Behaving Like Adults (55 page)

When Frank sauntered in, I could hardly bear to look. He lifted her hand as if to say, stand up and give me a twirl, which she did. They laughed and he kissed her cheek. Boiling with rage, I drained the rest of my Scotch and turned purple as I attempted to choke silently. It then occurred that at this point, my plan stopped dead. They were chatting over bar snacks. I could hardly march up to them when I had no more evidence than a bowl of peanuts, and shout ‘
ho!
'

I ordered another nine-quid Scotch, and suddenly my brain had a power surge. What I'd said to Issy was true. Until Frank was caught with his trousers down, she, we
could
be mistaken. But whoa there, Sherlock, this was a hotel. They must have rented a room! My lip curled. Lilies and shawls notwithstanding, this was nothing less than
seedy. Well, fine. I'd show them seedy. I necked my third and fourth Scotch and slammed down a crisp twenty.

As I crept out of the bar, they were intent in conversation, and Rach had out her Events Planner, a big red tome in which she detailed all her bookings. What, pray, was she doing? Scheduling their next tryst? I hoped Frank realised she saw him and his dick as a business proposition. I snuck round the corner, and sized up the reception staff. Then I waited until the officious looking blonde was busy on a call, the fifty-year-old Basil Fawlty clone had trundled out of sight and the green teenager from the Scilly Isles (or so I guessed) was free.

Then I rang the hotel from outside the main door of the lobby, imperious and irate, because I was meeting a hotel guest, Rachel, in her room, had been given the wrong number and had consequently burst in on an elderly Swiss couple in flagrante, how
dare
you!

‘Madam, I am terribly sorry, it's room number fifteen, I do apologise.'

‘Thank you,' I purred, ‘hic! You're very kind.'

Oh
ho
. Oh no.

Issy would be devastated. In her way, she loved him. My mind boggled that he could
do
this to her. To me, cheating on your partner is like scrambling an egg. There is no going back. Even if they never find out,
you
know what you've done and the sanctity of your relationship is violated for ever. I decided that Frank was
not
going to do this to her. He was not a man who wanted to live in a basement bedsit in Basildon, and so he'd be, I reckoned, easy to persuade.

I staggered down the road to find a disposable camera. My plan was, snap 'em at it, then – on pain of showing Issy the pictures – force Frank never to see Rachel again
and
have him deny everything. As for Rachel herself, I'd threaten to send the pictures to the
Telegraph
. She didn't care about her own reputation, but I knew she'd hate to embarrass her family. I was impressed with myself. What a brilliant plan! (In my defence, by this point I could
hardly stand which might have had some bearing on my judgment.)

It took me a full hour to find a place that disposed distolable cameras. I mean, that sold disposable cameras. Dishgraceful. Thish ish a capital shitty. I deshided to have a quick drink in a pub – ‘double Shcotch, no rocksh' – before returning to the hotel. They'd drink, they'd eat, they'd get to the room at, what, ten? He wouldn't shtay out too late, he washn't that kind of guy.

I loitered outside the hotel until reception was unattended, then wobbled into a lift. Room fifteen was on the second floor.
Ping!
said the lift. I hastily unwrapped the camera, and tiptoed along the white-walled corridor. Room fifteen was at the end. I held my breath as I put my ear to the cool wood.
Groaning
. Horrible! I could do without hearing the noise Rachel made at the point of orgasm. It was just the thing my brain would replay to creep me out.

I braced myself. Damn. What if the door was locked? I'd have to knock. The photo wouldn't be as incriminating but it would do. Slowly, I twisted the handle. Then I raised the camera to eye level, hurled open the door, and pressed the trigger.

Rachel screamed.

The flash didn't go off.

I tripped over a shoe.

Nige covered his erection with the sheet, peered over the edge of the bed at me sprawled on the floor, and said, ‘Holly Appleton, you foul pervert!'

AS MY NOSE
swelled to twice its size, Rachel lit a cigarette and explained. Nige, who seemed alarmingly free and easy about me seeing him naked, sat cross-legged and ordered roast chicken on room service. I no longer felt drunk, the alcohol seemed to desert my body with the speed of a family fleeing a house on fire. Nige passed me a chill can of Coke from the minibar to hold to my face to numb the pain. I felt stupid enough so I drank it.

‘Babes, you really have shown yourself up. I told you there was nothing going on with Frank. Give me
some
credit. He's married to your sister! I wouldn't touch him if he begged me which, incidentally, he hasn't and wouldn't. What were you planning, a spot of blackmail?'

I glared at her. She still managed to look composed, despite being a victim of coitus interruptus and unbrushed hair.

‘You're still not in the clear,
lovey
,' I said in a screech. ‘Earlier tonight you were canoodling with Frank in the hotel bar. And you've had a succession of secret meetings and phone calls with him. Issy is going out of her mind. She's distraught. She's considering divorce. What do you say to that? And does Nige know about this? What are you running here, a brothel?'

Rachel tugged her white hotel bathrobe around her chunky body and laughed.

‘You're a very silly girl,' she said. ‘You won't give up, will you? For the last time, Frank and I are
not
having an affair. I am sworn to secrecy, so if I'm struck down,
you
are
to blame. Frank and I are organising a surprise tenth anniversary party for Issy, to take place two weeks next Saturday. A stiffy – first class,
bien sûr
– is scheduled to drop through your letter box tomorrow morning. There are two hundred and fifty guests, he is holding it at the Ritz, and he is the most . . . 
particular
client, so it has required a mountain of organisation. He has wanted to oversee every detail, he has specified an exact shade of pink for the sugar roses on the chocolate cake, he has requested a certain band and listed, in order, every song he wishes them to play – and considering what they charge, should he require it, they'll sing “Humpty Dumpty Sat on a Wall”.'

Rachel paused to suck the remains of life from her cigarette.

‘Babes. Never in the history of party planning have I ever seen a man so ridiculously in love with his wife. Certainly not after a decade of imprisonment, a slip, forgive me, wedded bliss. Alas, he's tediously insisted on keeping it a secret, while having no aptitude for deception whatsoever. Well, frankly – ha ha – I've had enough.
I
suggest you trot home and spill the beans to big sis, otherwise the party will be ruined anyhow. Issy will be so deeply entrenched in months of envy and suspicion she'll be unable to make the mental transition to beloved wife. And if she does – although men never understand this – she'll be so deeply peeved at being denied the chance to look twenty by spending thousands on dresses, lipo, detox, botox and so on, for the benefit of her audience, that she'll spend the entire night feeling fat and sulking.'

There was a loud rap on the door.

‘Enter!' called Nige.

A penguin suited waiter wheeled in a trolley on which gleamed a bosom of silver domes, and started to fussily arrange knives, forks and plates on a table by the window. Oh don't worry, I wanted to say, just leave it, we'll sort it, thank you
so
much, fumble, blush, have a fiver, urk, lady muck, a fellow human being in a servant situation, implies
I'm better than you, who do you think you are, no, no, can't deal with it . . .

‘Babes,' said Rachel, addressing Nige. ‘There's some shrapnel in my bag. Tip the man. Please' – raising her voice as if the waiter was an idiot and deaf to boot – ‘return in half an hour to clear the table. Nothing like a chicken carcass to stink out a room. Thank you.'

I shrank in my seat and attempted an apologetic glance at the guy. He pocketed the change and leered at me in – at the risk of sounding as bad as Rachel – an impertinent manner. Ah, he thought we'd had a threesome. I stopped feeling embarrassed for him and started feeling embarrassed for me. The second he'd gone, I took it out on Rachel.

‘Jesus Christ,' I spluttered. ‘Well, thank God. But you didn't exactly help the situation, you kept dropping clangers about Frank buying a new car or doing this or that. If the party was a secret, what was Issy
meant
to think? You can deny it, but I think you've enjoyed making mischief.'

‘Babes, I am a friendly, tactile person who likes my clients to feel at ease. That's all there is to it, it's hardly a crime. If Issy insists on suspecting her husband of foul play when he clearly worships the ground she walks on, I am not responsible.'

Rachel stopped talking. Not, I felt, because she'd said all she wanted, but because she was busy hacking into the roast chicken.

‘Want some?' said Nige, opening his mouth for Rach to drop a strand of chicken into it.

If I hadn't been hunched on a chair keeping as still as possible in an effort to keep the throbbing in my nose under control, I would have stamped my foot. Instead I squeaked, ‘And how
dare
you make out you're so innocent – you too, Nigel – when you've been sneaking around behind everyone's back for months and months, pretending to hate each other when all the time you were conducting an illicit affai—'

‘We
did
hate each other,' said Nige in a hurt voice.

‘I disliked him intensely,' added Rach, fondling his thigh. ‘For years I thought he was a common little thing with no taste or class, didn't I, babes?'

Nige nodded, and curled a lock of Rach's hair round his chicken-greasy fingers. ‘Absolutely. And I thought she was too posh and grubby to be believed.'

‘She
is
too posh and grubby to be believed!' I roared.

Nige and Rach smiled gooily.

‘So when did you change your minds?'

‘We had a huge row at the Girl Meets Boy party at Nige's club over whether Tom Cruise was gay or straight and ended up kissing.'

‘Oh well,' I said. ‘Now it all makes sense.'

‘Darling,
don't
be miffed,' said Nige. ‘Rachey was such a saucy little minx that—'

‘Please. Spare me. I already know far more than I want to about your sex life.'

‘For which you only have yourself to blame,' said Rach.

‘
You
told me you were dating a married man, Rachel! You misled me on purpose.'

‘Babes, I said marriedish. Which describes Nigely-Widgely perfectly.'

I looked accusingly at Nige.

He smiled his best media smile – a pity, because it was wasted on me
and
he had lettuce in his teeth.

‘Darling angel, Holly, Marylou is trouble and if she knew I was head over heels with Rachey, she'd never agree to a divorce. Since
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof
she has shown alarming signs of wanting to hang on to me. So you see, our need for secrecy.'

‘Secrecy, balls!' I yelled. ‘You're just a shameless pair of drama queens who get a thrill out of . . . room service! Oh God, you're rotten, I can't believe it, you've caused no end of trouble, you . . .'

Against my better judgment, I started to smile. Then laugh. Which hurt my nose.

‘So how's your love life?' said Nige. Instantly, he looked embarrassed. I flinched. I'd had enough of being handled with care, I was ready to be normal again. I wanted my friends to be able to pose that great conversational nonentity without fear of the terrible chain reaction they might be sparking in my head. Even though my love life was, for the record, shit.

Nige must have read my thoughts. ‘No, no,' he gasped, ‘I didn't mean it like
that
, what I meant was, I can't believe I asked you,
anyone
, such an elderly aunt of a question. Please tell me that finding Rachey won't turn me into a bore, it's the duty of an actor to live life as deeply as possible. More to the point, I need to be quirky and interesting, the papers don't quote you otherwise.'

Reassured, I beamed at him. ‘It's not great. But I'm fine. I'm still reeling from getting unengaged twice to the same man. I think I could do with a break.'

Nige flapped his arms. ‘Someone, pull the plug, I'm drowning in bullshit. Holly, sweetheart. I know you and I know when you're lying. Confess all to Uncle Nige.' He adopted a thick French accent. ‘Yeu steel leuve heem!'

I sucked in my cheeks. ‘Of course I still love him. All I'm saying is that now is not the right time. Not for him, especially. He can hardly bear to look at me. Tricky when we work in the same office and I'm his boss.'

Rachel snorted.

‘Babes,
I
could have told you that was a mistake on a par with white tie. What were you thinking?'

‘I was thinking that your precious darling Niggle or whatever hideous name you've thought up for him had abandoned me to be a West End starlet and who the hell was I going to get to replace him?'

Rachel lit a cigarette in lieu of a put-down.

Nige shook his head. ‘Is matching people even Nick's thing?' he asked hopefully.

I shook my head. ‘Not really. He's done a beautiful job of the website, but the day-to-day dealing with clients,
nurturing them, deciding who they'd like, stroking their egos, managing them on Date Nights. It requires concentration, dedication.'

‘Oh stop,' lied Nige eagerly, ‘you sound like Roy Castle. Any moment now you're going to heave out a trumpet and break into song.'