Despite the almost crippling period pain, their thirteenth anniversary was a rousing success. It was one of those December days when the clear blue skies made up for the fact that it was so cold that even though she was wearing a pair of fleece-lined gloves, and thick socks with her Uggs, Hope was losing all sensation in her fingers and toes as she and Jack embarked on a mammoth walk.
If they weren’t in North London and taking regular rest breaks in chichi coffee shops, it might even have been a trek. They walked up the massive hill to Highgate Village to browse the bookshops, then they walked down a massive hill to Parliament Hill Fields, walked across the Heath to Hampstead, pausing to stare in shop windows at things they couldn’t afford, then walked down another steep hill to Camden and the huge Sainsbury’s where Hope bought the ingredients for her famous three-hour chilli.
Hope couldn’t remember the last time she and Jack had spent so many hours in each other’s company. The conversation was easy and relaxed in a way that it hadn’t been since the summer. Or maybe even before then, because things had already been going horribly wrong with them last summer, though Hope hadn’t known it at the time.
It certainly felt like everything was different now. They teased each other, without taking offence, and they talked about the future. A vague, blurry future, but Jack was happy to ask Hope where she’d like to go if they could manage a mini-break during spring half-term, and they played their favourite game, where they both got significant pay rises and five numbers and the bonus ball on the lottery (they both agreed that getting all six numbers showed a lack of imagination) and they could move into a proper house. ‘In Muswell Hill,’ Hope insisted, because she could get the 43 bus into work and there was a Whistles, a Space NK and more cake shops per head of the population than any place she’d ever been to.
Jack was more inclined towards Stoke Newington, but they agreed to compromise by moving to Primrose Hill instead.
‘When we’re living in Primrose Hill, you could convert one of the spare bedrooms into a studio,’ Hope said, when they were finally home and she was slowly pouring a whole bottle of Barolo into her chilli. ‘You always used to sketch and paint. Don’t you miss it?’
Jack was about to open the second of the three bottles of Barolo they’d bought, but he looked up in surprise. ‘Well, I suppose,’ he said. ‘I’ve been mucking around a bit on the computer with this illustration program I’ve got. Never seems to be much time for that kind of thing.’
‘Maybe you should make the time, like with us running. Set aside an hour every evening when you do nothing but arty stuff,’ Hope commented. ‘Like I’m trying to do with the gym, so it just becomes routine.’ She sighed. ‘When this sodding Winter Pageant is over, I’ll have so much free time I won’t know what to do with myself.’
‘Maybe you could take up knitting again?’
‘Me and knitting never really got on, but I did read in Skirt that bunting is getting very popular.’ Hope glanced around the kitchen, trying not to see the decaying worktop and the water damage around the sink but instead a string of bunting pinned to the shelves in a jaunty fashion. From the look of abject horror on Jack’s face, he was imagining the exact same thing and his attempts to persuade Hope to live a sleeker, more minimalist life, where everything was brushed stainless steel and matt white with no retro floral prints, were going up in flames. ‘I bet Blue Class would love to make bunting,’ Hope mused.
‘As long as it’s only Blue Class,’ Jack muttered. He stared around the kitchen with the same dissatisfied look that Hope got when she stared around the kitchen. ‘Maybe we should get started on the kitchen. IKEA’s bound to have a sale, and even if we just got new cupboard doors, did something about the worktop, and painted, it would look better. I mean, it would really take some doing to make it look worse.’
Hope smiled at him. That was real commitment right there. ‘As long as I don’t have to climb on a ladder, or even a chair, I can paint and do things with screwdrivers. And I can change a plug,’ she added proudly, because her father had once spent an excruciating Sunday afternoon teaching her life skills that he said everyone needed. Unfortunately, changing a plug had been the only life skill that had stuck.
‘I’ll take the plug off the kettle, just so you can put it back on again,’ Jack promised, as Hope hefted her casserole dish into the oven. ‘Shall we watch the first Woody Allen film while we’re waiting the last two hours for the three-hour chilli to cook?’
Because it was their anniversary, and because Jack had put her to shame with breakfast in bed and the purchase of female-centric medication, Hope had acquiesced to Jack’s pleas for a Woody Allen double-bill. Which was at least double the Woody Allen that she could handle, but he agreed that she could watch The X Factor in between screenings. They watched Annie Hall while they were waiting for the chilli to cook, and they were halfway through The X Factor, their empty plates and the second bottle of Barolo on the coffee table, when the doorbell rang.
Hope was stretched out the full length of the sofa, her socked feet resting on Jack’s lap as she tried not to succumb to a food coma. This was what she’d fought so long and hard for, these quiet moments of domestic bliss when they were back to how they used to be, and now someone was trying to ruin it. ‘Just leave it,’ she told Jack, who hadn’t stirred either. ‘Anyone who rings the bell at nine on a Saturday night is not someone I want to talk to.’
‘Yeah, it’s probably God-botherers,’ Jack agreed. ‘To remind us to set our alarm clocks so we can go to church tomorrow.’
‘Which is never going to happen.’
‘Bloody right, it’s not going to happen.’
The doorbell rang again and they both groaned. Hope nudged Jack with her foot. ‘Usually the God Squad aren’t so persistent. Maybe there’s an emergency. It might be Alice from next door.’
Jack pulled a face. ‘It’s probably Alice from next door’s babysitter.’
Alice from next door’s babysitter was a nervy teenage girl who was no match for the combined force of Lottie and Nancy. Earlier that year, she’d come round because Lottie and Nancy had locked themselves in the kitchen and were eating raw cookie dough, and she was terrified that they were going to contract salmonella and die. Hope had had to go round there and use her scariest teacher voice to quell the rebellion.
But Alice from next door’s babysitter would never have the stones to lean on the doorbell like that. ‘Maybe Gary’s forgotten his keys?’ Hope suggested as she nudged Jack again. ‘You go, he’ll only leer at my tits, and I do actually have quite bad period pain.’
‘Liar,’ Jack said without any heat, because it wasn’t true. The alcohol and the chilli had removed any last vestiges of menstrual cramps. ‘You go, you always say that exercise is great for period pain.’
Hope glared at him, but she did need to go to the loo anyway, and she’d digested enough of the chilli that she could now put the apple crumble she’d made in the oven. With a put-upon sigh, she swung her legs off Jack’s lap and made a great show of staggering to her feet. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’ll be fine,’ she said in a wavery voice that made Jack roll his eyes.
There was no pause between the rings on the bell now. It was just one long continuous peal, and as Hope opened the living-room door and hurried out into the frigid cold of the hall, she could see a shadowy figure through the frosted-glass panels. The shadowy figure could obviously see her too because it started hammering on the door.
‘I know you’re in there!’ shouted a muffled voice, which sounded familiar, but not familiar enough that Hope could put a name and face to it.
Just to be on the safe side, she slipped on the security chain before she opened the door – and saw Susie standing there.
‘WHAT ARE YOU doing here?’ they both gasped in unison.
Then Hope remembered one important fact. ‘I live here!’ she snapped, and now that she’d identified Susie as their mystery caller, she couldn’t actually look at her but stared at the little puffs
of crystallised air that her breath was making instead.
‘Jack,’ was all Susie said. ‘Jack.’
There were many ways that Hope could have replied, but she was too shocked to do anything other than stand there, staring at Susie and frowning because she wasn’t meant to be standing on her doorstep. ‘I’ll go and get him,’ was what she eventually said, then closed the door and padded back down the hall, the lino freezing her feet through her socks.
Hope took a deep breath before she opened the living-room door. Jack was sprawled on the sofa, remote control clamped to his chest. ‘Who was it?’ he asked lazily. ‘Nervy babysitter, trick-or-treaters who are over a month late, evangelical Chr—’
‘It’s Susie,’ Hope said, and the way that Jack went from nonchalant to bug-eyed in a nanosecond would have been funny at any other time.
‘What does she want?’ He was actually cowering, in the same way that Hope did when she was watching a scary film and hoped that the sofa would actually swallow her up so she didn’t have to watch it any more.
Hope didn’t feel an ounce of sympathy for Jack. He’d got himself in this mess, and he had to get himself out of it, too. This wasn’t a battle she could fight on his behalf. ‘Well, she wants to see you. Obviously.’
Jack had other ideas. ‘Tell her I’m not here,’ he snapped, though he had no right to demand that of her. ‘Please, Hopey, I’m begging you.’
‘You want me to tell your ex-girlfriend to go away?’ Hope clarified, but Jack didn’t seem to understand the irony.
‘She never takes no for an answer,’ he insisted, and he was one panting breath away from Hope having to slap his face and tell him to get a grip. ‘It will be better coming from you. I can’t. I just can’t!’
There was a series of short, sharp rings on the doorbell, and it was clear that the only way that Jack was moving from the sofa was if Hope dragged him from it by the scruff of the neck.
‘You really are unbelievable sometimes,’ Hope snarled, and slammed the lounge door behind her as she left the room.
‘He’s too scared to face your wrath,’ she told Susie, whose finger was once again poised on the doorbell. ‘Sorry and all that.’
‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’ Susie looked as if she was about to storm the parapets, but then she thought better of it. ‘He can’t just decide he wants a time-out and not even fucking discuss it with me first.’
‘I think you’ll find he can,’ Hope said without any malice, because a few weeks ago, she’d been standing in Susie’s shoes. Not literally, ’cause Susie had size-three feet and could walk in a six-inch heel and besides, at least Hope had had enough dignity to phone Jack rather than hotfoot it to Susie’s front door and demand entry, but she still had a horrible sense of déjà eeew. ‘Not exactly made of the brave stuff, is he?’
It felt weirdly disloyal to be slagging off her boyfriend to her ex-best friend who was also her boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend. The whole incestuous mess made Hope feel as if she’d wandered into an EastEnders plotline.
‘He really is a dick sometimes,’ Susie said, but she sounded sad and contemplative rather than venomous. Hope raised her eyebrows as she pulled her thick cardigan a little tighter. ‘Look,’ Susie continued. ‘I know I shouldn’t have come round, but you know about us, it’s not like it’s a secret, and he won’t talk to me, and I’m going fucking crazy.’
It was absolutely freezing. Hope was sure that it was cold enough to snow, and she was also sure that her extremities were turning blue, but Susie didn’t look like she planned to give up her vigil, and Jack certainly wasn’t going to move from the sofa. Should she invite Susie in and let her and Jack sort it out between them? But then she’d have to stay in the room with them because they couldn’t be trusted on their own.
‘You can’t camp out on our doorstep like this,’ Hope said to Susie. ‘It’s too cold, for one thing.’
Susie was wearing a big squashy faux-fur coat, but she was shivering – though that could have been from rage. ‘Well, then make him come outside and talk to me.’
She darted off the doorstep to bang on the living-room windows. The curtains were drawn but there was a chink of light showing through the gap. And then there wasn’t, because Jack obviously preferred to sit in the dark and pretend that this wasn’t happening.
Hope sighed. ‘Look, I’m not inviting you in but … well, do you want to go and get a drink?’ She wasn’t even sure why she was asking, and she wasn’t sure why Susie was nodding in agreement.
‘I suppose,’ she said warily. ‘As long as you promise not to throw this drink in my face.’
It wasn’t worth dignifying that with a response. Hope pointed at the pub on the other side of the square. ‘I’ll meet you in there in five. And I’ll have a glass of something red.’
‘If you’re not there in five minutes, I’m coming back,’ Susie threatened. Hope didn’t doubt it.
She closed the front door and went into the bedroom to pull on another pair of socks and her trusty Uggs. If she’d known Susie was coming round, Hope would at least have made an effort to look a little more alluring. She was wearing jeans – at least she was back in her skinnies – and a leopard-print twinset, which was meant to be arch and ironic, but probably just made her look as if she was trying too hard, Hope thought as she touched up her mascara and tinted lip-gloss.
Jack stuck his head round the bedroom door, just as Hope was buttoning her own fake fur, which wasn’t half as plush as Susie’s. ‘Has she gone?’ he mouthed, as if he feared that Susie was still lurking outside and the sound of his voice would set her off again.
‘She’s in the Lord Palmerston, I’m meeting her for a drink,’ Hope said tersely. ‘You’re welcome to join us.’
‘What? Why would you even do that?’
‘Because it was either that or invite her in for a cuppa. She wasn’t going to budge.’ Hope stepped right up to the door, but Jack also refused to budge. ‘Look, she was my best friend and you and her … it’s so messed up, and now she’s going through exactly what I went through, and you’re behaving in exactly the same way with both of—’
‘I forbid you to go!’ Jack cut right through Hope’s explanation, then actually plastered himself against the bedroom door. ‘You are not going for a drink with her!’
‘Since when do you have the right to forbid me to do anything?’ Hope tried to yank open the door. ‘And, hello, are you ten?’
‘I’m not having you go to the pub with Susie and talk about me!’ Jack spluttered. ‘Bitching about me. I know what you two are like.’
‘Compared to what you’ve done with her and what she’s done with you, me and Susie having a drink together hardly compares, does it?’ Hope succeeded in simultaneously shoving Jack and yanking at the door, so he was left in the bedroom and she was standing in the hall. ‘If you’d bothered to finish with her properly, then this wouldn’t even be an issue.’
As soon as she walked into the Lord Palmerston, Hope was forced to tug off her winter gear as she was enveloped in a fierce heat from the roaring log fire, all the radiators going full blast, and everybody in the pub turning to glare at her until she shut the door.
Susie had grabbed a sofa in a little nook beyond the bar, and had a bottle of Pinot Noir and two glasses ready and waiting. ‘Wasn’t sure you were going to come,’ she commented dryly when Hope sat down next to her. ‘Bet Jack wasn’t too happy about it.’
‘What makes Jack happy isn’t my biggest priority right now,’ Hope said with matching dryness, until she remembered that it was their anniversary, they were in couples therapy, and what made Jack happy was actually her biggest priority at the moment. Unhappy people made bad decisions. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about Jack with you.’
‘What else are we going to talk about? Don’t tell me you aren’t dying for a debrief, because I know I am.’ Susie chinked her glass gently against Hope’s. ‘You’re the only person who knows what I’m going through.’
I wen
t through it because you fucked my boyfriend sang the familiar refrain in Hope’s head, and she was all set to shout and snap and maybe flounce out until she looked at Susie.
She was still the same beautiful Susie. Wearing exquisitely cut tweed flares, a sloppy silk blouse and a sloppier fine-knit cardigan, which would have made any other girl look like a hot sloppy mess, but made Susie look pulled together and elegant. Expertly made up: eyebrows in a perfect sweeping arch and wearing the careless smile that she did so well; but Hope knew Susie better than that, even if it had been a while. She could see how hard it was to blend in heavy concealer when the skin under your eyes was raw from crying. Could see the waxy, dull cast to Susie’s face, and that her sleek, dark hair seemed to have lost a little of its glossiness. All in all, she was a little bit less than she used to be.
They sat there in silence. It was impossible to act as if nothing had happened, and that they could happily discuss the new season of Glee, what festivals they were planning to attend next summer and Jennifer Aniston’s latest dating travails, because something had happened.
‘The thing is, Hopey, I fucking love him,’ Susie suddenly said. ‘I knew it was wrong, and I knew that you were going to get hurt … I knew all three of us would get hurt, but I couldn’t help myself.’
Hope was sick and tired of that same old tune. Love didn’t sweep away everything in its path, including good reason and common decency. Not the love that she knew, anyway. ‘Well, maybe you should have tried a little harder,’ she said acidly.
Susie looked even more dejected. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway, does it? He came back to you, so you won in the end.’
As Hope’s last sight of Jack had been him clumsily attempting to physically prevent her from leaving the flat, for the first time she had to acknowledge that maybe Jack wasn’t such a prize. Or if he was, it was the kind of prize that came with four couples-therapy sessions and God knows how many weeks of no sex. She fidgeted uncomfortably. She wasn’t being fair. Their relationship had improved immeasurably since they’d been having counselling: Jack was finally able to see that they had a future together, and today had been perfect until Susie had started leaning on the doorbell.