“Well, yes,” I mumble. I wonder if he has heard that Ed is threatening to prevent me seeing the children at all because I’m an unfit mother, that my young lover is one step down from a crack-cocaine dealer and that I’ve lost my cushy job because I was too unreliable to turn up for work when required.
“On a stress scale of one to a hundred,” he continues kindly, “divorce is right up there at the top.”
Divorce!
“It’s only a few points behind bereavement and marriage,” he says without irony.
Divorce! I want to tell him that I’m not getting divorced, but I have a horrible feeling that I might be. I want to tell him that I no longer have the strength to deal with all this turmoil and that I want to go back to my safe little life and my safe little house and my safe little job typing invoices for safe little Kath Brown. I want my children back and my husband back and I have no idea how to do it, and if I’m not to sink slowly below the shifting sand beneath me, I really, really need some advice.
Dr. James looks at his watch. It’s time for his next patient. He hands me the prescription. “Here, these might help,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Nice to see you, Alicia.” He is keying the name of his next patient into his computer.
“Yes.” I smile automatically, stand up and walk to the door. And I know that it will take an awful lot more than a soppy tablet with a great long name and a million side effects to sort this mess out.
CHAPTER 65
Neil was spring cleaning. Which was okay as it was that time of year which could still just about be classed as spring—not that the seasons bore much in the way of distinction from one another these days. They were all wet and gray and neither too hot nor too cold.
He had considered getting Molly Maid in, but recent experience had told him that if there was something potentially unsightly to be uncovered, it was better that you discovered it yourself and not have your shame exposed to someone young and nubile. The incident with Jemma, the pizza and the porn video was still weighing heavily on his mind.
The bath had been cleaned until it shone like something very shiny indeed, and he’d even polished his taps, which now sparkled so much that he could see his face in them. Albeit a rather distorted face. He felt like something out of a Mister Sheen advert, whipping around with his duster, spraying potpourri-scented loveliness into the air. Neil could see why women were so attracted to housework. It was terribly cathartic. He’d got down on his hands and knees and had scrubbed the kitchen floor. He’d even pulled out the cooker and was startled to see the amount of rotting and dried detritus lurking there, particularly when he hardly ever used the thing—but he could now understand where the man who invented Pot Noodles had drawn his inspiration from. And let’s face it, it had to be a man.
The glass thing that goes round in the microwave had been removed and treated to a brisk rubdown with a Brillo pad, and there had been enough food stuck fast under there to feed a family of five for at least a week.
The bedroom was a bit of an eye-opener too, and he could categorically state that discarded rubber did not start to rot, even after two years. There were underpants under his bed that looked like they’d been there since the late Jurassic period, when dinosaurs still roamed the earth. It was quite possible that the carpet needed something stronger than fumigation, and for the first time he wondered about moving out of the flat. He was doing all right, workwise. Okay, so he wasn’t desperately inspired by his daily grind, but it paid his bills and then some. Perhaps the act of cleaning had made him more aware that he needed to sort out other areas of his life.
Hugging his Mister Sheen to him, Neil came to a momentous decision. He was going to reinvent himself completely. He was going to be dynamic, forceful, organized, possibly even neat. He was going to cancel his account at The Canton Garden and start eating rabbit food. He was going to stop wearing ten-year-old faded jeans and buy only Paul Smith suits. Paul Smith did make suits, didn’t he? Anyway, posh suits. If he wanted to attract rich, powerful women, he was going to have to act as if he were rich and powerful himself. He was going to stop photographing snot-nosed schoolkids and do sexy fashion shoots. He wasn’t sure how, but with his new dynamic attitude and his power suits, the big breaks would come his way as surely as night follows day. And, finally, he would force Ed into playing squash at their weekly meet rather than going to the pub to talk about it.
Just as he was about to consider stopping for a well-earned coffee break, the phone rang. It was Jemma.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.” He’d gone off Jemma. Not in a heart way, but in a head way. Her voice still did very strange things to his anatomy, but a relationship that had already involved him in wearing flared trousers, getting a cup of tea lobbed in his face and brazening out a pizza-and-porn experience was not a relationship that was heading in the right direction, was it? Even he could work that one out. And he was the man who’d stayed with Arabelle Hinton-Green for nearly a year after she’d told him he was a no-hoper and they were going nowhere.
“Is everything okay for tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night?” This phone table would be next for the Mister Sheen Domestic Exterminator treatment. Neil tucked the phone under his ear and started to leaf through the mounds of paper. He tutted to himself. There were petrol receipts here from 1982! And my, how cheap it had been! You could go there and back on a tankful for less than thirty quid and still have change for chips on the way home. Those were the days!
“Tomorrow night.” Jemma sounded stressed. “Ed. Ali. The Ivy!”
“Oh, that,” Neil said. There were envelopes franked with a 1997 postmark that he hadn’t even opened. Neil slid his thumb under the flap of brown paper of one and started to tear it apart.
“Are you listening, Neil?”
“Of course I am.” It was a bill for a missed dental appointment. Neil ran his tongue round his teeth. They all seemed okay. No worries there.
“Did you write the invitations out nicely?”
“Yes,” he said. “I used my best felt pen.”
“Did you put what I said?”
“Yes. I put what you said.”
“Nothing else?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Jemma’s voice was turning into a screech. That woman should relax more.
“No. No. I didn’t put anything else,” he assured her.
“Good. Good.” He could hear Jemma mentally biting her nails.
“Don’t worry,” Neil said laconically. “It’ll be fine.” God, there were all sorts here. Car insurance reminders. Pension info—he’d been meaning to start one for ages. Since 1992, it appeared. The Sunday Times Wine Club joining offer from 1995—probably out of date by now.
“And you put first-class stamps on them?”
Neil gasped and halted in the process of sifting through his letters. A small white envelope had stopped him in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Jemma was immediately suspicious.
“Nothing.” Neil glared in terror at the envelope.
“I thought I heard a funny noise.”
“I farted,” Neil said, thinking that he had nothing else to lose.
“Oh.” He heard her sniff. “You have checked the restaurant booking?”
“Yes,” he said.
Jemma sighed worriedly. “I hope it goes well,” she said. “You do think we’ve done the right thing, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. Yes.” He was trying to control his breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out. “Look, Jemma,” he gasped. “I have to go now. There’s something I have to do.”
“Oh. Okay.” Jemma sounded put out, but he couldn’t worry about that now. “I can’t wait to find out how they get on. I really hope this brings them back together, Neil.”
“So do I,” he said.
“All our scheming will have been worth it.”
“Yes,”
he said. “Bye.” And he hung up, tugged off his apron, grabbed his keys and raced down the stairs. In his hand he clutched the small white envelope. The one that contained Alicia’s invitation to The Ivy. The one that he’d written on just as Jemma had instructed. The one that had a first-class stamp on it. The one he had forgotten to post. He had to get round there now and deliver it before it was too, too late.
CHAPTER 66
Ed was in the kitchen, with a large glass of Dutch courage in his hand. He wanted Ali back, and to do that he had to have his mind free from clutter to concentrate on it. And, he hated to admit it, by clutter he meant Orla and the lovely Nicola Jones.
Telling Orla would be tough. She wouldn’t take this kindly. His vision of sharing a beer with Harrison Ford, convivially slapping him on the back and maybe, just maybe, barbecuing a few steaks together was blurring at the edges, becoming indistinct and hazy. It was never going to happen now, his dream of setting Hollywood alight with his sheer brilliance. Once he ditched her, Orla would make sure that it would never happen. It was going the way of all his other dreams—playing for Manchester United, captaining the England cricket team, having a number-one smash hit, keeping all his hair until he was sixty, getting through Christmas without going overdrawn. He just hoped the dream of getting back with Ali was worth it.
He phoned Orla’s flat, knowing full well that she would be out. Age was turning him into an emotional coward, he knew he should have done this face-to-face, it was the right thing. He just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Orla’s soft American brogue sounded tinny on the answerphone.
“Orla,” he began. “This is a terrible way to do this. I know I shouldn’t. But I’m English. I can’t help it. Orla… I need… I need you… I need you to understand that I have to end this. This… This… I have to end it. There’s a chance that Ali and I might get back together. A remote chance, but I have to take it. I know now it’s what I want. I have to do it for the kids. For Ali. For me. For a thousand other reasons that I’m not sure you’ll understand. And I’m really sorry. Really, really sorry. I thought it might work out between us, but… Well. I’m sorry. Really, I am. I hope you’ll find someone who’ll make you happy.”
Ed hung up. The last time he remembered dumping anyone was when he was about fifteen, and it didn’t seem to have got any easier. He took a slug of his drink and his fingers were trembling. Oh, well. Going for the double. Nicola would be more simple. There wasn’t the guilt involved there, none of the complications that came with working alongside Orla and having to continue a business relationship, at least for the time being. Nicola was delightful, but she was as wispy and as insubstantial as her dresses and her pretty blond curls. He needed a woman with substance, not someone who could be blown away on a stiff breeze. He should have known better than to get involved with her, particularly when his heart had never really been in it, and it was cruel merely to use someone as a benchmark.
With a bracing swig of wine, Ed dialed Nicola’s number. This time, the well-rehearsed speech flowed better. “Nicola,” he began, “this is a terrible way to do this. I know I shouldn’t, but it can’t be helped. Nicola, I can’t see you again. Not in the romantic sense. There’s a chance that Ali and I might get back together, and I know now it’s what I want. I have to do it for the kids, for Ali and for me. And I’m really sorry. Really, very sorry. I hope you’ll find someone who’ll make you very, very happy.”
Ed replaced the receiver and sat back, rubbing his hands over his eyes. The kitchen door creaked open, and Elliott came in. He sat down on the stool next to Ed, one finger inserted in the hole where Barney’s eye used to be.
“Does this mean that Mummy’s coming back to live with us?”
“You shouldn’t earwig on other people’s conversations, Elliott. What have I told you?”
“I wasn’t earwigging!” his son said indignantly. “I was tiptoeing past like a quiet little mouse, and my ear fell against the door. And you were talking very loudly.”
“Well, don’t do it again,” Ed said.
“So, is Mummy coming back?”
Ed sighed. “I don’t know, Elliott. But I hope so.”
“I do miss her, Daddy.”
Ed put his arm round his son. “So do I.”
“What will Christian do when Mummy comes back? He won’t have anyone.”
“What a shame,” Ed said.
“I know,” Elliott said brightly, “perhaps Christian could have Miss Jones or Orville, now that you’re finished with them.”
“Elliott, you and I must talk about the fundamentals of dating sometime.”
“Now?”
“It can wait.” Ed finished his drink. “Now I must go and get myself spruced up. I’m going out.”
“With Mummy?”
“Yes,” Ed said, only hoping he was right. “One of Tanya’s friends is coming to baby-sit.”
“But we haven’t got a baby?”
“You will be good, won’t you, Elliott?”
“I’m always good,” he said with a tut.
Ed stood up. “That, Elliott, is a matter of perspective.” He checked his watch. Time for a long, relaxing soak in the bath and a quick shave.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, Elliott?”
“Will we still see Christian if Mummy comes back to live here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Mummies and daddies don’t work like that,” he said.
“Oh.” The smile disappeared from his son’s face. “I do like Christian, you know.”
Cut out my heart and watch me bleed, Elliott!
“He’s a lot of fun.”
“I’m fun too,” Ed said.
“But you can’t skateboard.”
“I’ll pay for you to have lessons.”
Elliott’s mouth turned down some more. “That isn’t the same.”
“Then I will learn, Elliott,” he said. “Watch this space.” I will bloody well learn!
There was a tinkling of glass behind him and Ed spun round. A brick had come through the kitchen window and landed in the washing up bowl in the sink with a dull splash. Elliott had gone white. Ed rushed to the hole where the window used to be in time to see a familiar figure disappearing out of the drive at a run. The flowery roller blind flapped in the breeze, its pom-pommed edge tapping rhythmically against the window.
“Are you okay?” Ed asked.
Elliott nodded, for once at a loss for words.
Ed fished the brick out of the onetime soapy water. There was a note attached to it with string. Ed picked the knot open and unfolded the dripping note. YOU BASTARD was all it said.
“Bollocks,” he said with a sigh.
“Daddy, it isn’t nice to swear in front of children,” Elliott gasped, clearly having recovered his powers of speech.
“This is one of those rare exceptions.”
“Who did it, Daddy?”
“Miss Jones,” Ed said flatly. Seemingly, the wispy, insubstantial Miss Jones had not taken her dismissal very well.
Elliott folded his arms and puffed heavily. “I’m going to have to change schools, aren’t I?”
Ed squished the note in his fist and tossed the house brick back into the water. “Quite possibly,” he said.
CHAPTER 67
Neil was completely and utterly out of breath by the time he reached Alicia’s house. Which was ridiculous, because he’d driven all the way there in the car.
He’d parked a little way down the street, partly because he wasn’t exactly sure which was the right house and partly because he didn’t want Alicia to peep out of the window just as he approached and catch him in the act of hand-delivering her should-have-been-posted invitation to dine at The Ivy. He plucked the envelope from the passenger seat and fingered it gingerly. God, Jemma would gnaw his balls off and eat them for breakfast if she ever found out that he’d forgotten to post the bloody thing.
Where was his brain? He knew how important this was,
and yet he’d still nearly managed to cock it up. All it had done was strengthen his resolve to turn himself into a new all-singing, all-dancing powerhouse, not some twit who couldn’t even be trusted with something as dangerous as an envelope. And to that end, as soon as he’d delivered this little time bomb, he was off to buy himself the nattiest suit in Christendom and bugger the expense.
With a quick and overly melodramatic check that the coast was clear, Neil got out of his car and crossed the road. Ed had told him ages ago where the house was, and he only hoped he’d remembered correctly and that some batty ninety-year-old next-door neighbor didn’t turn up at one of London’s swishest restaurants instead, expecting her Prince Charming to be sitting there. How on earth had he let Jemma persuade him into all this in the first place! Because he was hoping that it would result in him relieving her of several articles of essential clothing at some later date, he seemed to remember. Bloody testosterone had a lot to answer for!
Neil crouched down slightly, acknowledging that it probably made him look even shadier than if he’d walked upright and confidently to the front door and just shoved it in. The theme tune to Mission Impossible started playing in his head, every potential curtain twitch alerting him to the danger of discovery. He should have known that no curtains would be likely to twitch, as no one in London was the slightest bit interested in what anyone else was doing anyway. But this was too important to mess up now that he had come this far—and so close to messing it up.
As he reached the right front door, he spun round, checking he wasn’t being followed. He crouched lower and inched his way toward the letterbox, easing the flap open gently, gently, like a bomb disposal expert disarming a fuse. The flap lifted with an I-want-oiling creak, Neil took the invitation and squeezed it through the draft excluder inch by careful inch. When the letterbox had accepted its prey, Neil lowered it down, carefully, carefully, coaxing its creaking hinges to a state of calm and quietness. The envelope was inside. The letterbox was in the closed position. And Neil sighed with relief at the same time as his mobile phone went off, sending him three feet into the air.