You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (13 page)

I
laughed up at him, and pulled him down on top of me, relieved that I was able
to take the pleasure he so loved to give. But when he started to fuck me, the
image of Felix’s face came unbidden into my mind, and I found myself imagining
that it was his cock inside me, not my husband’s – his face above mine in the
golden light of the bedside lamp. Not Felix as he had been fifteen years ago,
but the man I’d met tonight; the man who’d pretended to be a stranger. I
remembered how I’d obeyed him, instantly and without question, when he’d told
me to dial his number. I imagined giving my body to him in the same way, not
coerced but somehow compelled. The idea was electrically exciting, impossible
to resist. I closed my eyes, giving myself up to the fantasy, and came again
seconds later.

I
couldn’t look at Jonathan afterwards. I turned my back to him, letting him wrap
his arms around me, feeling his kisses on my neck. We fell asleep that way,
almost as if everything was normal.

“Yes,
it’s all very well to say ‘cover the buttercream in desiccated coconut,’ you
smug cow,” I muttered at my iPad screen, “You don’t mention that you cover the
entire fucking kitchen with it, too.”

It
had seemed so simple – a white rabbit cake to fit in with the magic theme of
Darcey’s birthday party. There were loads of tutorials on YouTube, and I’d
watched several, wondering airily what could possibly go wrong. Just about
everything, I was beginning to realise. I’d burned the first cake and had to start
again, then the corner shop had run out of golden caster sugar and I’d had to
waste a precious half-hour on a trip to Waitrose. Now I had just forty-five
minutes before I needed to leave to fetch my daughter from school, and the cake
was still nowhere near done.

“Fuck.”
I threw my palette knife into the sink and grabbed a handful of coconut from
the bag, pressing it into the icing and praying that it would stick. It did – but
the warmth of my hands melted the buttercream and I soon had a sticky, gritty mess
coating both hands. And then, of course, my phone rang.

Over
the past few weeks, the lurch of nervous excitement I’d felt whenever I heard
its trill had dulled – none of the calls had been Felix, and this wasn’t going
to be, either. I glanced at the screen – Jonathan.

“What
is it?” I picked up the phone with my fingertips, leaving a greasy, coconutty
smear on the screen.

“Hey,”
Jonathan said. “Is this a bad time?”

“No,
it’s perfect,” I said. “I’m in the process of spackling the entire kitchen with
cake decorations, I’ve got to leave in a few minutes to fetch the kids and I’ve
got a zillion things to do before tomorrow. You couldn’t have picked a better
moment.”

He
didn’t laugh. “Listen, Laura, I’m actually calling about tomorrow. There’s
been… There’s a problem.”

“What
kind of… hold on.” I put down the phone, washed my hands, and picked it up
again. “What’s happened?”

“Laura,
you’re not going to like this. So let me get the apologies out of the way
first, because it’s not my fault and there’s nothing I can do. Okay?”

“What?”
I said. “Don’t tell me you have to work tomorrow, because you can’t. You
promised. End of.”

“It’s
not work, Laura. Well, it is – it’s Royal Ascot. Remember we discussed it, I
told you we have a box for a client hospitality day, and we decided I couldn’t
go because of Darcey’s birthday.”

I
remembered the conversation well, as it happened. When I say conversation – it
had been more of a row. Yes, definitely a row, when Jonathan had been home
after ten every night for two weeks running, and I’d finally snapped and said I
didn’t know how much more of this I could fucking stand, and he’d pointed out
that he was doing his best to dial it down, including saying he wouldn’t be
available for the social highlight of the firm’s year, because it was his
daughter’s birthday, and did I think he wasn’t doing his best, did I think he
liked being stuck in the office until stupid o’clock every night? And I’d said,
did he think I liked coping with the kids on my own every night? And things had
escalated from there, as they do.

“You’ve
got to go, haven’t you?” I said. “Jonathan, I don’t fucking believe this.”

“I
know,” he said. “But Myles’s wife has gone into labour, and Rick’s had to fly
out to Singapore and… well, there it is. I’m the only partner who’s available,
and I have to go.”

“You’re
not available,” I hissed.

“I’m
more available than the person on a plane to the Far East or the person holding
the gas and air in the Lindo Wing.” I heard him sigh, a weary, defeated
exhalation. “Come on, Laura, please don’t make this worse than it already is.
Don’t be…”

“Unreasonable,”
I finished for him. “Okay, I won’t be unreasonable. I’ll be the good little
corporate wife and say it’s all fine, and explain to our daughter that her
daddy isn’t going to be there for her party, which she’s been looking forward
to for weeks. It’s all completely okay.”

He
must have heard the sarcasm dripping from my words, but he chose to ignore it.
“Thanks, Laura. I’ll talk to Darcey tonight. I’ll be home early. Sevenish, in
time to put them to bed. Okay?”

There
was nothing more I could say. “Okay.”

“Love
you. Bye.”

Defeated
and seething, I turned back to the cake. It needed the rest of its coating to
be applied, then the bunny’s face to be piped on, then there was the black top
hat to be covered in the fondant icing that had refused to go any darker than a
dreary charcoal, and the glittery stars to be scattered artfully over the
board. And there was no time to do any of it. I’d have to wait until tonight,
when the kids were in bed. And then there were the wand biscuits I’d planned to
bake and ice, the party bags to assemble, Darcey’s presents to wrap… I’d be up
until two in the morning, as I’d been before every one of my children’s
birthday parties, and I’d be a frazzled wreck tomorrow, as I always was.

Still,
at least I didn’t have to worry about keeping twenty-five six-year-olds
entertained. This year, instead of preparing lame treasure hunts and games of
pass the parcel, I’d thrown money at the problem. When I’d dished out the
invitations at the school gate, Monica had said, “I don’t want to interfere,
Laura, but if I can make a suggestion…” and pressed a business card into my
hand with the air of a woman passing on her trusted coke dealer’s mobile
number.

And
so Magical Larry was booked. Magical Larry, who drove a top-of-the-range white
Merc with the vanity plate M8GIK and hadn’t stopped staring at my cleavage when
he’d come round to deliver his sales spiel and exorbitant quote, but whose
website was packed with rave reviews from ecstatic parents saying they’d never
bother booking anyone else again, ever. Thank God for Magical Larry, I thought,
swathing the cake in bin liners and hiding it in the cupboard under the stairs.
He was costing a bloody fortune – more than the rest of the party put together,
including Darcey’s new bicycle (a poor substitute for a pony, but cool
nonetheless) but he was going to be worth it. I’d be able to be a gracious
hostess, take lots of photos and if it all got too much, get stuck into the
gin.

Jonathan
didn’t get home at seven. He sent an apologetic text saying that a client
meeting had dragged on and he had a mountain of paperwork to get through and
was expecting a call from San Francisco so couldn’t leave his desk, so I put
the two overtired, overexcited, cranky children to bed on my own, poured a
massive drink, turned on the radio and carried on cooking. By this stage, I’d
passed through the pissed-off stage and was resigned to my fate. But it didn’t
help that the phone didn’t stop ringing. First, Carrie called to say that her
little boy was coming down with chicken pox so she wouldn’t risk bringing her
daughter to the party. Then one of the Helens – I wasn’t sure which – rang to
ask if I’d like her to come early and lend a hand. If it had been Helen Markham,
whose only child was a beautifully behaved, solemn little boy who seemed
permanently glued to maths games on his iPad, I’d have said yes – but there was
the chance it could have been the other Helen, whose twin daughters I’d
nicknamed the Visigoths, and of course by that stage it would have been rude to
ask, so I declined graciously.

Then,
just as I was piping frosting on to a phalanx of vaguely wand-shaped biscuits,
my mobile rang yet again. Not bothering to see who it was, I snatched it up and
said, “Hello?”

There
was silence, and then a man’s voice said, “Is that Mrs Payne?”

God,
I thought, the last thing I need now is some poor sod trying to sell me
household insurance or do market research on me. “Yes, but I’m extremely busy
right now,” I snapped.

“Mrs
Payne, it’s Larry here. The party entertainer.”

Oh
God, no, please no, I thought. If you fucking cancel on me now my life won’t be
worth living.

“What
can I do for you, Larry?” I said, praying that he’d just mislaid my address or
wanted to check on the time, but of course it wasn’t that.

“Mrs
Payne, I’m awfully sorry, but I have to… I’ve had some bad news.” He sounded a
bit hoarse, and I heard a loud sniff and realised that he’d been – or still was
– crying.

“Yes?”
I said. “Does this – does whatever it is mean you are cancelling my booking?”
And if it does, even if your house has burned down and your top hat and white
rabbits and coloured handkerchiefs are mere ashes; even if you’ve lost both
hands in a firecracker accident and will never work again, I will hate you for
ever and ever, I thought, but of course didn’t say.

“It’s
my parrot, Mrs Payne,” he said.

“What?”
I said, my voice rising hysterically.

“My
parrot. Vincent. He’s an African Grey.” He didn’t sound a bit like the brash,
slightly sleazy man who’d called round two weeks before. He sounded pathetic
and old, and in spite of myself I felt sorry for him.

“What’s
happened?” I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and took a big gulp of my
G&T.

“He’s
been falling off his perch,” Larry said. I felt a bubble of hysterical laughter
rising in my throat. “And the only appointment I can get with the specialist
avian vet is tomorrow at two o’clock. Which of course means I am going to have
to – I won’t be able to do your daughter’s party. I’ve never let a client down
in thirty years, Mrs Payne. I can’t say how sorry I am. But Vincent’s my
friend. I will of course return your deposit in full, and if you book me again
there’ll be no charge. And I can give you some names of colleagues who might…”

“Don’t
worry, Larry, I’ll Google,” I said. “I hope Vincent makes it okay and isn’t…
Goodbye.” I disconnected the call just before I said out loud, “Pushing up the
daisies.” Then I burst into a fit of uncontrollable giggles that quickly turned
to tears.

I
cried for a long time, hunched over the kitchen table, getting purple frosting
in my hair. Every time I managed to stop and blow my nose, I remembered Larry
saying, “He’s my friend,” and it set me off again. Eventually I got control of
myself enough to pick up my phone and start Googling alternative party
entertainers, but then I imagined them, all these lonely men with parrots for
company and no children of their own, and worried I’d cry some more. So I put
down my phone, resolving to get back to the biscuits and worry about a back-up
plan in the morning. It was ten o’clock anyway, far too late to start ringing
up magicians.

Wearily,
I picked up the piping bag, just as my phone rang again. Jonathan, I thought,
on his way home at last. But it was another unfamiliar mobile number.

“Hello?”

“Laura?
It’s me.” Oh my God. Felix. Almost a month of waiting and wondering and jumping
out of my skin every time someone sends me a text, and he picks now to call, I
thought. Now, of all times.

“Laura?
Is this a bad time?”

I
took another sip of my drink and a huge gulp of air, almost choked, and started
to cry again.

“Laura?
Babe, what’s the matter?” 

“Everything,”
I said. “It’s my daughter’s birthday and her party’s tomorrow and my husband’s
got to work and the fucking magician’s just cancelled on me and the cake’s a
mess and it’s all shit.”

I
realised, even through the fog of my self-pity, how pathetic it sounded. The
ultimate middle-class nightmare or first-world problem or whatever you want to
call it.

“And
I’m crying about it and that’s just so stupid,” I blurted out.

“It’s
not stupid,” Felix said gently. “Look, you’ve made her a cake, haven’t you?
With a fuck-ton of sugar, right?”

“Yes,
I suppose so,” I said.

“And
sparkly shit?”

“And
sparkly shit,” I admitted, feeling the beginnings of a smile.

“Right
then,” he said. “Job done on the cake. And your magician guy, what was he going
to do? Make daft jokes and pull coloured hankies out of a hat and make pound
coins come out of the kids’ ears?”

“Yes,”
I said. “But he’s not, because his parrot’s dying and he’s got to take it to
the vet.”