I remembered what Angelina had asked me the previous day and had tried to remind me of on the platform: If Charlie was not around, would you be there for me?
I had said yes. She had not held me to it. She had let me think that they would sort it out.
Their marriage was over. Angelina and I loved each other. She was waiting for me to work it out and step up. Again.
I jumped off the train in Macon, headed down the platform to find a taxi, and almost ran into Charlie, waiting at the first-class end of the train for the last of the passengers to alight. He had two big suitcases and was alone.
I stepped between him and the train. It’s fair to say he was as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
‘I need to talk to you,’ I said.
‘I have to catch this train. Angelina’s still at the house.’
‘You’ve left her?’
‘You’re free to see her. As you’ve been for the last week. Now, I need to get on the train.’
Given our respective physiques, if Charlie insisted on getting on the train I was not going to be able to stop him, short of doing something that got us both arrested. That was my Plan B.
I started with Plan A. ‘If you don’t talk to me, I’m going to broadcast your affair all over the internet.’
I wasn’t going to need Plan B, though we might end up getting arrested anyway.
‘You fucker. You little fucker. She told you? Texted you? Bitch. That’s why you came back. Fucking—’
He was furious with everyone except the person who had created the problem. I had not made the journey on a false premise.
I stepped back as the train was about to leave. He had a choice: get on board or grab me. He chose the latter, but there is only so much you can do in view of a platform full of staring passengers and the railway attendant. He must also have realised that the first thing I would do after waking up in the hospital with both arms missing was dictate a message about his infidelity.
He put me down. ‘You’re not happy with wrecking our marriage? You want to humiliate me as well? And her, you know. It doesn’t reflect well on her.’
‘I don’t want to humiliate you or Angelina,’ I said. ‘I’m here because I want to tell you something relevant to both of us. I’ll see you in the coffee shop in fifteen minutes. When we’re both in a mood to negotiate.’
I was not planning any negotiations. But I needed his professional persona. Mr Safe Hands. Mr Win-Win. Mr Incredible.
39
There were some seats separate from the cafe and Charlie joined me from the booking desk carrying—not wheeling—his two suitcases. I had coffees waiting.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you have to tell me that justifies me keeping a dozen senior executives cooling their heels in Milan?’ He sipped his coffee and winced. ‘If you think you need some sort of dispensation from me, you’ve got it. So has Angelina. I’ve already told her I won’t come between you.’
‘I’m not here to see Angelina. She wants to be with you. I think you know that. You’re the problem.’
He didn’t argue. He was a smart guy, the sort of guy who spends the fifteen minutes after losing his cool thinking about why it happened. But now it was up to me. Between Paris and Macon, I had managed to think of only one way of persuading him.
I told him a story. About the lotto debacle. With a little artistic licence, because the original facts were not going to equate to Charlie’s cheating on a relationship that had been built on his adoration. So it was not a lotto syndicate but futures trading. I had quit my job and spent my days writing thirty thousand lines of code, an infallible system. I’d had some bad luck but never lost my faith. Good money went after bad; I took the imaginary savings my mother had from my dad’s non-existent life insurance; I lost Claire’s mother’s house, the one she currently lived in. Everything short of mugging a nun and stealing the collection.
At that point in the tale I was beginning to feel relatively virtuous by comparison with my fictitious alter ego. Or Charlie, for that matter.
I told him about my confession and my shame, and about Claire organising the trip to Paris. Here there was no need to embellish.
‘A pretty special person,’ he said when I finished.
‘Luckily,’ I said. ‘Because I didn’t have the guts to deal with my problem myself.’
Charlie went to speak, then stopped himself.
I remembered something Claire had told me from her sales training. Don’t buy it back. Once you’ve made your sale, stop selling, or you’ll risk the buyer getting pissed off and changing his or her mind. Don’t buy it back, she would say after I had persuaded her to go to the pub instead of the Masala Garden, and was then tempted to enumerate all the advantages of her wise decision.
Still, I was not sure I had made the sale. I wanted to say something more anyway. For Angelina.
‘All the things you did, she saw through. She played her part in whatever game you set up because she wanted you to get through it. Including everything she did with me.’
I knew the last bit was only partly true. Her I love you might not have happened without the marital crisis, but it had nothing to do with any games with Charlie. I could only assume Charlie didn’t know about that. He was nodding slowly.
I had one more thing to say, a final bit of advice for the great negotiator. ‘There’s a saying we often quote in IT that insanity is doing the same thing over and over, and expecting a different result.’
‘Einstein.’
‘Attributed to. So maybe, if you want to keep your marriage, you’ll have to do something different instead of more of the same.’
It struck me that Charlie had just kept amping up the rabbits-out-of-a-hat game when he needed a paradigm shift. It also struck me that I was at risk of buying it back.
‘I’m going to get a couple of beers,’ I said.
From the bar, I saw Charlie stand up and use his phone. He was on it, pacing around, for nearly half an hour, time that I used to drink both beers and confirm I had missed the last connection to London.
When he had finished the call, I brought two more beers over. He was still standing.
‘I’ve spoken to Angelina,’ he said. ‘She’s—’
‘—a special person, too,’ I said. If my mother had been listening, she would have told us both to get a grip.
‘You need to get to London?’ said Charlie.
‘I’ll have to wait till tomorrow,’ I said. ‘And thank you, but no, I don’t think it’d be a good idea to spend the night at your place.’
‘Can you call a taxi? Your French is better than mine.’
He gave me his phone and followed me to the sign with taxi details.
‘Home?’ I said.
‘No, Angelina’s going to catch me in a couple of days. We can share one to Lyon airport. My shout.’
It was a ninety-minute ride to Lyon. The last flight to Milan had gone, and Charlie booked two seats to London: ‘Best place to get a connection tomorrow.’
In the departure lounge, Charlie fetched glasses of champagne for both of us, but we kept our toasts to ourselves.
‘So,’ he said, as they announced a delay to our flight, ‘are you going to take your own advice?’
‘About?’
‘Claire.’
‘Different story.’
‘You sure? You just spent a week with another woman. You’d have to be a psychopath to be able to go back to your partner without feeling bad about yourself. But if you tell me you’re not going back because you’re still in love with Angelina, I’m going to puke.’
Enough already. I had bailed this guy out, sacrificed the chance to be with the love of my life, and now he was calling it all into question.
‘You don’t think I love Angelina?’ I said.
‘You didn’t love her enough to take her twenty years ago. I saw the letter you sent. I’m not coming back. I’m with someone else. Love, Adam and Claire. You chose Claire. Angelina was there if you wanted
her. I was her second choice. Claire was your first choice.’
Jesus Christ. Maybe that was the letter I should have read over and over. I had loved Claire. But she had to compete with a memory of a person—and a love—that was forever young. I had still felt guilty at not being there for Angelina. Perhaps it had been that guilt, rather than happy memories, that lay dormant before turning into nostalgia.
Charlie laughed. ‘Made me try harder.’
‘She doesn’t see you as second best now.’
‘That’s what time and hard work does. Love is a verb. Your turn now. I mean, what are you going to do? Find someone else like Claire and not make any mistakes? No shared memories? Find out she doesn’t like your English breakfast? Or Bob Dylan? You’ve fixed half of it. Don’t you have the guts to deal with your own problem yourself?’
Charlie was on the phone again, and I pulled out my laptop to pass the time. For no conscious reason, I found myself googling Bob from Idaho. I had heard nothing from him since Singapore, 1990. To my surprise, I found him, easily. He had a website devoted mainly to technology topics but there was a personal section.
He was grey, but instantly recognisable. He had recently posted pictures of his fortieth-wedding-anniversary gathering, with children and grandchildren. His wife, the heart-stoppingly beautiful Polish lady, was an elegant contrast to the slightly shambolic American who looked as though he still couldn’t believe his luck.
I had always thought of Bob as the man who seized the day, a role model for what I had failed to do. But after forty years, he was something more: the man who, with his wife, had turned that opportunity into a life. Time and hard work.
Charlie and I had seats together in business class.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Are we good on sorting it out with Claire, or do I have to waste time that I could use to help with her buyout?’
It’s always easier to solve other people’s problems. I ignored the first part of his question.
‘Monday’s D-day and she’s meeting with the other directors tomorrow to make a decision. If she sells, she’ll probably need to move to the States. In which case, the part about us…’
As I was about to state a position I had held for most of my life, I felt diminished in the presence of this guy who had abandoned his profession to support his wife’s Hollywood ambitions.
‘Forget that,’ I said.
‘She’s having her strategy meeting tomorrow?’ he said. ‘Where?’
‘London, I suppose.’
‘Can they use some help?’
40
I left Charlie to get a taxi at Paddington and took the Tube to Liverpool Street.
At the end of a day that had begun in a Burgundian village and included a return trip to Paris, a long taxi ride, an international flight and the 10.30 p.m. train to Norwich, a black cab deposited me outside the place I had called home until a week ago.
I had texted Claire, asking if I could stay the night, and she had responded with an unadorned OK.
She opened the door in jeans and a jumper. She’d had her hair done but, I reminded myself, she had been on a date the previous night. Elvis appeared at her feet, saw me, and fled. Perhaps it had been a long week for him, too.
‘How was she?’ said Claire.
‘Can I come in first?’
She let me in and we stood in the kitchen. Her expression was not giving anything away.
‘I told you, I stayed with a couple of Australian friends in France,’ I said. ‘Middle-aged married couple with teenage kids.’
‘And was the woman’s name by any chance Kylie?’
Aha. I now knew the source of her information. Kylie was the name I had used with my mother.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was Angelina. Charlie and Angelina. They’re both lawyers. She’s an Equal Opportunity Commissioner in Melbourne. They’ve got three teenagers.’
Claire was clearly wrong-footed.
‘Nice people,’ I said. ‘They work incredibly hard on their marriage. After a major screw-up on his part.’
I fished her present out of my bag. I had wrapped it myself, that service not being on offer at the souvenir shop at Lyon airport.
She sat on a stool at the bench to unwrap it, then did her best to smile at the eight-euro coffee mug that was supposed to rekindle our relationship.
‘You got the right spelling,’ she said.
‘That’s the advantage of buying in France. They know how to spell Claire. We should go there more often. Pay for it by upping my hours. There’s a card.’
She opened the envelope. On the card, I had written, I will make coffee for you every morning for the rest of our lives.
I had considered adding if you’ll marry me, or even if you don’t marry me, but it had not sat right. There was still a lot of work to be done, but I wanted to do it with Claire.
She shook her head. ‘I’m really sorry, and it’s my fault too, but it’s all a bit late. The sale’s probably going through, and if it does I’ll go to the US.’
‘We should talk anyway,’ I said. ‘You first. Whatever you want to say about me. Or us. It’s probably not going to be a surprise.’
‘Actually, it may be,’ said Claire. ‘You want to know something funny? Way back, when you went to Holland, your mum took it upon herself to fill me in on Kylie. You know how she is: I shouldn’t be telling you this, but you need to know—it’s affected him.’
I laughed at the accuracy of Claire’s impression and my mother’s observation.
Claire managed a smile in return. ‘It wasn’t much more than what you’d told me. Just a bit about who she was, which I really didn’t need to know. But Kylie, an actress in an Australian soapie, and a singer. I couldn’t remember you telling me her name, and then I thought maybe you might not have because that would give it away.’
It took me a few moments to twig.
‘You thought I’d been dating Kylie Minogue.’
‘Very briefly.’
And I thought I’d been out of my league with Angelina. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? It’s hilarious.’
‘I didn’t want you to think I was an idiot. Or betray your mum.’
The unreality of it struck me, and I began laughing, and Claire joined me until we were both laughing uncontrollably at the idea that I had had an affair with an international pop star. I really did love Claire. She deserved better than what I had given her. Even in the last ten minutes.
I took a deep breath.
Remember Lenny Bruce. Remember Randall. Remember Charlie. Do not ever confess.
‘Her name wasn’t actually Kylie. You were right about France. She was the one I told you I reconnected with.’
‘Angelina?’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘Was her husband there, then?’
‘All true. The kids, the working hard on the marriage. The Château Margaux and the guinea fowl with foie gras.’
‘And how was reality compared with fantasy?’
‘She was older.’
‘That’s not what I was asking.’
‘I think we both worked out that we had made the right decisions.’
‘So you’re over her?’
I could have protested at the ludicrousness of the question, but I was doing my best to be honest.
‘I’m through it. I’m not going back.’
Claire walked to the fridge, opened it, closed it without taking anything out and sat down again.
‘Adam, I don’t want to make the same mistake again. When we got together, I could see you were still bruised, but I should have given you a chance to talk. Your mum was right.’
‘No surprise there.’
‘You know me. I’m not the one to start the touchy-feely discussions. You’re the emotional one.’ She laughed. ‘Relatively speaking. Given we’re IT people.’
‘Not soapie stars. Or Californians.’
‘We’re still human beings. Mandy was telling me about this four-dimensional—’
‘Physi
cal, intellectual—’
‘I thought we were doing pretty well on practical, which is my domain, but you’ve been letting the team down on emotional. I need you to keep us human. Music used to be our safe place for that, and you’ve been keeping it to yourself.’
‘I should have gone back to Australia about fifteen years ago and done what I’ve done this week.’
The outcome would likely have been the same, possibly without the three-way sex.
‘While we’re being honest,’ said Claire, ‘there’s something I should tell you. You may want to take your mug back.’
‘You slept with Ray?’
‘Ray? God no. What makes you think…Have you been looking at my emails?’
I’m sure my expression made a reply unnecessary.
‘Serves you right. I saw him to talk about the deal. He was quite useful. Knew all about BATNAs. I think he wants to be mine. Do you want to open a bottle of wine?’
It was late, but it seemed that she needed a drink to convey whatever bad news was in store for me. Perhaps she thought I would need the drink.
I found a bottle of Argentinean malbec, opened it, and filled two glasses. It had probably cost a tenth of what Charlie had paid for the stuff he had been serving in France and tasted just as good. Better. It was nice to be home, if I could forget that it might be a short-lived state of affairs.
‘I did something I’m pretty ashamed of,’ she said. ‘And, if you’re going to make a new life for yourself, you should know.’
Christ. What was the worst case? As soon as I asked the question, the answer flashed into my head. Randall. She’d slept with Randall. Claire was the other woman who had destroyed Randall and Mandy’s marriage.
I was right: it was the worst case. And there was no way in the wide world it was true. I laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it.
‘What are you laughing at?’