His Other Lover (16 page)

A
t nine o’clock sharp on Monday morning in London, having called work and left another message saying—surprise surprise—that I’m still ill, I march into the post office and buy an envelope and a stamp. Taking the card that I stole last week from Liz’s bedroom out of my handbag, I cut the top half of it off, so her name has gone, but so that it still says “All love always, Peter xxx.”

Then, disguising my writing, I scrawl my name and address on the front of the envelope, stuff the half-card in, seal it and post it. The top half of the card goes back in my handbag for later. Then I stride grimly off to the tube station. I’m not messing about any more.

Four hours later, Debs is holding the end of a tape measure for me as I pretend to make a note of what curtain size I need.

“I’m sorry Lizzie isn’t here
again.
” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have much luck with her, do you?”

“It’s no problem.” I let the measure go and it whizzes back, snapping shut. “You said when I rang this morning that she definitely wouldn’t be here and I
know
I’m going to meet her soon.”

“Of course you will,” Debs beams. “I’m so glad you called back. I couldn’t believe it when that number you gave me didn’t work—I’m
such
a blonde, I must have copied it down wrong—and of course Marc’s in San Fran so I had no way of tracking you down!”

Thank God for Marc and his big gay holiday.

“Anyway, you’re here now.” Debs smiles confidently at me. “So you definitely want the room then?”

I hesitate. Then I say softly, “Yes, I think I do. Can I move in straight away?”

Debs squeals theatrically and gives me a quick, insincere hug. “Of course. Yay us!” she says. “We’re going to have so much fun.” Then, without missing a beat, she looks me square in the eye and says, “I’ll need a check for the deposit today, though.”

“No problem,” I say smoothly.

“Then I’ll go and get you a key, roomie!” she giggles, practically skipping out into the hall.

Left alone, looking around the room I have agreed to rent, I can’t believe what I am about to do, and feel my heart thump against my rib cage. I close my eyes briefly. This is crazy.

Debs comes back in and holds out a key. “Here you go.”

I look at it and then I tentatively reach out and my fingers curl round it. “Thank you,” I say, slipping it into my bag. She looks at me expectantly and I realize she is waiting for the check.

“Oh, of course.” I start to scrabble in my bag, and just as my hand closes round my checkbook, my heart stops. I realize that my real name is printed on the check, and that Debs thinks I’m Lottie…Shit.

I play for time, pretending I can’t find it, and root around some more. “Where the hell…” I mutter. “I swear I had it this morning…”

Debs is looking bored.

“I’ll have to give it to you next time.” I look her straight in the eye.

But Debs is not quite
that
green.

“Riiight,” she says uncertainly. “Well, I don’t mean to be rude, but could I have the key back then? I’m not saying I don’t trust you or anything…”

We have a stand-off moment. Neither of us really moves, and suddenly a mobile goes off in Debs’ pocket.

“Excuse me, Lotts.” She pulls it out. “Hello? Yeah, why? What? FUCK! I’d completely forgotten! Oh shit! Tell them I’m leaving now. Oh, I’m so sorry! Yeah, yeah, I KNOW, yes, right now, bye!”

She snaps it shut and looks wildly at me. “I’ve forgotten a wig fitting. I’m really sorry, I’ve got to go.” She holds out her hand for the key.

“Well, tell you what,” I say slowly. “Why don’t I finish up my measuring and then I’ll stick the key back through the letter box when I’m done? I totally see that you can’t let me just take it with no deposit. I could pop it over tomorrow morning…in cash.”

Debs’ eyes gleam greedily. “That sounds perfect! You’re a star, Lotts. Hey—and that way you can meet Liz too. She’ll be in then. Oh, I’ve got to go—I’m so
late
! They’re going to
hate
me!” She giggles like she couldn’t care less if that was the case, grabs a coat and her bag and squeaks over her shoulder as she gallops down the stairs, “See you tomorrow, roomie!”

“Will do, roomie!” I call back, smile fixed glassily to my face until the door slams behind her. I wait for a moment or two, then I let out a deep breath.

Looking at my watch, I realize I don’t have much time to get over to the theater myself now, but I’m going to have to wait
another five minutes. It won’t do to arrive at the same time as Debs, but then neither do I want to be late. I am going to see the show again: a matinee performance.

When I arrive, I am unamused to discover that a ticket will cost me thirty quid. Thirty quid! Pushing my tenners under the glass window of the box office actually hurts. I’m paying to see her in the show, effectively almost paying her wages. Jesus. And I’m at the back!

Once the lights go down and the band start up, I tense. The curtain rises and I scan the stage for her as the big opening number begins. Finally I see her, all eyelashes and teeth, loose limbs and sparkly costume. My whole body tautens with the stress. I can’t seem to take my eyes off her—it’s like a car crash: I don’t want to look, it’s making me feel sick, but still my eyes are irresistibly drawn to her.

I watch her dance and move with mounting jealousy. She’s good, even I can see that. She moves gracefully but with a sexy sharpness when required. Effortlessly she lifts a leg, drapes it over her male partner’s shoulder and throws her head back as he slides his hand down her breastbone. It’s a sexy, intimate move, slow and languorous. Next minute she’s up again and he’s hoisted her on to his shoulder. She’s smiling out at the audience. Out at me. The lights catch the shimmer and glitter of her costume, making her look luminous. And she is in love with my boyfriend.

Next to her, I feel drab, boring and flat. I’m suddenly aware of the safe shades I always go for in my hair, the fact that the roots could do with a touch-up. The ordinariness of my outfit. I whinge bland; she whispers allure.

This was a bad idea. She exudes sex on the stage, offers it on a plate. Why did I not see this before? Why didn’t I notice her when we came to see the show? How could I have missed it?

I sit there, my nails digging into the seat, thankfully with no one either side of me, staring at her, wondering intently what would happen if I stood up right now and yelled BITCH! at the stage. In assembly at school, I remember sitting cross-legged on the floor with the other bored children, wondering what everyone would do if I stood up and swore.

I’m seething and writhing on the inside with hatred and jealousy, as if I have a stomach full of squirming snakes. I don’t think anyone can tell just by looking at me, though. Anyway, they’re all looking at the stage.

I don’t shout after all. I watch her fling and be flung, my eyes follow her every move. I see Debs too—she obviously made the fitting on time. She’s giving it all she’s got, but it’s Liz that I really hunt with my eyes. We get to the end of Act 1 and the moment when they all freeze, waiting for the curtain. She is motionless, staring out into the auditorium, smile fixed to her face, and I’m staring, staring at her, and for a minute I think I see her eyes flicker in my direction and narrow slightly, but that’s ridiculous. She couldn’t see me, right at the back, with all those lights shining on her. Could she?

I slip out when the safety cloth has dropped. It’s started to rain outside, a light, fizzly rain. I’ve seen enough glitz and glamor and I want to get back—I’ve got stuff to do now I’ve checked they are both definitely at work and not going anywhere near the flat.

The key takes a bit of wiggling in the front door, but finally it swings open and I go upstairs. Pixie doesn’t even bother to yip when I walk into the sitting room, just eyes me disdainfully and settles back down on the floor without making another sound.

Watched over by Pete’s fixed, grinning face, still there on the bedside table, I’m rummaging through Liz’s wardrobe in minutes. The bag is still there. Good. I have a better look through
her stuff this time and find in her bedside table a half-full packet of condoms, which makes me feel sick, and a vibrator—which makes me feel even sicker. It’s like finding my boyfriend is addicted to a real-life porn channel; a walking, talking, fucking, doll-like, proper girl, with a flat, sex toys and his picture. It’s just unreal and it’s the whole separateness that I can’t get my head round. I knew nothing about this. I still don’t know when or how they met, how long it’s been going on. Is this what he sees in her? Sex? I’d rather that than love.

I go over to the bed and pick up a pillow. Sniffing it, I decide I can’t smell his aftershave. I pull back the covers and look in the bed. I know it’s sick but I can’t help myself. It’s just crisp and clean. Tucking it carefully back in, I smooth the duvet down, and then it’s over to her pine dressing table, which is festooned with strings of bright beads and glittering costume jewelry. I read through some of the cards she has in the small drawer, but it’s boring stuff. Then I notice her credit card, just left there. Sitting on the table.

Picking it up, I stalk through to the living room, and when I see the deflated balloons hanging forlornly there, it seems obvious. I am so angry with her that I don’t know where to put myself. I just want to hurt her, like she has me, and I know that this will be better than doing anything to her physically.

This will make her look like a total nutter.

A quick call locates me a company who do boxed balloon gifts. A nice man goes a little bit quiet when I tell him what I want, but laughs, relieved, when I explain it’s for a party.

I decline an accompanying message. Then I give the address that the balloons need to be delivered to, a week from today, read them my credit card number and give my name as it appears on my card: “Miss E. Andersen.” I ask that they don’t send me a receipt, and he wishes me a nice day.

Then I pop the card back where I found it so that she’ll be none the wiser. Having used the bathroom and taken a brief unplanned moment to wipe both of their toothbrushes around the inside of the lavatory bowl (a little harsh on Debs, but that’s a price I’m willing to pay), it’s time to go. I pull the front door shut quietly and then post the key back through the letter box.

It’s when I get to the tube station that what I’ve just done hits me. I glance back at the flat and my head starts to swim. Leaning against the wall, I gasp for air, reach my hand up to push the hair out of my face and find that I have broken into a light sweat. A couple of people are staring curiously as they walk past me—an old woman in a tea-cozy hat dragging a tartan shopping trolley, and a middle-aged man in thick glasses and a stained zip-up jacket—but, this being London, no one says anything.

I try to slow my breathing down, feeling my pulse fluttering at my wrist. Just calm down. Take a deep breath. I look at the flat where I’ve just been, busily trying to make her look like a lunatic, and I know that the person who is behaving really irrationally is me. But I can’t stop myself. I’m so frightened, and she
loves
him, for fuck’s sake. Has he told her he loves her too? What if he does? I don’t want him to leave me. I…I can’t do this any more, I can’t. I have to talk to someone. This is sending me crazy.

I reach for my phone.

“Hi, it’s me,” I say. “Look, I know it’s short notice but can you come and meet me for a quick coffee and a bite to eat?…Please?…Oh, thank you.” I close my eyes. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

I feel sick with relief. Thank God. Oh thank God. Feeling a bit better already, I straighten my coat, smooth my hair down and descend to the underground.

I
’m waiting in the window, fiddling with the menu, when the door pushes open. Amanda walks in, scans the restaurant and then smiles widely as she sees me.

“Hello, you!” she says as she leans in to kiss me. Although it’s cold outside, her cheek is warm and rosy. She straightens up, unwinds her scarf and slips her coat off before sinking into the chair opposite me.

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she says. “And you know what? I’m really glad you called. I’ve got something to talk to you about. But you first. What’s up? You sounded a bit funny on the phone.”

I take a deep breath, but as I’m trying to find the words, the waiter arrives with a bottle of red that I’ve pre-ordered, pours a little into my glass and waits for me to taste it.

“I’m sure it’s lovely, thank you.” I look up at him and he inclines his head modestly as if he crushed the grapes himself. He pours us both a glass expertly.

I take a big sip of my wine to steady my nerves.

Amanda looks curiously at me. “Not like you to indulge in lunchtime drinking.”

“Not like you not to!” I nod at her untouched glass.

She reaches out and wraps her fingers round the stem, but then hesitates. She looks at me uncertainly from under her eyelashes and I notice for the first time that her eyes are positively dancing with excitement.

“There’s something I’ve got to tell you,” she says slowly. “It’s really early days and you’ve got to keep it a secret because I haven’t told
anyone
—well, except Nick and our parents, obviously—but I’m nine weeks pregnant!”

I freeze to the spot, mouth open. “You’re what? But you can’t be!” I say. “When we met up, you said you and Nick hadn’t…and you were drinking!”

“I know, I know!” she laughs. “I had no idea I was, but I asked my doctor and she says it won’t have harmed the baby and I’ve stopped now. And smoking. Which, FYI, is killing me.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m going to turn into a beached whale—stopping smoking and eating for two.”

“I…I don’t know what to say.” I’m completely stunned. “But…but I didn’t even know you were trying,” I blurt.

“We weren’t!” she admits. “God knows how it happened. Nick’s over the moon. Keeps going on about how strong his swimmers must be considering, as you quite rightly said, we’ve hardly been in the same bloody room for more than ten minutes over the last three months. Must have been a dodgy condom or something.”

“Wow. This is just…just such a surprise and…my God. Congratulations!” I finally manage to smile and do a little cheer. We both half stand up and I hug her. I
am
happy for her, I really am. Keep smiling.

We sit down and I just stare at her.

“What?” she says, laughing.

“I just…I just thought you didn’t want children yet, for ages. I never thought…” I tail off as I’m not sure what I’m trying to say.

“I know!” she agrees, sitting back. “I swear, I was as surprised as you are. I mean we’re not married; we have a fucking third-floor flat, for God’s sake. It’s going to utterly bugger up my chances of promotion, and that little shit Gavin who’s been after my job for ages is going to come in his pants when he finds out I’m going on maternity leave. And that’s before we even start on everything we’ll have to buy for this…” She points at her tummy accusingly, but then her hand relaxes and she rests it there protectively. Her face softens. “But, Mia, I think I love it already. Is that possible? Can you love someone before you can even see them?”

She looks at me earnestly and I feel a lump in my throat.

“Because I know Nick is a complete twat sometimes, and I swear, if this child winds up with his nose I’ll pay for the surgery myself, but we were in bed last night and he was kissing my tummy, stupid arse, which is ridiculous,” she rolls her eyes, “because there is nothing to see
at all
and I just thought, oh my God, we’re going to be a
family
. And it didn’t scare me at all! I’m just so excited!” A huge grin spreads across her face and she looks totally incandescent. “I mean, obviously, I know that you’re not in the safe period until you get to twelve weeks, so we’re not telling anyone till then, but I knew you’d guess! Can you believe it? I mean,
can you fucking believe it?
But listen, if I ever turn into Lou and start telling baby stories and farting in public, you’ve got to promise you’ll tell me. You will, won’t you?”

I smile faintly and nod. “I promise.”

“I’ve been so tired over the last few days! I didn’t know it would be such hard work, but Nick has started calling me
Moggie because I’m like an old cat when I get home, I just want to curl up, sleep and be stroked.”

“Well, you’re building fingers and toes—it’s no wonder you’re tired.”

“Actually, toes aren’t till much later. At the moment it looks like a gross bony-backed tadpole thing. Nick’s bought me this book with actual pictures of each stage. They’re incredible…honestly, it really is amazing; I’ll show you when you next come round. Nick’s so into it—I’ve been really surprised. D’you know, I reckon Pete will be like that when it’s you two. It’s incredible, Mi, you just start looking at them and realizing, shit, I’m bound to him forever. There goes the father of my child…” She shakes her head in disbelief. “It just changes everything. I said to Nick…Hey! Hon?” She suddenly looks at me, her face knotted up with concern. “You okay? You look like you’re about to cry.”

I look at her through my swimming eyes and I do a little gulp and laugh. “I’m just so happy for you!” I reach up and wipe my eyes fiercely. “I really am.” I grab her hand and she squeezes back, her eyes welling up too.

“I know, it’s insane, isn’t it?” she says softly. “We’re growing up! Who’d have thought it?”

Later that afternoon, I am walking slowly up the South Bank with my hands buried in my pockets, hair catching on the fresh breeze, looking up the Thames, wondering what the fuck I am going to do.

A couple walk past me, arm in arm, and he plants a kiss on the top of her head. She gazes up at him with a heady mixture of love, pride and comfort—it’s all there. He looks down at her and squeezes her to him a little more tightly, and they walk past me, oblivious to anyone but each other.

That’s all I want. I don’t need babies, I don’t even need weddings.

I think back to the wedding reception I went to alone. What would it be like doing things like that all the time if I really
was
single? It’d be like living inside one of those mechanical claw games you see at fairs and amusement arcades. Me, stuffed into a glass case with a load of couples, waiting to be rescued by the big claw over my head.

I don’t want to be standing at parties with one of my friends’ boyfriends being sent off to get me a drink and the friend in question waiting until we’re alone and then saying sympathetically, “So how are you
really?
” followed by the assured philosophy (while they twist their engagement and wedding rings idly) that I am better off without him and there are plenty more fish in the sea.

It’s easy for them to say. I don’t know any single girls I could hang out with, and the only single bloke I knew is now having a thing with my sister, and anyway, lovely as he is, he is not Pete.

Now there are two things that are scaring me. One is that I am going to lose Pete. I am so, so frightened of losing him. The other is that I don’t want to be this person; I don’t feel like I know who I am any more. Everything is shifting so fast I can’t put my feet anywhere safe…I am desperately trying to hang on to the threads that are holding my life together but they keep slipping from my fingers. I can feel myself grasping at them madly, but it’s falling apart around me and I can’t keep up. I simply don’t recognize myself or how I got here.

Diving into my bag, I fumble around desperately for my phone.

“What do you want that for?” Patrick says doubtfully,
moments later. “And where the hell are you? You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel.”

“I’m in town. Just, please—text it to me?” I wobble slightly as a particularly strong gust of wind blows. It really is a perfect day—the skies are bright, bright blue and the chill in the air is making my fingers turn red.

“Is everything all right, Mia?” he says.

“It’s fine—promise. You all right? How’s Clare?”

There’s a pause and then he says uncertainly, “I’m going up to see her tonight actually.”

I wondered why I hadn’t heard from her in the last couple of days. “That’s nice.” I smile faintly. “Say hi from me.”

“I will,” he says, sounding relieved. “I really do like her, Mi, I think this could be the start of something…Well, anyway…” He peters out, embarrassed. “I promise I won’t mess her around.”

“Good. You will text me that number right now, won’t you? Lots of love.” Then I hang up.

A few seconds later, my phone buzzes and there it is. I dial carefully, not allowing myself to stop and think about this in case I lose the nerve. She will understand. She’s the one person who will
really
understand.

Staring at a small boat chugging determinedly through the choppy water, all I can hear is the ringing tone, and I start to feel slightly faint and light-headed.

“Helloooo?” says a voice cheerily. Oh God—she doesn’t sound different at all. Exactly the same.

“It’s me.” My voice cracks.

The pause seems to go on forever. “Me who?” she says eventually; her tone has changed.

“It’s Mia—please don’t hang up!” I beg.

Again there is silence. “How did you get this number?” she says, her voice suddenly flat and expressionless.

“Patrick gave it to me. I hear you’re going traveling.”

She says nothing.

“So when are you off?” I try again.

“The end of the month. What do you want?” She’s blunt and direct.

“Look, Katie, I need to speak to you. I think…I think Pete’s having an affair.” The words rush out of me. “I just…” And then I falter. I just what? “Oh God, I’m sorry!” My voice hiccups as I try to steady it. “I’m so sorry. I just don’t know what to do and I thought about that day, when we rowed and…”

“And what?” she says.

“I…I don’t know,” I stammer. “I just want to see if…”

“See if I
was
telling the truth? Start things up again? Sorry, Mia, not interested.”

“Oh, Katie, please!” I start to cry. “I don’t know what to do…”

“You made your choice, Mia. You’re on your own.”

“But you have to—” I begin.

“I don’t ‘have to’ anything.” She talks over me.

“Please,” I beg. “Please at least just tell me if it was you or if—”

“Don’t call me again.”

And then she hangs up.