Behaving Like Adults (54 page)

ALONG WITH TENNIS,
the Buddhist concept of detachment is a skill I've never quite mastered. How
can
you detach from something that matters to you? People who refuse to worry about things that are out of their control astound me. Are they mad? Of course you should worry about things you can't control – they're the things most likely to go wrong!

Another problem I had with the concept of detachment, Buddhist or otherwise, was that you couldn't pretend it. When Issy was pregnant with Eden, she refused to buy even one baby-related item until a week before her due date (when Frank was despatched with a long fearsome list), as she didn't want to tempt Fate. Now, as long as she didn't sneak a nappy bin into the house under cover of darkness, Fate could
see
that Issy had kept her half of the bargain. The concept of detachment is trickier, because even, a
thought
can break the deal.

I was so accustomed to attaching, willy-nilly, to everyone and everything, I barely noticed I was making progress. Only when I got the call did I realise that I'd been obsessing less about Stuart. He was no longer the monstrous shadow that loomed from all sides, caging me in, whichever way I turned. He was simply a bad man who had done a bad thing. He did not possess the terrible omnipotence I'd given him, he did not have the power to destroy my life.

‘Holly, is that you? It's Caroline. Constable Caroline Keats, from the CSU.'

If there's one talent I
do
have, it's remembering names
and faces. (There was a boy in my junior school called Attar and when I saw him in Oxford Street twenty years later I recognised him instantly, but I didn't say hello, he would have thought I was strange.)

‘
Caroline!
I knew it was you, how are you?'

‘I'm fine, love, fine. How are you doing?'

‘Really well, thanks. Everything is . . . not bad. I'm doing fine.'

‘Listen, love. I thought I'd put in a call. I can't tell you too much – data protection and all that – but last night, we nicked someone you know. Stuart Marshall. For a similar offence.'

I choked on air. ‘Oh God. Oh God.' For one second, I was jubilant. And then. ‘The woman, is she—?'

‘As I said, love, this is off the record, I can't tell you any more.'

‘Yes, of course. Oh, but can I tell my solicitor? Stuart's trying to sue me for defamation.'

‘Christ. Not the sharpest tool in the box, is he? Of course, love. Now you take care.'

I smiled. ‘You too. Thanks, Caroline.'

I rang Michael and left a message on his mobile. Then I had a bubble bath. Sometimes (at the risk of encouraging lazy journalism on women's pages everywhere) a bubble bath is the only answer.

The following day, Claudia and I were as two rays of sunshine, though I say so myself, struggling against a pair of stormclouds. Though she denied it, Issy was in a foul mood (proven when I said, ‘I love your top, where did you get it?' and she snapped ‘Harley Street'). When I thanked Nick for speaking to his dad for me, he replied ungraciously, ‘Yeah, well, whacha gonna do?'

I didn't press it with Nick. Despite the fact I'd done him a grave injustice, he'd behaved decently. In fact, he kept behaving decently. If he didn't watch out it would become a habit. I was particularly moved that he'd gone into debt
to save my business without telling me. The equivalent, I felt, of a celeb giving to charity without singing about it from hill and dale. So I felt he was entitled to play the martyr. Despite a silly, mischievous streak, Nick
was
the loveliest person I knew.

My all-time favourite photograph was of Nick, aged one, face like thunder, tipping his birthday cake onto the floor. In his first three years, he managed to climb up his aunt's chimney, get stuck and
fall asleep
, prompting a police search; tip out of a window onto a row of milk bottles; and eat a white dog pooh he found in the park.

As an adult, he'd only changed in that the mischief and silliness was premeditated. In the second year of our relationship, we'd gone to Italy and – despite Michael and Lavinia's offer of the Umbria house – stayed in a crumbling hotel on Lake Garda. I was reading by the pool when Nick called ‘Holly!' and as I looked, dived at the deep end with a towel billowing from his head, a la Superman's cape. It was daft but it made me – and a middle-aged German on the next lounger – collapse into giggles. I also have a photo of Nick on all fours with two bananas protruding from his mouth pretending to be a walrus. No reason.

Once, we'd visited Issy when Eden's rather prim friends, Chloe and Victoria, were over to play. Chloe and Victoria had refused to eat the salmon that Issy had lovingly stuck in the microwave. Until Nick explained that this salmon was special; it was moon salmon. Then they wolfed it. Two weeks later, Nick starred as Mr Elephant at Eden's fourth birthday, and Chloe and Victoria told him off. Their mummy had said there was no such thing as moon salmon. ‘Tell your mummy,' replied Nick, ‘that what she knows about moon salmon could be written on the back of a postage stamp.'

Then, I'd wondered if it was irresponsible to lie to children. But now I saw it as glorious, feeding their minds. Poor Chloe and Victoria, to have such a dull mummy, she couldn't bear to allow them the fantasy of moon salmon
lest one day they mentioned it in their geography A level and failed to get into Cambridge. Lucky Holly, to have such a fun fiancé, for whom the world would never be grey because life would always be lit by the brilliance of his imagination.

Well, I no longer had the fun fiancé, but maybe one day I'd meet a nice sensible banker who'd provide me with what really mattered, a BMW and ensuring I got my tax returns in on time.

Could I be happy with a man who was less in love with life than Nick? A man who didn't look at the ‘eat by' date on his box of Weetabix and cry, ‘Best before Jan 03
2031!
Twenty
thirty-one
! Right! I'm putting this cereal packet in the loft and on January the second I'm going to complain. “Hello! I'd like to speak to the Chairman, if he's still alive!” “Did you keep them in a cool, dark—?” “Yes!”'

I sniggered to myself, then huffed over my desk, scrolling down the morning's emails. I mustn't rewrite history. For the last few years of our engagement, Nick
had
been a shit, there was no denying it. It was one thing to have a gorgeous sense of creativity, to be finely attuned to your inner child. It was quite another to let that inner child out to run amok. Along with the delights of banana walruses and moon salmon had gone the irritations of sink teabags, back-of-the-sofa socks (and other debris), red bills – a feast of selfishness, goddammit.

Based on the evidence, I'd made the right decision for then. If only I'd known six months back, that – let's call it a
challenge
– would improve him. That he would lose the worst of his brattishness, retain his cheekiness. That he would become more considerate. But then, isn't that always the case? You rid yourself of a frog, only for him to become a prince the minute he escapes your jurisdiction.

‘Holly,' said Claudia, whose pink blusher defined her mood. ‘Guess what? Tabitha just called. Tabitha from
Glamour
. She wanted to tell us that she and Xak are madly in luuurrvve, and so he's leaving Girl Meets Boy. She says
very sorry for pinching one of our clients, but she's going to make up for it in publicity terms with the feature. So, hooray, no?'

‘Yes.' I re-engaged with the present. ‘Yes, hooray!'

Claudia hummed to herself as she tapped the keyboard. I'd called her the previous night to tell her about Stuart's arrest. I hadn't wanted her or Camille to feel wretched about the failure of the Clouseau Plan for a second longer than necessary. Occasionally, life works out. She, in turn, told me that she'd called Em and Dee to check they were okay, and Mum couldn't come to the phone because – said Dad – she was in the bath. But Claw could hear her in the background and she was hysterical. Claudia reckoned it was delayed shock. Dad had asked Claw how was Holly,
really
, did she think there was anything they could do? Claudia had told them simply, ‘listen, be there if she needs you.'

I felt bad for my parents, but not as bad as I thought I'd feel.

The phone shrilled.

‘Hello?'

‘Hol? Yeah, sorry, it's Manjit.'

‘Hel
lo!
How are yooo?'

You know you're pleased to hear from someone when you find yourself elongating all your ‘o's.

‘Yeah, fine, fine. Listen. I was thinking about joining the club. As a paying member. What with me being single and that. That bird, girl, sorry, woman, Verity, she's not left or anything has she?'

‘Manjit,' I said. ‘Would you like to go on a date with Verity?'

Manjit did a what-an-outlandish-suggestion laugh.

‘Tell you what. Why don't I give Verity your mobile, and if she wants to call you, which I'm sure she does, she will. Then the two hundred quid you save on membership, you can spend on a posh dinner and a pussy, cock, ass, tit, beaver shirt.'

‘Yeah?' Manjit sounded overwhelmed. ‘That shirt of Nick's was the business. Do you reckon they still sell 'em? If you're sure. I don't wanna do you out of any wedge.'

‘Pah. Don't insult me.'

‘What? Right, yeah then, that'd be sweet. Thanks, Hol. Thanks very much.'

‘Don't mention it, sweediepea. Your wish is my command.'

I plunked down the receiver, feeling fairy godmotherish. It felt good to do good again.

Issy stamped out of the office, banging the door. I presumed she'd overheard our conversation. I knew that money mattered to her but surely, after all he'd endured with Bo, she couldn't begrudge Manjit this tiny favour? I followed the noise of slamming doors and traced her to the toilet.

‘Iz, are you okay?'

‘NO.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Oh nothing, except Frank and I are probably getting DIVORCED.'

‘What?'

‘Yet again, my husband rings our house – when he
knows
I am at this
office
– to leave a message that he'll be working late tonight, and I am sick to bloody death of it, I will not be taken for a fool, I am not a woman to be cheated on, and when my solicitors have finished with him and he's living in a basement bedsit in, in, in
Basildon
' – Issy burst from the toilet, shaking with all the emotion that the image of one's unfaithful spouse rueing the day in a Basildon basement bedsit can prompt – ‘the bastard will realise that!'

She glared at me.

Rachel.

I'd had enough. And today, I was the all powerful Oz.

‘Issy. Go home. Take the day off. Just don't do anything rash like listen to
The Smiths
and—'

‘The who?'

‘Never mind. Just take the day off and enjoy it. You've been working very hard, and you were fantastic with the Mortimers. So have a break and, for the moment, hold off the litigators. You never know. I'm not saying I don't believe you, but until you catch him with his trousers down, there is always the possibility you could be mistaken. Tonight I am going to find Rachel and have a word.'

I wasn't kidding. The shards of my life were slowly beginning to piece themselves together and I raged at Rachel's destructive influence. Not, of course, that
she
was wholly to blame. She was single. Morally speaking, she was free to seduce any man she pleased. The burden of guilt lay with Frank, a husband and a father who should have known better.

At five past five, I rang Rachel's PA, a spectacularly dim
gel
named Abigail. Every time I saw her I was intrigued, that a woman in her early twenties could dress like a fifty-year-old. Pearls. Alice bands. Twinsets. Tweed. She hung out in Chelsea (although she lived in the rougher part of Earl's Court) and got notoriously drunk at least four times a week. Despite this, she was a person who took life – and a lot of antiquated society rules about positions of forks on tables, etc. – extremely seriously. While this made her a good PA, it also made her gullible.

I explained that I was meeting up with an old pal of Rachel's (who, I'd decided was named Horace and trained officers at Sandhurst) and that we wanted to surprise her.

‘What an absolutely jolly idea!' cried Abigail. ‘Hang on a mo, I'll check the diary.'

It emerged that Rachel had a ‘business meeting' in a hotel bar on Monmouth Street in Covent Garden at seven.

I was wondering if Abigail would suspect if I pressed for an identity, when she volunteered that the client's name was Frank Ellis-Willis.

I clapped my hand over my mouth. It was true!

‘Thanks
ever
so, Abi,' I trilled, attempting to ingratiate by speaking her native tongue. ‘Now don't breathe a word to Rach about Horace – it'll be a super surprise!'

At a quarter to seven, I slipped on a pair of pink sunglasses, wiggled my toes in their white boots (having taken the necessity for disguise as an opportunity to shop) and marched into the bar area of the chosen hotel. The decor was spartan, stained wood floors and furniture, a vase of white lilies, and little else. I slid into a dark corner, hid behind a menu and, because it seemed appropriate, ordered a double Scotch. It was disgusting, cost nine quid and made me choke. I rubbed my throat in a pointless attempt to ease the burning sensation, wondered what the hell I thought I was doing.

And then she walked in.

She shrugged off her red shawl and I felt a low growl at the back of my throat.
That
was not business meeting attire. It was ‘rip this off and ravish me' wear. It was a spit for the dress Monroe wore to be photographed above the air vent, except black. And I'd bet my family's life on it, those weren't tights, they were stockings.