His Other Lover (15 page)

“Who was he shouting at?” My heart freezes.

She shrugs. “Dunno. He was holding the phone when he answered the door and said he’d call them back. I thought it was you, I was going to kick him in the nads. Oh, hello.”

Her voice suddenly becomes a little smaller and shyer as Patrick appears by the table clutching three drinks.

“Hello.” He clears his throat, smiles and remembers his manners. “Er, let me put these down. Sorry, my hands are all wet. Um, hi, I’m Patrick. I don’t think we’ve met.”

But Clare is gazing at him like the rest of the world has just frozen and they are the only two people in it. I’m almost embarrassed and turn apologetically to Patrick, but then I realize that he is looking at her pretty intensely too.

Oh no…no, no, no.

“Yes you have,” I say quickly. “This is Clare, my
little
sister. Clare, this is Patrick.”

Patrick’s eyebrows shoot up into his hairline. “Jesus! Sorry! I thought you were…well, my God, you’ve certainly changed.”

Clare actually flushes a little pinker. “Well, thank you…Patrick.” She says his name slowly, like she’s trying it out for size. “It’s good to see you again.”

Patrick sits down and passes over our drinks. “And you…and you…Well, um, so what have you been doing for the last seven years?”

“A-levels, getting pissed, nicking my clothes and going to uni,” I interject sharply, and Clare frowns. “Look, Clare, are you sure you don’t know who he was shouting at?”

Clare laughs lightly in a “No I don’t and shall we talk about this later?” sort of way and then says firmly, “I’ve no idea. Sorry,
sis.” She turns back to Patrick and smiles as she pushes her hair off her face, saying brightly, “So, Patrick. Do you work around here?”

Half an hour later, they’re getting on like a house on fire and I have the sinking feeling that something significant is not so much brewing as bubbling up madly. I’m also chewing my nails down to the quick, desperate to get home, but not seeing how I can without being blatantly rude and letting on that something is up.

“Wings or gills?” says Clare.

“Easy. Gills. Maybe I’ll hook up with the Little Mermaid,” Patrick says flirtily. God, no wonder he’s single.

“What?” They both look at me.

“Sorry?” I say innocently. “Did I just say that out loud? Look, Clare, we really have to—”

“Okay,” says Clare thoughtfully, completely ignoring me. “Would you rather be completely covered in fur or scales?”

“Fur,” says Patrick, “because at least then I can shave it all off and look slightly normal.”

“Five o’clock shadow over your
whole body
is normal?” teases Clare.

“Good point,” he concedes. “Would you rather…shave your tongue or…”

“…eat a pizza topped with Dot Cotton’s pubes,” Clare finishes.

Patrick gags on a mouthful of drink. “I’d cut my tongue
out
rather than do that.”

“Okay, would you rather…French kiss a dog—”

“Been there, done that,” Patrick says. “Come on—test me.”

“A
real
dog…or go down on Ann Widdecombe?”

“Clare!” I put my glass down. “Please!”

But Patrick is laughing. “Definitely the dog.”

Clare, who is now on a roll, shoots me a mischievous grin. “Oh, I’m sorry. I seem to be lowering the tone. Let’s talk politics. Would you rather teabag John Prescott or stick your fingers up Tony Blair’s arse—no gloves?”

“Er, would there be any room, what with George Bush’s whole hand already being up there?”

“Well,” Clare says admiringly. “Not just a pretty face, a satirist too.” And Patrick actually blushes. For God’s sake.

“Right—that’s enough,” I say firmly. “I’d like to remind you I am actually ill already without having to think about John Prescott.”

“Bollocks,” coughs Clare as she takes a sip of her drink.

“I am!” I say, widening my eyes at her and standing up. “And I really need to go home now.”

“Well, go on then,” says Clare. “No one’s stopping you.”

“But I need you to come with me!”

“Why?” says Clare simply. “Ring Pete, he’ll come and get you.” I can’t think of anything to say to that, so slightly foolishly I just stand there for a moment. Clare sips her drink innocently and Patrick stares at the table, struggling with the obvious desire to stay in the pub and chat up my sister, and his innate good manners that mean he should see me home. My sister wins.

“Okay, fine,” I say wearily. “Patrick, can you make sure Clare gets back to mine safely, please. I assume you’re staying with us tonight and not going back to uni?” She nods.

Patrick stands up. “You’re sure you don’t mind…” He trails off awkwardly.

“No, I don’t mind.” I do actually. I can see what is happening here—you’d have to be blind not to. But I need to get home.
I can’t sort Pete and me, and deal with Clare and Patrick flirting like crazy,
and
think about Katie. It’s too bloody much.

Pete barely says hello when I get in the car.

“Thanks for coming out,” I say tiredly.

“Welcome.” He looks over his shoulder as he pulls out. “Told you you should have stayed in.”

“I know.” I hold my buzzing head. “Sorry about Clare landing on us. Is it okay if she stays at ours tonight?”

“She’s still here? Where?” he says in surprise.

“Still in the pub, with Patrick,” I say.

“Oh!” he says and then a slow smile spreads across his face and he chuckles. “Oh dear!”

“Just don’t,” I say, closing my eyes. So much for making him jealous.

“Are you sure she’ll be staying at ours tonight?” he teases.

“Yes! I’m absolutely sure,” I snap back, slightly more sharply than I intended.

“Okay, calm down.” He looks surprised. “I was only joking.”

“Sorry.” I try and make my tone more conciliatory. He doesn’t need a row with me—I’m supposed to be the one he’s getting on with, it’s her he should be rowing with. “How’s your evening been?”

“Quiet.”

I glance at him sideways and I just can’t help myself. “Oh? Clare said she heard you shouting at someone on the phone.”

“Get out of the bloody road! Jesus, they’ll get themselves killed!” He slows down as some kids decide to cross, mistakenly believing in their drunken haze that our car is much further away than it actually is. “I ordered an Indian after you left.
They said half an hour and it was seriously late. I did lose my rag a bit at that.”

“That must have been it then,” I say doubtfully.

After I’ve made up the spare room, we watch some TV and then he says he’s going to bed. I say I’ll wait up for Clare and he kisses me briefly and goes upstairs. Then something occurs to me. I go into the kitchen and look in the bin. There are no takeaway trays in it. Another lie.

I look for his mobile, but I can’t find it anywhere. Pausing only to send Clare a text telling her where I’m leaving the key, I give up and go to bed.

I
wake up to the sound of laughing and chatting downstairs. Pulling on my dressing gown, I wander into the kitchen to find Clare, in last night’s clothes, munching her way through a bowl of cereal and Pete putting some drying-up away.

“Top of the morning to you,” says Clare. “Like your new mugs. When d’you get them?”

“After the burglary,” I say, without thinking.

Her chewing slows. “What burglary? You never said anything about that!”

I wave a hand quickly. “Let’s not talk about it, it was nothing really—I don’t want to go into it now. How was last night after I left?”

She looks smug; I have successfully diverted her. “Well, I’m afraid I had a rather controversial snog…”

“…with Patrick! And she stayed there!” says Pete delightedly.

Clare gives him a look. “Not like that. Honestly, Mia, your boyfriend’s mind. I came back, but some twat had forgotten to leave the key out.” She looks pointedly at me.

“I bloody did leave it out,” I say indignantly. “I can’t help it if you were too pissed to find it.”

“
Luckily
Patrick had come back in the cab with me,” she ignores me, “and being a gentleman had waited to see me get inside. Only I couldn’t, so I went to his. And he slept on the sofa.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Pete crows.

I sit down at the table. “So you snogged, then?”

“Yes, we did.” She sighs happily and pours some more milk into the bowl. “He’s fit. And well funny.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

She shrugs. “Nah. Shouldn’t think so. Maybe. I don’t know. I’m at uni and he works…”

I know what this means. This is faked indifference, just in case he doesn’t call her. She likes him. She likes him a lot.

“You’re only an hour away,” says Pete reasonably, putting some glasses in the cupboard. “That’s no distance at all, and he works in London.” I stare at him. Remarkable how quickly he’s become captain of Team Patrick since it means he can no longer be even vaguely interested in me.

“You don’t mind that I snogged him, do you?” Clare says, looking at me carefully.

“Mind? Why should I mind?” I laugh. “I’m totally cool with it.” Reaching for a spare bit of toast, I start to butter it carefully. “Did he ask for your number?”

Clare looks smug. “Of course. And I’ve got his. He’s under McFittie.” She waits but I say nothing. “His surname is McDonald?” she says patiently. “Jesus, Pete, good luck with this one to-day.”

“What about that trip to Barcelona you’re going on? Aren’t you after some bloke called Adam?” I say hopefully.

“Who?” she says blankly. “Oh him. I’m not so sure I’ll go
now. Think I might like to stay…a little closer to home. If you know what I mean.” And she grins naughtily.

By lunchtime she is on the train, and when I get back from dropping her off at the station, the house feels empty and lonely without her. Pete is working on his quote upstairs and I just wander around, feeling a little lost and unsure what to do. My friend and my sister…As if on cue, my phone bleeps with a message from Patrick.

What can I say to that? I text back that it’s fine. And on some level it is. I couldn’t love Clare more than I do, and if a guy as lovely as Patrick wants to be in her life—well, how great is that? She’s right, he is fit, and funny; but he’s also kind, loyal, thoughtful, generous. Everything I could want in a man for my sister.

I think about them flirting last night and wistfully gaze up the stairs. Pete and I used to be like that. I know we did.

Later, I’m still thinking about how Pete just needs to be reminded of how great we have always been—me and him—while he’s still arguing with
her
. So I make a phone call…which, on Sunday lunchtime, sees us driving out of the town. We’ve been going for a little over half an hour when he twigs.

“Are we going to the Brown Trout?” he says, looking over at me. I nod shyly.

The last time we went to the Brown Trout was about a year and a half ago. The food was amazing and we ate on the terrace overlooking a stunning spread of shimmering summer fields.
We went for a walk afterward clutching each other’s hand and a glass of Pimm’s, with the ice chinking in the glasses. All we could hear was fat woodpigeons cooing and leaves rustling as the breeze tickled them. Because it’s in the middle of nowhere, we might just stand a chance of having some peace and quiet; some time just for us.

Sadly, it seems that things have changed a little since we were last here. The terrace is firmly closed up when we arrive, piles of wet leaves everywhere, and the umbrellas I last saw flapping lazily in the summer breeze are folded away. Not that that matters really—it’s too cold to sit outside, and they have a cozy fire in the bar anyway.

But my heart sinks as we go inside. New management seem to have taken over, and what used to be warm, comfortable and traditional—beams and intimate nooks and crannies—has been replaced by edgy tables, a cocktail menu and a slick black and gray bar.

Where the fire used to be, there’s a spiky arrangement of red-hot pokers and austere lilies, and instead of the warming, hearty roast I’d hoped for, we end up with pesto cannelloni for Pete and Thai salmon on a bed of seared honey parsnips and leeks for me. When they arrive, Pete’s is so hot—fresh from the microwave—that it resembles a bowl of lava, and yet mine is tepid with floppy, waxy vegetables. I try gamely to keep the conversation going, but Pete is distant. He’s still perfectly pleasant, but doesn’t seem entirely there. He’s just not trying. At all.

Afterward, I suggest a walk. We trudge down to the gate at the bottom of the car park and Pete looks doubtfully at the bog that is just about passing for a field. “I don’t want to get my trainers muddy.”

“Oh, you’ll be fine!” I try to sound convincing. “We’ll stick to the edges. Come on!”

“Do you remember that walk we had here in the summer?” I venture fifteen minutes later, my arm looped through his as we carefully pick our way through the less squelchy bits.

“I remember it was a lot warmer—and drier.” Pete shivers, pulling away from me and zipping his coat right up. “I think we should go back. It’s getting daft now.”

“Just a bit further,” I say, more confidently than I feel. “Let’s just get to the trees.”

“Okay.” Pete slips a little as he tries to step over a large muddy stick, avoiding a puddle the other side. “Thank God we didn’t bring the dog—she’d be filthy. Oh SHIT!”

I look up in alarm from where I’m negotiating a tricky bit myself and see Pete, one leg completely submerged in the puddle, looking crossly back at me. “THIS is why I didn’t think this was a good idea,” he says through gritted teeth. He starts to try and pull his foot free, and finally it pops out with a big farting sound. I can’t help it, I laugh. He looks so silly standing there with one enormous mud clubfoot.

“It’s not funny, Mia! My bloody trainer is completely ruined—look!” He lifts it up to show me and wobbles slightly with the weight of it. “Shiiiiit,” he says in alarm, as he slips and plunges the other foot into the mud bath.

We both fall silent.

“Well, at least they match now,” I say helpfully.

We look at each other, look at his feet, and then we both laugh.

“Sorry!” I wheeze. “You just look so funny!” Out of nowhere, I find myself laughing so much tears spring to my eyes.

“Yes, okay,” he says patiently. “I am actually getting pretty
cold now. When you’ve stopped wetting yourself, can you come and help heave me out?”

In the car on the way back—with his socks drying on the dashboard—he turns to me.

“Thanks for lunch and the walk,” he says. “It was actually really nice.” Then he squeezes my hand and my heart fills with love.

Later, when the house is still and he is asleep, I am again creeping downstairs, past his drying-out trainers, which make me smile, in my now nightly ritual to find his phone. I am already so used to doing it, I almost don’t expect to find anything worse than I already have. So it comes as a huge, ugly, horrible shock that makes me catch my breath, like being plunged into a bath of icy water, when the screen lights up as I open his inbox and read:

The little flame of hope lit earlier in the afternoon blows out suddenly, and I stand immobile in the darkness.