Year of Being Single (30 page)

She had eleven new emails. A lot of it was junk: handbag sales, new beauty products on the market, newsletters she’d subscribed to but really should get around to unsubscribing from. There was an email from Marcia about Melissa May Scott, an actor she was thinking of signing up. Marcia wanted her to check out the notices for a play she’d done. Yep, yep, she’d do that later.

She was just about to close down Outlook and scoot over to Google when another email popped up. The subject said ‘Information’ and the sender was Carolyn Boot. The email sent the customary nervous chill down her spine, coupled with internal eye-rolling. That doomsday sense of oh flip, what does the old dragon want now? Carolyn had always had Imogen’s home email. When she’d worked for her, Imogen had to be on call for the old bat 24/7. What on earth was this about?

She opened up the mail.

Dear Imogen,

I thought it would be in your best interests to know that Richard Stoughton is in a relationship with another (much younger) woman. She was at Ascot yesterday. I’m not sure whether you saw her – she’s very slim and blonde and much younger than you. I suspect the relationship is a tumultuous one (aren’t the best always!) as they had words and she seemed quite upset. Furthermore, my husband and I were in New York last November and after meeting Richard for lunch, we saw him with the same woman and a child in Central Park. I believe Richard to be the boy’s father. Forearmed is forewarned, I believe, Imogen. I’m sure you will thank me for passing this very pertinant information onto you.

Regards,

Carolyn Boot

Strangely, Imogen’s first sensation was glee at the fact that Carolyn had made a spelling mistake – ‘pertinant’ not
pertinent
. Her second was a mixture of fear, despair, horror and nausea. What? Oh my God! It all came flooding into her brain in a horrible, awful rush – the young girl walking up the landing and crying, Carolyn’s cool smile when she said goodbye, Richard’s effusive display when Imogen returned to the box, which she now saw was a show of automatic recovery. No wonder he was laughing so loudly, showing off so heartily, it was a loud American smoke screen to cover whatever scene had just taken place.

Another woman? In a relationship? A child! Oh God, a child! Richard was father to that young woman’s son. She felt sick. She hadn’t had a hangover but one swept over her now like a brutal tidal wave. She needed water, she needed carbs, she needed Nurofen. She needed to have not just read this bloody email. In a horrible click of her laptop mouse, Richard was no longer her Richard from
Friends
, he was no longer
her
Richard at all.

Carolyn’s delayed revenge. That’s what this was. She
knew
I’d sleep with him, thought Imogen, in a cold sweat. She knew I would, and she’d tell me afterwards. Strike while all irons were still hot. Bitch. Bloody bitch. But Imogen was also culpable. She should have known Richard was too good to be true. Too charming, too nice, too funny, too good-looking: too bloody perfect.

She wailed. He had been. He’d been perfect, for her. Oh God, oh God. This couldn’t be happening. ‘You’re the one for me,’ he’d said. Sebastian had said the same. How could she have been so stupid?

Unless…Carolyn had got it wrong. It was his sister, right? It was
always
his sister, in the movies. The girl the hero is talking to, mopping up tears from, having a brief kiss or cuddle with by a car or outside a shop or something. It always turns out, to huge relief all round, to be his bloody sister, and the heroine always goes, ‘Of course, how silly of me!’ and slaps her own forehead for being so dumb and not having seen the
clearly obvious
family resemblance. The woman was his sister and the boy was his nephew. Not his
son
.
Carolyn had got it all wrong.

But. Why would his
sister
turn up to Ascot? And have sexy tumultuous
words
with him, in the box. It didn’t make sense. His sister would be in America, surely?

It wasn’t his sister, was it? It was a girl he was in a relationship with. A younger, slimmer, blonder girl. A girl who’d had his baby. A girl who was on one of those boozy Ascot coach trips, who’d had a lot to drink, who knew exactly where to find Richard. Or was she supposed to be a guest in his box all along? Had she rocked up and discovered he was there with another woman? Had he
double-booked
? She didn’t know. All she knew was, this girl had shattered all her illusions. That’s what they’d been. Illusions. He was a liar, a man who made women cry, a man who had babies with women and then met other women and didn’t tell them, a man who could not be trusted. Imogen felt like banging her head against the wall. She was right to have been afraid. She was right to be terrified of falling in love. But she’d gone and done it anyway. And now she must pay the price, just like she had all those years ago.

She’d been an utter fool.

The rest of the day was spent lying on a sofa in a pair of jersey pyjamas and angrily reliving all the ways in which Richard had been an absolute tragedy of a disappointment. And sobbing into a whole roll of toilet paper. And eating Twiglets. The only constructive thing she did was block his number from her phone. She should have done it the moment he kissed her.

On Monday morning, she left for work early. She didn’t take the Tube to Leicester Square as usual, but came out at Liverpool Street and walked to the underground car park under Richard’s office. She knew he got into the office at six a.m. and that between six and seven Nigel parked the car underneath the office and went to the local greasy spoon for a cup of tea and a bacon butty. She found Richard’s car, that gorgeous car with the leather interior, and put a Post-it note on his windscreen that said,
‘It’s over. I know about the woman at Ascot and your child. Imogen’
, and then she walked back to Liverpool Street Station, got on the Tube and went to work.

Chapter Twenty-nine: Frankie

At around nine o’clock, long after Frankie had got back from Hylands and a while after she’d spent all afternoon not watching Wimbledon, she did something she’d made herself not do, ever since she and Rob had split: she looked at their wedding album.

On the first page was a large picture of Rob outside the church. He looked nervous, cheeky, expectant. There was one of him and his sister, Beth, his arm round her shoulders. They were both grinning from ear to ear. He looked excited. Beth had told her that Rob had been ready super early that day.
Really
early for him. He hadn’t drunk a drop the night before either, she’d been told, or eaten a kebab, like the others had. He’d wanted to be
fresh
for the day, he’d kept saying. Beth said all his mates had teased him for it, trying to get him to have a beer, but he’d refused. ‘No, not tonight,’ he’d said, apparently.

Frankie was excited too – she’d arrived ten minutes too early, and had to go round the block twice as she could see some of their friends, animated and laughing, still making their way into the church. Even when she’d finally told the car to stop, one minute after 2p.m., there were still a couple of stragglers making their way in. Everyone had been so on form, so happy. There were photos of some of their friends, outside the church before she’d turned up, taken with Rob. There was a funny one of someone doing bunny ears, behind Rob’s head. Then there were photos of her, in her dress, with her dad. She’d worn a huge meringue, in the palest of pale pinks, her hair pinned up into waves. She’d looked gorgeous; everyone had said so.

She turned the next page and smiled. She and Rob were coming down the aisle, after signing the register. With tears springing to her eyes, she remembered how Rob had practically marched her down there, laughing, as though he couldn’t wait to get her outside, into the sunshine and the pealing bells and the confetti, so they could begin their married life.

She looked at the photos again, slowly, from beginning to end, and she cried and cried and cried. For the people they’d been. For the people they were now. And for the huge gulf and four beautiful children that sat between the two.

After two hours of crying, her nose was red raw from being blown into less than soft kitchen roll and her eyes felt like onions. She lay on the sofa, slippers on, despite the heat. Every time she stopped and thought,
enough now
, she started bawling again. But she still didn’t know what she wanted. She thought she wanted him back. But she was terrified that having him come home would set them on the same road again – just slightly further back. Before they knew it, they would reach the exact same point again – the point where she’d had enough of it all and kicked him out.

She reckoned she could easily spend the entire night this way. Thinking and crying. Crying and thinking. She was just entering another ready bout of sobbing when her mobile phone rang. It was Rob. She sniffed a giant sniff and tested out her voice, ridiculously saying, ‘Hello, hello,’ into the silent living room, to make sure her voice wasn’t too wavery or croaky. Then, she pressed the green phone symbol and said it to him.

‘Hello?’

‘Frankie. Hi. It’s Rob. Tilly’s not well. I don’t know if it’s an A and E job or not but if it is I can’t go because the others are all asleep.’

‘A and E!’ Frankie sat up and one of her slippers fell off. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. But she’s all feverish. Burning hot, all shivery. I’m pretty worried.’

‘Have you given her the pink paracetamol stuff?’

‘Yes, but it’s not doing anything yet. It was half an hour ago. Can you please come over, Frankie. I’m sure it’s
not
anything serious, but I’m beginning to panic a bit.’

‘Oh God,’ said Frankie. ‘Yes. I’m coming over. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’ She grabbed a jacket and her keys, changed her slippers for flip-flops and flew out of the front door.

When she got to Rob’s flat, he was pale and couldn’t muster a smile.

‘How’s she doing? She any better?’

‘I think so. I’m not sure. Come and have a look.’

Tilly was lying on Rob’s brown leather sofa, on a cotton sheet that he must have laid there for her. She was in her One Direction pyjamas and was fast asleep. Frankie placed a hand to her forehead. She felt hot and her face was all flushed.

‘Have you called the NHS number, whatever it is these days?’

‘No, I hadn’t thought of that. That was always your – ’

‘Department?’ She smiled ruefully. ‘What’s her temperature?’

‘Thirty-seven.’

‘That’s fine then. Normal.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘Have you checked her for spots?’

‘Spots?’

‘Chicken pox.’

Tilly was the only one who’d never had it; the others all had. Frankie had even taken her to a chicken pox party when she was two – they were all the rage at the time – and Tilly still didn’t get it.

Frankie gently pulled up the bottom of her daughter’s pyjama top. There, on her tummy, was a smattering of the tell-tale, irregular-shaped spots, just emerging.

‘I’m sure that’s chicken pox,’ she said, with a sigh of relief. ‘I know it well.’ She did. She’d been the one to nurse the other three children through it: running tepid baths, applying cold flannels, giving them lectures on not scratching and scars. Rob hadn’t been involved. ‘I’m sure the paracetamol will kick in soon. Keep a note of the time you gave it to her. It’s every four hours. You can wake her, even through the night, to keep her dosed up. Or,’ she said. ‘I can take her home with me.’ She wanted to. She wanted to take Tilly home with her.

‘I don’t think we should disturb her,’ said Rob. ‘She’s out for the count. Can you stay, Frankie? Stay with me, to look after her?’

There was only one answer. ‘Okay,’ Frankie said. ‘I’ll stay.’

He put the kettle on, then they sat on the floor in front of the sofa, and the telly, which had some old comedy show on, turned down low. They talked in low voices. They talked and talked. About Tilly. About all the children, in turn, how they were doing at school, the wonderful and funny things they said, how they were growing up so fast. Then they started talking about TV programmes they used to watch together but had watched separately over the last few months, until Rob looked at Frankie and said, ‘I don’t blame you for chucking me out. I was awful, Frankie, I’m sorry.’

‘You were,’ she said.

‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘I was a lazy, self-centred, unappreciative git.’

‘Yes, that pretty much sums it up.’

‘Okay, enough about me…’ he joked. ‘I’m trying here. I want to try and make things right. I think I can change, if we got back together…’

Rob straightened his back and his eyes, which had been blinking sleepily, focused on hers. She hadn’t looked into his eyes for a long time. She’d forgotten what nice eyes they were. ‘I really want us to get back together, Franks. If you want to, that is. Would you consider it?’

Frankie sat up too. She realised she was shaking. It took her by surprise. ‘If we do, you
have
to change. In a lot of ways.’

‘I will, Frankie, I promise.’

She took a deep breath. ‘I really need you to know, that as awful as it was, it wasn’t a mistake – me kicking you out like that. It was the opposite of a mistake.’ Rob lowered his head and stared at the floor. ‘I know it’s really hurt you,’ she continued, ‘but I needed this to happen. I needed to be on my own.’

‘You needed to get rid of me.’

‘I did.’

‘As bad as it’s been,’ said Rob, looking up, ‘and it was
really
bad, in the beginning. I was so angry with you – my own fault, I know, I know,’ he said, holding his hands up, ‘it’s been good for us. I hated you at first, really hated you. Then I came to realise, it was me I hated. What I’d become. The lazy so-and-so I’d become.’ He leant back and sighed. ‘You know, I felt like I’d never been a proper father to them, until I had them on my own. That first weekend I had them, bloody hell, it was hard, but I realised that’s what it’s like for you, all the time. That first weekend I became their father.’

Frankie nodded.

‘Then I wanted to show you that I could do it – that I could scrub up, shape up, look after them properly and without complaining. That I could keep somewhere clean and tidy, do the washing and the ironing and all that stuff.’