He could see Cheryl Marshall and her beagle Rooney, his four o'clock appointment, watching him expectantly. He was so intent on avoiding Cheryl's eye that he almost bumped into Harry, who was coming the other way, carrying a small dog that must be on its way to surgery. ‘I have a family emergency,’ he muttered, without stopping.
‘What about your patients?’ Harry protested.
‘I don't work for you any more, Harry,’ he shouted back as he broke into a run in the street. ‘Go fuck yourself,’ he added, for good measure, although he thought later this might have been overkill. So, this time doing the right thing actually meant fucking his boss over in favour of his son. God, it was complicated. They should teach stuff like this in school: ‘How to have the moral high ground’, ‘Honesty for beginners’ or ‘Treading the path of righteousness 1:01’.
Stephanie hated
standing on the sidelines with the other parents. Not that she didn't enjoy watching Finn play, she nearly burst with pride every time he got the ball and, on occasion, had been known to shout, ‘Tackle him,’ rather too over-excitedly. No, it was the forced conversation with the mothers of his team mates — it was always the mothers, except for Shannon Carling's father whose wife had died soon after Shannon was born and who worked flexi-time so that he could look after his daughter — the illusion that because they all had sons and daughters the same age they must have other things in common. Most of them were nice enough, some of them she was even friends with, but the forced jollity of the incessant banter during matches exhausted her. Plus she was in a foul mood because James hadn't turned up to watch Finn as he'd promised he would. Not that she cared one way or another if he was there but she knew her son was bitterly disappointed. And, to be fair, it wasn't like James, these days, to be so unreliable. He had been going out of his way to prove what a caring and hands-on father he was.
She checked her watch again — a quarter past four. Finn was running his heart out on the pitch, with a miserable look on his face. She glanced round to see if there was any sign of James — he had told Finn he was on his way — just as he rounded the corner of the school drive, red-faced and sweating, running as if he was being chased. All the other mothers turned to look and she knew that they were torn between thinking that they were grateful their husbands didn't go around making such twats of themselves and feeling jealous and a bit sad that Stephanie had a husband — albeit a soon-to-be-ex one — who could be bothered to come to school events.
‘Did you run all the way?’ Stephanie said when he had flopped down on the grass beside her.
He nodded, unable to get enough breath to speak.
‘Well, better late than never,’ she said, and then hated herself both for being so catty and for trotting out such a cliché.