Something Only We Know (19 page)

Finally she said, ‘Judges.’

I said, ‘It’ll be chosen by the readers. That’s nice and democratic.’

‘No.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘Readers can vote for a shortlist. The finalists will need to be chosen by a celebrity.’

‘Who?’

‘We’ll have to see who’s available.’

My heart was speeding up. Was Rosa actually approving an idea of mine? Acknowledging for once that I’d done good? Put the flags out.

‘When should we run it, do you think?’ I asked cautiously.

She frowned. ‘Not this year. January, perhaps. Some pre- and post-Christmas plugging, a January the First launch, and then the finals over the Feb half term, when the kids should be
available to come and perform. Yes, that ought to work. I’ll check on venues – the manager of Marshall’s owes me a favour – and see whether Gyles is free . . .’

I wondered if Gerry was listening and what he’d say to me afterwards. High-five. Go Jen. This felt like my first proper step up the ladder, my first real stake in the newspaper. My own
comp ready to go syndicate-wide.

‘. . . Oh, and while you’re here, Jennifer, I’ve been meaning to say, do you think you could do something with your hair?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I was just pointing out that your fringe needs a cut. And your jacket, there’s fluff or something on the shoulders. You’re out this afternoon, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ I was down to interview a pair of posh dieticians, a local husband and wife team who’d cadged a slot on morning TV.

‘Student life is one thing, but now you’re an employee you represent this office when you go out to meet the public. You are, for that period of contact, the face of
The
Messenger
. And for that reason I’d like to see you making a little more effort with your grooming. If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Oh.’ It was all I could do not to gape at her rudeness. Always, always she had to squash me in public. I couldn’t be allowed one uninterrupted moment of triumph.

‘So go write me up a schedule for this thing – timings, blurb, promotional channels, prize packages – and have it on my desk by twelve. I’ll take it from
there.’

Abruptly she pushed past me and went to bother Alan at the sports desk.

I sloped back to my PC and sat gazing at the screen for a moment.

‘Those tweed knickers can chafe something terrible,’ said Gerry from beyond my field of vision. ‘Though I’ve heard live yoghurt can be very soothing.’

‘Thank you but shush,’ I told him. ‘Some of us have work to do.’

In an effort to give myself a boost I thought I’d spend my lunch hour somewhere different, so I took myself to the Empire Hotel. It’s seriously posh in there. The
staff wear brocade waistcoats and the coffee comes in tall glasses, while gilt mirrors reflect and double the whole gracious space. There are even potted palms. The fittings are polished brass or
wood or leather, and the tables against the walls are partly screened off from each other for extra privacy. The atmosphere’s how I imagine a London club to be, calm and unhurried, no piped
music. It was also the one place in Chester I knew I could go and be sure of not meeting Owen. He’d never set foot in such an arena of privilege, would have scourged himself for even
considering it. Owen, whose face I searched for every day in the city centre crowds.

It was still quite early for lunch and there was barely anyone else in yet. I settled myself at a table in the window, placed my order with the waiter and sat back to read a couple of texts that
had come in. One was from Keisha asking how I was, and the other was a video clip from Ned of an angry lemming squeaking at an Alsatian dog.
That supposed to be me?
I texted back.
Keisha’s message I left so I could have a think about how to reply. I thought it was unlikely we’d stay in touch long term, me and the bookshop girls. That made me sad, sadness on top
of sadness. You don’t just break up with one person. You lose way more than that.

Before I could get too wobbly, though, my drink arrived in a cup that was literally the size of a half melon. The hot chocolate here’s the same price as a sandwich in some other places,
but you get at least a pint and it comes with whipped cream and cinnamon and marshmallows so it’ll do you as a light meal. I picked up my teaspoon and poked the surface experimentally. The
steam rising to meet my nose smelt delicious.
See? You’d never have dared come here if you were still dating him
, went Ned’s voice in my head. I scooped off a marshmallow and
ate it.

Then I turned my attention to my phone again. First I updated my Facebook page with a snapshot of the cup in front of me: ‘Should I drink this or go for a swim in it? ☺’ Then,
in spite of myself, I found I was somehow on Revolution’s page and clicking my way onto the photos they’d posted of the café opening: pictures of the girls in matching bowler
hats and Saleem dressed up like a Bollywood star and a packed shop of people enjoying themselves. Within this album I knew there was also a close-up of me and Owen sharing a slice of cake. After
the break-up I’d been sensible, unfriended him so I could no longer get onto his profile page and brood over his updates. But now, like a masochist, I scrolled down to see his photo once
more.

It was gone. Saleem was still there, standing on one of the tables and striking a pose, and you could make out the back of Owen’s head in one of the crowd scenes, together with the sleeve
of my coat. But our couple-portrait had been deleted. Emotion flushed through me then: temporary relief, the pain of the break-up revised, gratitude at Vikki or Keisha for taking the picture down.
It was Vikki who, a fortnight ago, had collected my belongings from my ex’s flat so I could pick them up from the bookshop. It was Keisha who, when I went round there, pushed into my hands a
book about surviving relationships and told me to call round any time. I appreciated that she’d said it. It was a kind gesture.

I closed the screen and dropped the phone in my bag. Finally I put my elbow on the table, rested my chin in my palm and just observed the crowds as they milled up and down the precinct.

There are various tribes I like to pick out. A lot of the pedestrians in Chester are day-trippers, there to wander vaguely, dipping in and out of shops and generally soaking up the heritage.
They stop without warning to hold aloft guidebooks, to point, to take photographs of interesting Tudor frontages. Then you get the business types, suited and upright and striding with purpose to
their Very Important Meetings. They have to dodge and weave a bit to keep the pace up because there are always so many slow people in the way. Occasionally they get it wrong. Once I saw a guy in
pinstripe go full length over a tartan shopping trolley.

The ones I find most fascinating are the ultra-smart females who dangle prestige carrier bags over their wrists, fresh out of Brown’s or Tessuti. These are the women Rosa likes to imagine
are our readership: Cheshire Wives, Cheshire Daughters. Their outfits are always immaculate, lots of neutral tones and patent leather, plenty of telling designer detail. It’s impossible to
guess the ages of these women because the young ones look old for their years, while the older ones are hanging onto youth like grim death. Probably if you examined their teeth, like horses,
you’d be able to tell.

A man in a charity tabard was chatting up a lumpy matron; I watched her glow, touch her own cheek, reach for her bag and credit card details. A harassed mother trudged past trailing a sobbing
boy. None of them glanced into the restaurant at me. None of them was Owen.

I’d been idly following the progress of a teenager on crutches when my consciousness snagged on – what? – on a familiar face. No, not the face. It was the top peeping out of
the half-zipped coat that was familiar, purple-striped, a distinctive blue pendant resting on top. I knew that outfit, I’d seen it countless times on Facebook. I recognised the woman
loitering in the doorway of Americana. As I stared, she put her mobile to her ear and simultaneously checked her watch as if she was waiting for someone.

Obviously I ought to have stayed where I was. Ellie Pascoe was nothing to do with me. We’d closed the book on that business. But without stopping to analyse my actions, I found myself
snatching up the bill, fumbling for my purse, slapping cash on the table. I couldn’t have told you what I was doing. Some hot compulsion, no logic behind it; I just felt I needed to see her
close up while I had this chance. Perhaps at the back of my mind there was a half-formed fantasy where I’d rush over, take her to one side and tell her straight out what her husband was up
to. Set her right. Disabuse her of the idea he was decent and faithful. Tell her in such a skilful, discreet, compassionate way (as we stood in the foyer of a busy city clothes store) that
she’d be nothing but grateful for my intervention. Mostly I think I just wanted to see her move about her ordinary life in her bubble of blissful ignorance. Passing me where I stood, unaware
that a tap on her shoulder, a whisper in her ear, would bring ruination.

By the time I got outside, she’d disappeared. Had she gone into the shop or walked on? There was no sign of her in either direction. I scooted across the road, cutting up suits and
tourists alike, and half-ran through the entrance of Americana. I made directly for the women’s section and looked about. No. Not here. Nothing. And why wasn’t she working in the bank
today? Was she pulling a sickie? I carried on through, moving from department to department. No joy in shoes or men’s either – but wait, was that her in children’s? Was it her
blonde head showing above the racks of party dresses? She twisted to the light, holding up a hanger, and yes, it was. I flicked my gaze away, pretended to examine a selection of toddler coats. When
I checked again she’d wandered on and was browsing T-shirts.

Casually I let myself edge closer, noting with each sneaky glance how different she appeared from when I’d last seen her, that time on the school run. Today she wore no make up and her
hair hung limp and unstyled. She kept on touching her wrist to see her watch, and scanning about her as if she was expecting someone. Very keyed up, she seemed. I thought for one mad moment,
What if the person she’s expecting is a man? What if she’s here to meet a lover?
She
and
Joe sneaking about, doing the dirty. God, that would be ironic. But no. You
glammed up for an assignation, didn’t you? Ellie was drab and washed-out, a long way from the bright-eyed, dewy-skinned wife smiling from her Facebook page. Perhaps she did know about Joe
after all. She certainly looked glum enough. I wondered what her status said right now.
Shattered. Betrayed. Divorce pending
. Or would her last post be yet more photos of gingham bunting,
pastel cup cakes, rose petals, suede wedge shoes? She draped a T-shirt over her arm and parted another set of hangers to peer at sizes. As soon as I left her, I’d check her profile.

Up came the wrist watch again. She sighed and replaced the T-shirt, then began to make her way back towards the shop entrance. I stayed where I was. To follow her any further would just be too
stalkery. Instead I focussed on her shoulders and sent a huge wave of sympathy in her direction, a great, strong mental hug from one wronged woman to another.
Go, Ellie, and good luck to you,
whatever happens with your marriage, because you’re going to need it.
I’d have loved, loved to drop Joe in the shit by revealing his infidelity, but I’d never want to inflict
hurt on her. Dear God, she had enough to contend with. I watched her slight figure weave her way amongst the stands and mannequins till she was out of sight.

My muscles sagged. I took in a deep breath, and then another. How long before I needed to return to the office? Twenty minutes. I still had time to wind down, clear my head. Perhaps I could
restore my spirits with a quick peep at the jeans and jackets here, and then before I left, grab myself a flapjack from the café on the top floor. My energy was running low. I ought to have
something solid in my stomach.

I returned to womenswear and flicked half-heartedly through a few items, unhooked them, held them up against myself. It was hard to concentrate at first. I kept remembering Ellie’s pale
face, her clouded eyes. You could see an unhappiness there, I wasn’t imagining it. But whether it was caused by Joe or something else, who knew. Could be work issues, ill parents, the kids in
trouble. Perhaps it was something entirely trivial. Her bramble jelly hadn’t set or she’d mislaid her Toast catalogue. Perhaps she was simply depressed for no reason. An attack of the
ordinary blues like we all get.

A cherry-coloured blazer distracted me temporarily, and I slipped it off its hanger and tried it on. Mmm. Yes. Wow, that was nice. The effect was really flattering, the nipped-in waist giving me
extra shape and the narrow lapels slimming my shoulders. The colour too was gorgeous. Perhaps I could ask for it for Christmas. I took out my mobile to photograph the tag. And that done, while I
had my phone in my hand I thought, Why not just bring up the Pascoes’ profiles one last time and see what’s happening there?

I went first, as I always did, to Joe’s, but there was no change and nothing significant. No posts for three weeks in fact, and the last one only a video link to a football
compilation.

Ellie’s, though, was a different story. Now when I tried to get onto her Facebook page, I couldn’t. She’d changed her privacy settings, locked me out. Only her Friends could
see her page, and I couldn’t help noticing there were a lot fewer of them. The numbers had been slashed to less than a dozen, and most of those family members, going by the surnames. It had
been a drastic cull. I didn’t like the look of that.

I shut the phone off, suddenly weary of social networks and the murky virtual windows by which we all spied on each other. It was sick, this obsession with the Pascoes, sick as my
sister’s. I’d had enough of it. I would nip up to the café, buy my flapjack and restore my blood sugar, ready for a hard afternoon’s work. I needed to plug myself back into
normality.

But I should have known fate wasn’t done with me yet.