Infidelity (22 page)

28

I
n response to a text message asking for advice about Juan, I agreed to meet Fiona for coffee on a Saturday morning after delivering Sarah to Waterloo Station.

The day was overcast but Fiona arrived wearing sunglasses. The Spanish peasant look – if it was ever that – had gone, and she was back to a bulky jumper over jeans tucked into filthy ugg boots. Her hair was even more wildly unkempt than usual, though the plastic star was still there, planted in the tangle. I imagined Maddy would never have let her leave the house looking like this, but perhaps Maddy had wisely given up worrying about such things long ago.

She was hardly recognisable as the same young woman I had seen leaving for her job at the ad agency, dressed to thrill, on the couple of days when I was camped in her flat before she left for Spain.

‘Coffee?' I enquired.

‘Double espresso, thanks.' She removed her sunglasses and I saw that she was exhausted and quite possibly hung-over.

‘Croissant?'

She held her hands up, as if food would have been the last straw.

The coffee arrived and I waited while Fi drained her cup and accepted my offer of a second.

I smiled sympathetically. I knew better than to ask how she was.

‘So, Juan. A problem?' I said, once the caffeine had had time to begin its work.

‘God. Call him Jack, please.'

The repackaging project had come to an end, obviously.

‘Okay. Jack. You've struck a snag?'

Fiona stared at me, wide-eyed. ‘Jack's decided he's in love with me. Can you believe it?'

The uncharitable thought crossed my mind that, yes, at that moment, it was rather hard to believe.

‘That's a problem for you?'

‘Yeah?' Fiona somehow extracted three syllables from the word, ending on a sceptical, questioning note as if to say, what are you –
stupid?

‘Too heavy?' I was putting words in her mouth, breaking all my own rules.

‘You know, Tom, I think there might be, like, quite a bit of Sarah in me.'

I choked on the sip of coffee I was taking, and simply raised my eyebrows.

‘Jack was great. Jack was fun. We had a really, really good thing going. Like you and her, probably. Lots of fun, right? No strings. No plans. Just – you know – go for it? Like, totally, go for it?'

I managed to smile in a way I hoped seemed responsive, though I wondered what conceivable link could ever be forged between Fiona and Sarah.

‘But, no, he has to fuck it up big-time. Starts mooning on about lurv.
Lurv!
Soul mates, he says.
Soul mates!
Omigod. He's constantly texting me, calling me up, wanting to know what I'm doing, who I'm with . . . drives me fucking nuts.
Jack has become a pest. P.E.S.T. I told him: Jack, I think you're a pretty good fuck-buddy. But soul mate – where'd that come from? I told him – hey, no way. Like,
cool it!
'

‘I'm sure he means it as a compliment.'

Fiona looked at me as if I were in need of therapy. ‘Huh?'

‘People do fall in love, Fi. It's been known.'

‘Not me. Not yet. Not
Jack
and me.'

‘So has he taken the hint?'

‘I promised to go to a concert with him. We bought the tickets ages ago. The Dead Ringers. Know them?'

I shook my head, no doubt confirming another of Fi's suspicions about me.

‘Awesome name for a cover band, isn't it?' she enthused.

‘So you're going with Jack.'

‘Final fling. Sort of.'

‘He knows that?'

‘He can't quite believe it. Boys can be really, really thick sometimes, Tom.'

‘So is there someone else?' I asked, in the spirit of all this frankness.

Fiona looked at me through narrowed lids. ‘There's no way I'd have two boys at once. That'd be disgusting. You have to draw the line somewhere, as Mum always says.'

Fiona drained her second cup of coffee and I could see her considering and deciding not to have a third. ‘There's this boy at work, though. Mikey. Young Canadian copywriter. Cute as.'

‘So he's lining up, waiting for you to give Jack the flick?'

‘No way. Mikey doesn't know yet. He will – though I'll take my time. Unlike you, Tom, if I may say so.'

Fiona grinned at me as if we were co-conspirators. I didn't know who to feel more sorry for – Jack or Mikey.

The cafe was full of people about Fi's age, but I noticed we were the only couple sitting by ourselves – most of the other tables had been pushed together to accommodate the comings and goings of people who all seemed to know each other and clearly preferred to graze with the herd.

Fiona was continually greeting people as they drifted in and out, all of them looking quizzically at me.

‘Anyway, I thought you might have some advice.'

‘About what, exactly? You seem to have it pretty well sorted.'

‘About how to get Jack to see sense.'

‘Convince him it's over?'

‘Exactly. I mean, I don't mind having sex with him but he's got to drop this
lurv
thing or we won't even be able to stay friends.'

I could think of absolutely nothing to say so I concentrated on draining my cup.

‘So, anyway,' Fiona said, ‘see what I mean about Sarah?'

‘Not really, no.'

‘Well, she's got you on her terms. Same as I had Jack. She's not talking any rubbish about
lurv
is she? Not telling you you're, like, soul mates or anything, is she?'

I shrugged. The truth was that Sarah was
not
talking about love; she was
not
talking about soul mates. I was doing all that kind of talk for both of us.

‘Anyway, you're a smart dude. That's what Mum says, anyway. If Sarah gives you the flick, don't come crying to me. Take it on the chin. Try fishing on the other side of the pier.'

‘Fi, it's all fine with Sarah. Really. And, no, I promise I won't come crying to you if it goes bad.'

‘Awesome. But I wouldn't mind you asking me for advice if you need to – a woman's point of view can sometimes be very helpful.'

I looked carefully at her. I didn't think she was being ironic, but it was hard to tell.

‘I'll leave you to your mates,' I said. ‘Enjoy the Dead Ringers.'

The morning mist was turning into light drizzle as I left the cafe. I turned up the collar of my coat and began looking for a bus to take me anywhere. I had been no help whatsoever to Fiona, yet our conversation had been a catalyst for some disturbing thoughts of my own. It was the ‘Sar's pets' thing, of course; I couldn't quite shake it. Was it really possible – in spite of all this joy; in spite of the pregnancy that now bound us to each other – that I was to Sarah as Fiona wanted Jack to be to her? Did Sarah secretly cringe every time I declared my love for her? Surely not. (So why were there still no corresponding declarations coming my way?)

Fiona was roughly half my age. Loose arrangements might have suited her (though not Jack, obviously) but I needed more from Sarah than I'd ever needed from anyone. I wanted her commitment, her unflinching devotion, her total abandonment to me, to
us
. I had given that to her, but what if it was more than she wanted from me? What if she had resigned herself to the thought that she'd have to put up with all this devotion on my part in order to have me stick around on her terms? Was this the lack of symmetry Philip worried about?

I couldn't accept that. Our time together was too warm, too intimate, too rich for it be anything other than equally real for her as for me. We had come to this relationship from vastly different contexts, it was true. And I knew we were viewing the future from rather different perspectives. But it was still to be our shared future, surely. I would have to be more patient.

29

M
y mobile phone vibrated on the desk in front of me. I picked it up absently, my mind fully immersed in the Blair planning process.

‘Tom. Johnny O'Dowd here.'

‘Who?' For a moment, I had no idea who Johnny O'Dowd might be.

‘Radio Four?'

‘Oh, Johnny. Yes. Sorry. I was miles away.'

‘How's it going?'

‘Oh, fine. Fine.'

‘Busy?' Busy, I had learnt, was urban code for ‘still alive'. Always best to be busy.

‘Yes, indeed. All go, here.'

‘I have a proposition for you.' (What, I thought, another thirteen words?)

‘What's that?'

‘Thing is, we loved your work.'

‘Really? I seem to remember I wasn't racy enough for you.'

‘No, no. Our executive producer just loved it. She asked to hear the whole interview. Loved it.'

‘I listened to the program.'

‘Oh, good lad. Enjoy it?'

‘I was surprised by how much you managed to pack in, I must say.'

My irony was utterly lost on Johnny.

‘Thing is, the EP wants you to come in to talk about a talk, if you catch my drift.'

‘Talk about a talk?'

‘A full-blown talk. Part of our
Wise Words
series. Heard of it?'

‘Can't say I have but, as I say, I've been pretty busy.'

‘People from every walk of life, just reflecting, you know, on practically anything they wish to talk about. Like being new to London. Perspective of a visitor to our shores. That's the line she's most interested in, in your own case. But you could do something about cars again. There's zero crossover between that audience and this one. Or even some reflections on the counsellor's art. It's open slather, really, know what I mean? Nature of the program.'

‘I'm a bit wary of “wise”. Sounds like people with a bit more experi­ence to offer than I have. I'm just a pup, Johnny.'

‘Ha, ha. Yes, quite. Know what you mean. But no, not at all. That's the EP's point. She could hear it in your answers. Lots of depth there. Lots of wisdom. No question.'

‘I don't know, Johnny. Life's pretty full. The preparation for something like that . . .'

‘Piece of cake. Top of the head stuff, really. She liked your voice, you see. A natural for radio, she thought. Plus the charm of the accent, type of thing. Adds texture.'

‘When is this for?'

‘Oh, ASAP, old boy. ASAP.'

‘And the fee?'

‘Fee?'

‘I assume if you're commissioning me to write and present something, there'd be an appearance fee of some kind?'

‘I could talk to the EP, of course. Happy to raise it. We thought perhaps the exposure . . .'

‘Believe it or not, Johnny, I'm not after exposure right now. But let me think about it and get back to you.'

‘When might that be?'

‘Tomorrow? Later today?'

‘Today would be good. We find ourselves with a vacant slot for next week. Goes out on Tuesday evenings. We record Friday afternoons.'

‘What time Tuesday evening?'

‘Touch after eleven. Straight after the news. Good slot. Good exposure. Not big numbers, but real quality – a serious type of audience at that time. Strictly AB socioeconomic. These aren't your time-passers. Thoughtful people. We're proud of the profile, in fact.'

‘I'll call you tomorrow at the latest.'

I held my phone in my hand and looked at it, wondering why I had contemplated stringing Johnny O'Dowd along for even a few hours. Three months earlier, I would have jumped at his offer. Two months earlier, I might have given it serious consideration. One month earlier, I would have weighed it quite carefully before deciding it would be one thing too many. But I might still have entertained the idea that part-time motoring journalism was a possibility for me and I might have thought a radio talk – even at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday night on Radio Four – could be a bridge to something else.

Now, though, Johnny's offer had no appeal whatsoever. No radio talk to be broadcast to a handful of lonely souls on a Tuesday night – even a handful of lonely AB-class souls – could justify sacrificing a Friday afternoon with Sarah. In any case, I was engrossed in my new work and had already canvassed with Jelly the idea of moving on to some other role in his little empire once my strategy project at Blair was done. I was a father-to-be, pondering a life with Sarah – probably in London, but possibly back in Australia. I had already proposed an exploratory trip home, once the Perry saga had run its course. Sarah was non-committal.

I had no conceivable need of ‘exposure', though I was certain Johnny and his colleagues considered it a pearl beyond price.

I retrieved Johnny's number.

‘O'Dowd.'

‘Johnny – Tom Harper.'

‘Good lad. Are we set?'

‘I'm afraid not. There's simply too much on, and doing anything this Friday would be out of the question. Any Friday, really. Sorry. But I appreciate being asked.'

‘I'm not sure I follow.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘We're offering you a spot on
Wise Words
. People clamour for that kind of exposure. We get unsolicited requests to be on the show.'

‘Johnny, I appreciate that. It's just that things have panned out rather differently for me. This doesn't really fit with what I'm doing now.'

‘I see.' There was a brief pause. I could visualise Johnny looking up at the ceiling of his office. ‘Look, do you have any colleagues – any other Australian ex-pats over here at present who might be able to do something at short notice?'

‘What, you mean
anyone
?'

‘Well, not just anyone. Someone in your line, perhaps. Someone with an interesting perspective on Britain today – from the point of view of a visitor, I mean. That was the line the EP was hoping you might take. Anyone else come to mind?'

‘Not off the top of my head, Johnny. I'll call if I think of anyone. I could put you on to a very bright academic who could offer some wisdom on nursery rhymes and fairy tales.' (But, I thought, she would not be available on Friday afternoons either.)

‘Hmm. I'll pass that thought on to the EP. We'll get back to you if we want to pursue it.'

‘Thanks, Johnny.'

I don't believe in closing doors, but I slammed that one shut with a sense of relief. Writing for
Vroom
was fun when everything else in my life was drab. Now I was living in a world of primary colours.

My proposal to recast the Blair model had been approved and the process was in full swing. The survey of Blair clients and prospects was under way, and I was ready to begin my own interviewing of the Blair psychologists, testing reactions to some of my ideas about the reorganisation, and looking for their input as well. My first interview had been booked with Selena, who sounded incredulous when I called her to make the appointment: ‘Blimey! You mean they're serious about reorganising? They've actually asked you to consult us? Pull the other one, Tom.'

I did my best to reassure her, knowing she would only be convinced when the job was done.