The Last Time I Saw You (11 page)
“Olivia. That was prompt.”
“Is there anything wrong?” I ask, then curse myself for the stupidity of the question. “I mean, has anything more happened this week?”
“I was calling for two reasons. Firstly to find out how you fared in your presentation.”
I can’t believe he remembered it was today. That he not only remembered but that he took the time to call—although I don’t know what reason two is yet.
“We won!” I say, unable to squash my excitement. “We actually won!”
“Congratulations,” he says, pleasure and warmth rippling through his voice. “Richly deserved, I’m sure.”
“Thank you.”
“And secondly, I wanted to ask if you were free on the eleventh? So four weeks next Tuesday?”
“Um, I don’t see why I wouldn’t be.”
My eye catches Mary, glaring at me through the smoked glass of the conference room as she yanks on her coat, distinctly unamused by how long I’ve been.
“I have to come over for a few days and there’s an official dinner that night. I thought it might give us some more time to talk.”
“Of course. I’ll keep it free.”
We exchange a hurried goodbye and I hang up, oddly disoriented. It’s lovely to hear him, to know that he hasn’t
evaporated from my life, and yet . . . What is it that he’s asking me for?
“I’m so sorry,” I say, rushing back in, simultaneously texting James an apology.
“No sweat,” says Flynn, with an easy smile that leaves Mary with no choice but to pretend that she doesn’t mind. She’s overreacting, but then, I shouldn’t have hit her Achilles’ heel, her need to feel that she is in complete control of anything that happens within these four walls. “My driver’s downstairs.” He gives me that self-deprecating moue. “Don’t look at me like that, Livvy, they laid it on—I’d be happy with a cab.”
“I wasn’t looking—” It’s hard to know what’s a joke. “It sounds perfect.”
“And I need a drink,” says Mary, hand whisking through the air to snatch up her handbag.
I’m expecting us to go back to his hotel—after all, I’m becoming quite a dab hand at five-star etiquette—but instead the driver heads for Flynn’s penthouse on the corner of Hyde Park. Flynn rides up front, asking the graying cockney about his myriad grandchildren, all of whom he seems to have an encyclopedic knowledge of, while Mary permafrosts me in the back seat. I venture a couple of conversational openers, but they fall on deaf, diamond-laden ears, so that by the end of the journey I’m feeling like the world’s worst employee, worse than that rogue trader who bankrupted Barings.
“Thanks, John,” says Flynn, racing around to open both doors for us. “See you at six!”
“No rest for the wicked,” laughs John.
“You’re not wrong,” agrees Flynn, tapping a code into the door. A couple of flashbulbs go off, making me jump. “Just ignore them,” he says.
“I don’t know how you stand it,” says Mary, when we’re in the elevator. “You must feel like a hunted animal.”
“Aah, it’s part of the territory,” says Flynn dismissively. “This job’s got enough perks. I can’t be complaining.”
I’m warming to him, I can’t help it. He’s both how I imagined a film star to be, and also not, with the nots in all the right places.
“Let’s see what’s on ice,” he says, leading us into his incredible pad. I try not to gawk even though the floor space of the living room is almost the size of my entire apartment. Big plate-glass windows give a panoramic view over the park, and I have to stop myself pressing my nose against them to see how far I can see. The room is quite bare and minimalist, but every carefully chosen piece of furniture screams of expensive good taste.
“It’s gorgeous,” I croak. “How long have you lived here?”
“Oh no, sweetheart, it’s not mine!” laughs Flynn. “It’s just another rental. I’m nothing but a jumped-up gypsy when all’s said and done. Now, what we thinking—I’m wondering if we should treat ourselves to some bubbles?”
“Sounds like a marvelous idea,” says Mary, all bonhomie. I risk smiling my agreement at her, but she stares blankly back.
“Coming right up,” says Flynn, uncorking a bottle of Veuve Clicquot with a satisfying pop. “Cheers,” we cry, and as Mary meets my eye she gives me a tiny smile. Finally, finally, the sun comes back out.
“To a fabulous collaboration,” she says. “Honestly, this is the kind of project I came into the industry for. We’re going to have so much fun.”
“And I just want to say thank you again,” I add, my voice embarrassingly quavery. “I can’t believe you’ve both given me this incredible opportunity.” I look to Mary. “I won’t let you down.”
“Honestly, Livvy, we’re not going to war,” she says, giggling.
The next hour is almost fun (note the almost). It’s certainly exciting, but there’s a knot in my stomach throughout, and it’s highly dangerous that I’m infused with all this additional information about Flynn from the patchwork of lurid press stories I’ve absorbed by trash osmosis. The immaculate apartment shows no sign of the two, or could it be three, children he’s meant to have, and I’m not sure whether he’s still with the home-wrecking makeup artist. I get a bit more clarity when I ask him how long he’s in town for.
“Only another couple of months, thank God. Can’t be away from the kids longer than that or they’ll forget what I look like! And I can’t be flying them around the world now they’re in school. Wanna see some pics?”
Soon Mary and I are making the appropriate noises as he scrolls through his iPhone showing us shots of Edith, Stanley, and Zara, an African girl he adopted after a long shoot in Tanzania. Honestly, someone needs to tell Paris Hilton how last year Chihuahuas are. He stares intently at the tiny images, like he can’t drag his gaze away.
“Sorry. We’re meant to have joint custody, but I’m away so much . . .”
Mary cocks her head sympathetically.
“I’ve always believed with children it’s about quality, not quantity. I’m sure they love having you around when you are there.”
I think of her perfect mini-me daughters, catapulted out of her womb long after you’d expect to hit the fertility
jackpot; the cakes she brings in, baked with them on a Sunday, their provenance declared a little too loudly, the splotchy mess of paint, with
Mommy
scrawled underneath that’s framed, pride of place, in her office. It’s hard to know what it translates into behind closed doors.
“I hope so,” says Flynn bleakly. “Ach, enough. Do you have kids, Livvy?”
“I don’t, no,” I say, feeling an unexpected stab of sadness at the fact.
“Any likely contenders in the frame?” asks Mary, giving my arm a friendly squeeze.
They both look at me expectantly, like I’m on stage.
“No, not exactly. I mean, no, no there isn’t.”
“There’s something she’s not telling us!” says Flynn. “Who’s the lucky fella?”
“There is no lucky fella, there really isn’t,” I insist, so flustered that I’ve adopted some kind of dodgy simpatico Irish accent.
“It’s life’s great challenge, isn’t it?” says Flynn, smiling sadly. “Finding someone makes it worth signing up for the long haul.”
“But you must have your pick,” I say. “I mean, women literally throw themselves at you.”
“How so?” he says, sounding suddenly less friendly.
“I mean just generally, women . . .” Flynn and Mary are both staring at me now, unsmiling statues. How is what I’ve said so wrong? Perhaps he thinks I’m talking about him dumping his wife. “You’re like a proper heartthrob.”
Oh God, now I’ve made him sound like a piece of meat rather than a serious actor: I should probably cut my losses and hurl myself through that plate-glass window.
“Very kind of you to say,” he says, with a cold smile. “Now I don’t wanna be a bad host, but I’m afraid these lines won’t learn themselves.”
I spend the entire tube journey cursing myself, going over and over what I said until I feel like I’m going mad. The words themselves don’t sound that bad, and I know when I tell James he’ll think I’m being ridiculous, but they somehow curdled and mutated into something disastrous when they reached the outside air. Mary didn’t mention it when we said goodbye, she even gave me a quick, staccato kiss on each cheek, but I could feel the waves of disapproval quivering off her.
When I get through the door the lights are on, but there’s pure silence, despite the fact that James can’t stand to not have the TV on. He’s sitting, mute, on the sofa and I steel myself for a barrage of abuse about my flaky behavior.
“I’m really sorry . . . it was completely crap of me, I know you rushed to get there . . .”
James looks up, an absent look on his face.
“It’s fine, Livvy, no sweat.”
I perch on the other end of the sofa, baffled by the odd, pregnant silence.
“Have you been here all night?”
“Not exactly, no.”
Why is he throwing out these wispy little puffs of conversation? I jab him in the ribs.
“Earth to James, earth to James. Can you believe I won? I actually won? You’re two degrees of separation from Scarlett Johannsson. Allegedly.”
He shakes himself out of his weird torpor.
“Go, Livvy! I’ll get you a glass.”
He comes back, pouring my wine with great ceremony. He’s looking particularly handsome this evening, a green V-necked T-shirt slung on over his jeans, his skin a lovely caramel color.
“Cheers, Big Ears. What’s he like then?”
“Flynn? He seemed really normal, but then . . . I think I might have really fucked up. And I don’t want to, it’s the first thing in ages that I’ve felt properly into, like it could actually mean something.”
I’m about to launch into the whole story, but I can feel I’ve got no audience. James has gone back to staring into space, his hand stroking one of the sofa cushions. I might as well be speaking Estonian.
“I dunno, it sounded like you were amazing.”
“I haven’t even told you—”
He interrupts me.
“This weird thing happened, Livvy, but I don’t want you to get all uptight about it.”
“Weird how?” I say, trying to keep my voice light.
“I met Charlotte.”
“Charlotte?”
“Yeah, this—this girl”—he says it in a way that has “totally hot” in brackets—“came downstairs, and I asked if she knew where you were, and she just—she looked like she was going to cry. And then we ended up going for a drink. Like I said, it was weird.”
“You know she’s engaged?”
“Yeah, no, yeah it’s fine,” he says, unconvincing. It’s not what he says, it’s the way he says it. He’s always ironic or laconic when he talks about girls, like they’re characters in
a film he can walk out of any time he wants. Now he sounds like he’s got trapped on the other side of the screen.
“So it can’t go anywhere.”
“Yeah, course. She’s just nice. I liked her.”
“Oh really?” I say, irritation mounting. It’s perilous, the way we live and it’s times like this that I remember that fact. “Because I don’t find her that nice. You know that.”
“She’s probably different outside work. More of a laugh.”
“That’s definitely different,” I say, hating how mealy-mouthed I sound.
“I’ve gotta go to bed,” he says, standing up. He stretches, yawns, relaxed about the way his worked-out stomach unfurls itself from under his T-shirt. “It’ll all be fine, you know, it’ll blow over. And well done!”
“Thanks,” I say, hoping my voice sounds the way I meant it to sound.
I sit there for a while, after he’s gone, trying not to give in to paranoia. These days it’s hard to know what tomorrow will look like until it arrives.
Sally was yanking packets out of a carrier bag, thumping them down triumphantly as if she’d gone out with a quiver of arrows and hunted for them.
“Bread and butter pudding, chicken quesadillas, crispy potato skins, margherita pizza, chocolate chip ice cream, and no salad.”
She ground to a halt, face flushed, as me and Lola eyeballed the haul in awe. We were students, Marks and Spencer’s was a luxury beyond the dreams of avarice, but Sally seemed to have cleaned it out. It was good to see her eating at least, often she seemed to subsist on little more than Ryvita and Philadelphia, but recently she’d swung the other way, loading up on stodge and snacking on high-calorie treats in the in-between times. She’d even put on some weight—I knew her too well to mention it, even though I thought it suited her. She looked too gaunt sometimes, taut and wired.
“Oh yeah, and three bottles of cava with some orange juice. That should take care of the vitamins.”
We’d come to Filey, a Yorkshire seaside town, for a girls’ weekend. It sounded like such a grown-up idea, but when Sally had heard about Lola’s aunt’s cottage she’d become fixated on the trip. We seemed to have become more of a trio again recently, with Sally going out of her way to invite Lola along when we went out. I liked Lola, I really did—there was something solid about her, a trustworthiness that made me feel like I knew where I stood—but what I didn’t always like was being one third of a three. I seemed to have turned into a tracker dog, my whole being trained to react to the tiniest movement in the terrain: I was constantly on high alert, watching for the slightest shift in the dynamic between us, or for one of Sally’s legendary mood changes.
Sally had already popped the first bottle of cava, even though we were still muffled up in our coats. She was rootling through the kitchen cupboards, slamming the doors like a one-woman tornado.
“You’ve got to let us pay you back,” I said, anxious, imagining the huge receipt. Sally gave an airy wave.
“Forget it.”
“If you’re looking for glasses, I know where they are,” said Lola territorially. “Just wait a minute and I’ll find them for you.”
I stiffened, but Sally was oblivious. She’d found them now, filled each one to the brim.
“Cheers, girls!” she cried, eyes bright. “This is gonna be great.”
“We can go on a proper country walk tomorrow,” said Lola. She always had such a heartiness about her, a ruddy good health.
“Didn’t bring any proper sneakers,” said Sally, quick as a flash.
“I’ve got to do a couple of hours of work first thing,” I said, simultaneously. Sally looked at me, hurt in her eyes. I smiled at her, reminded her with my look that I’d warned her I had an essay to finish. It was for a Renaissance poetry course that I was secretly loving. I reckoned I might get a first for it if I put the work in.
“You do know the first year doesn’t even count, don’t you?” said Sally. “Long as you pass.”
I nearly told her the truth; that I wanted to savor and appreciate every last drop, had no interest in scraping through.
“Just give me an hour,” I said.
“Say I’m a pathetic geek,” she said, raising her glass, and looking at me admonishingly.
“I’m a pathetic geek,” I parroted, and Sally smashed her glass into mine, satisfied.
The house was ridiculously cold, even after Lola had fired up the ancient heating system, and we went to look at the bedrooms with our teeth chattering. Sally made hers gnash together like we were walking across the North Pole and we all laughed, the slightly depressing quality instantly dissolved. Lola swung open the first door onto a plain but cozy little room with a bunk bed pushed against the wall.
“Me and my brother used to sleep in here,” she said, smiling. “He’d throw water bombs off the top bunk.”
“It’s lovely,” I said, but the other two had already gone next door. “And this is the maa-ster bedroom,” said Lola, revealing a room that was indeed much more impressive. It had a big
double bed, a cream carpet that squished underfoot, and a bay window that would afford a lovely sea view in the morning. “I mean there’s no reason why I should have it,” she said, looking at Sally. “You bought all that food . . .”
“Tell you what,” said Sally, quick as a flash. “Me and Livvy can double up in here. Then you get a room to yourself still. Your childhood bedroom,” she added, smiling.
Lola paused a second, and looked at me. A bit of me would have preferred the safety of a single bunk—I’d never shared beds with my girlfriends at home and it felt almost transgressive, like it could go somewhere I couldn’t quite name—but another part of me felt special, like Sally had anointed me. I wondered for a fleeting second if Matt would mind, but then I dismissed the thought as ridiculous. “Whatever you want, Lo.”
It was settled. We went back downstairs, loaded the oven with goodies, and ripped open the jiffy bag overflowing with chick-flicks that Sally’s mom had sent from home. They hadn’t really been my thing growing up—my bookish friends and I had sneered at them as something for the trendies, so I’d always favored Hitchcock films or something with Joan Crawford sweeping about in a glorious gown—but I didn’t admit it. In fact, silly girl that I was, even though I’d never even seen
Pretty Woman
, I pretended I loved it too. Lola was way more practical than us, so while Sally cued up the tape, she set about building a fire, and soon we were glued to the film, supper on our knees, toasty and warm. Now all I had to do was watch Sally out of the corner of my eye, so I could time my whoops of recognition to chime with hers.
“This’ll be what it’ll be like when we get a place of our own,” said Lola happily, her arm shooting out from under a rug to pour herself more wine.
Sally had recently announced that the three of us should share a house next year, and Lola had leaped on the idea. I was more cautious, but I hadn’t voiced my worries. They would either sound like a petty dig at Lola, or, infinitely worse, an attack on Sally. Besides, I reasoned, the way Lola and Justin were going, she might end up living with him. There was something destined about them, even then—they had an ease, a synchronicity—Lola wasn’t one for grand declarations, but she glowed. When the phone rang during
Pretty Woman
she dived for it. knowing it would be Justin. “Want me to pause it?” said Sally, in a tone that made it clear she should make it quick, but Lola batted her hand like it was an irrelevance and scooted out of the room to pick up the line in the kitchen. I thought it was only me who could hear the secret language that Sally layered under her words, but looking back I think Lola heard it just as clearly. She simply had the good sense to let it wash straight down the drain.
Sally rolled mascara-laden eyes at me as I popped the receiver down.
“This is fun.”
“She can’t help herself,” I said, and Sally snorted with laughter, hearing my comment as an acidic aside, when what it actually was awe. Lola’s open-hearted adoration of Justin was deeply sweet, so sweet that I envied it. Matt had hesitantly told me he loved me on Valentine’s Day, like he’d reached the appropriate page in his romance manual, and I’d sort of said it back. “Me too,” I’d muttered, because I didn’t know how to tell him that I wasn’t sure what I felt. I wished for the first time in my life that love was an exact science, that you could bubble it up in a test tube and drink down the draft. I wanted to be with him, felt deeply fond of him, but I didn’t feel that obsessive excitement I felt around James, like I’d do anything
to wring out a few more minutes with him, like the rest of the world could turn to rubble and I wouldn’t even notice. But was that real, or a fantasy version of love that could only exist when the relationship took place in my fevered imagination? Looking at Lola I could see there was a third way, a version that rendered both of mine fatally flawed. I vowed to concentrate really hard on all the things about Matt I liked and admired in the hope it would jump-start my heart: perhaps love could be a choice, rather than the gift bestowed by fate that I’d always believed it to be.
Lola came back eventually, full of apologies, her face flushed. “Would it be weird if he came up tomorrow night?” she said. It would be weird, no question, but I could see how much she wanted it, and it was, after all, her family’s house.
“Course,” I said.
“Whatever you want,” said Sally, her words clipped, her eyes fixed on the remote control.
“Honestly, girls, tell me if it is. It’s just he was meant to be going to a gig, and now he isn’t, and he’d love to see it. You can keep the room, we’ll sleep down here . . .”
“It is a little bit weird,” I started, “but it’s honestly fine. I mean—”
“It’s settled,” said Sally, cutting straight across us both. She pressed play very deliberately. “Eyes forward.”
We got into bed, me dressed in thick, mismatched pajamas topped off with a pair of woolly socks, Sally in an oyster-colored baby doll nightie that looked like a major fire hazard. The concept of dressing down was not one she ever dallied with. She was holding cotton wool pads to her panda eyes, soaking off the last of the black gunk.
“You’re not going to spring a Bagpuss surprise on me are you?” she whispered. “Not packing any emergency Whiskas?”
I giggled, then felt a bit sad. I wished that I couldn’t bear forty-eight hours apart.
“No Whiskas,” I said.
“Thank Christ for that,” said Sally, continuing in her stage whisper. I was sure Lola wasn’t asleep yet. I imagined her, lying in that single bunk, wondering what we were saying about her. She slid under the covers, looked up at me. “What’s up?”
“With Francesco,” I started, making sure to speak at a normal volume so I didn’t make Lola paranoid; Francesco was Sally’s Spanish older man, “was it like you couldn’t live without him?”
She looked at me, sucking up every single bit of it without asking a single thing. That’s what I loved about her: it felt like she was the all-seeing eye, like she knew every scrap of me better than I ever could.
“You thinking about James, yeah?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“I was fucking crazy about him,” she said, speaking normally again. A naughty grin crossed her face and I knew exactly what she was remembering. Matt and I mainly had sex with the lights off, a companionable exchange of orgasms followed by an affectionate postcoital cuddle. She stared at me, knowing just as well what I was thinking about, even though I’d never betrayed Matt by opening our bedroom door. Not until now at least.
I felt like we were back in the bubble, floating off somewhere high and far away. We talked and talked, like the well was bottomless. I told her how much the ghost of James stalked my relationship, even when we hadn’t spoken in
weeks and then, as she heard it how I wanted it to be heard, confessed my bigger, darker fear that my parents’ awful marriage had infected me somehow, like an airborne virus, fatally altering my relationship DNA. Sally laughed, but kindly this time, found the words of comfort I needed to hear, then told me what she’d learned about love from her romantic misadventures. It was a well-spun story, no more than a beguiling narrative, but there in the darkness it sounded like ancient truths written on parchment. Every time one of us stopped, the other would pipe up with something else that just had to be said, or a stupid joke that had to be told, until eventually even the birds joined our conversation. There was no way I’d be getting up bright and early to study.
It was time we got some sleep. She rolled over toward me, planted her lips on my cheek, her body momentarily pressed against mine through the thin, synthetic fabric. She lingered there for a couple of seconds.
“Night, Livvy,” she said, her voice soft and thick, laced with something I hadn’t heard before. I knew I didn’t know it, but I didn’t know what it was.
“Goodnight,” I said, a quaver in my voice.
I don’t remember much else about that weekend.