You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (3 page)

Great
– I’d inadvertently signed up for my début Competitive Parenting tournament and
crashed out in the first round. I felt a surge of nostalgia for those rare
nights out at the pub with my old colleagues, when we were all too busy
bitching about our clients and whoever in the team wasn’t there at the time to
even touch on our lives outside the Soho office.

“Nibbles,
anyone?” Amanda said, sliding a baking sheet out of her oven. It was the very
same model I’d seen in the kitchen showroom a few weeks ago and coveted, until
I showed it to Jonathan and he said, “How much? You’re joking, right? It’s not
like we ever cook anything more challenging than oven chips and chicken
nuggets.” Which I’d had to concede was a fair point.

“Now,
these are gluten-free, made with chickpea flour, so they’ll be fine for you,
Monica. And I know you’re low-carbing, Sigourney, so I did some tuna sashimi
and crab and cucumber rolls. Top-up, anyone?” She passed round the bottle and I
held my glass out gratefully.

“So,”
Amanda said, sitting down and crossing her legs, “I popped into Liberty the
other day to buy some fabric – the lady you recommended, Helen, is making up a
party dress for Delphine to wear this summer – and I almost literally bumped
into Zélide Campbell at the Aesop counter.”

There
was an intake of breath around the table and Faith and Helen stopped talking
about tutoring for the Eleven Plus.

“Zélide
Campbell!” Sigourney speared a piece of tuna and ate it. Her low-carb regimen
was clearly working – she was model-slender in her black leather jeans. I felt
a pang of envy and guilt as I remembered the slices of microwave pizza I’d
eaten for supper with the children, and resolved to start drinking bullet-proof
coffee the next day.

“She
seriously needed her roots doing,” Amanda said. “I always thought her colour
wasn’t natural, and that harsh black is so ageing. But of course she’s botoxed
to the max.”

“It’s
the shiny forehead that gives it away,” Monica said.

“Iranian,
my arse,” Amanda said, and everyone except me giggled.

“Who’s
Zélide Campbell?” asked one of the Helens, to my relief – I wasn’t the only one
without a clue, and I hadn’t had to reveal my ignorance.

“She
lives just a couple of doors down from you, Laura,” Amanda said. “So I expect
you’ll encounter her soon enough. Her and her precocious daughter – what’s she
called again? Jennifer?”

“Juniper,”
Sigourney said, making a face like she’d bitten into an off piece of sashimi.

“Yes,
of course, that’s right,” Monica said. “So pretentious.”

Which
was a bit much, I thought, coming from someone who’d called their child
Taleisin. I found myself feeling a bit sorry for Zélide, whoever she was.

“What
did she do?” I asked.

“Constantly
disruptive in class, acting out, major meltdowns like you’d expect from a
two-year-old, not a girl of eight,” said Monica.

“I
meant her mother, actually,” I said.

“We
don’t really talk about it,” Amanda said.

I
was intrigued. Was this woman some sort of suburban witch who’d initiate me
into a cult? Or a cougar who’d try and seduce my husband?

“Why?”
I said. “Is she going to try and rope me into selling Younique or something?”

“Frankly,
I wouldn’t put it past her,” Amanda said.

There
was a ripple of laughter, then another awkward pause.

“Now,
if we’ve all got something to eat,” Amanda said, “why don’t we move on to our
book of the month,
The Hard Road Home
? What did everyone think of it?
Jo, you go first.”

The
rest of the evening was given over to literary criticism, more wine, a cheese
platter and coffee. Disappointingly, there was no more scurrilous gossip,
although there was another bout between Monica and Kate over the benefits or
lack thereof of Kumon maths tuition. At last, everyone said their goodbyes and
spilled out into the night, and I practically ran home to my messy house and my
wonderful, ordinary, sleeping children.

Jonathan
was still downstairs when I got in, sitting on the sofa with his laptop, a pile
of greasy takeaway cartons on the floor next to him.

“How
was it?” he asked. “The local Thai place is pretty good, by the way, we should
go there sometime.”

“It
was okay,” I said. “No, actually, it was grim. Individually they might be okay,
maybe, but as a group – ugh.”

“Turns
out my colleague Rick lives on our road,” Jonathan said. “Their kid goes to
Darcey’s school, but she’s a couple of years older. He’s asked us to come round
for a drink some time.”

“Rick
who?” I said.

“Campbell,”
Jonathan said. “His wife’s got some weird name, starts with Z.”

“Jonathan,
we have to go. Will you sort it out tomorrow?” I was suddenly very eager to
meet Zélide Campbell.

“I’ll
see what I can do,” Jonathan said. “Coming to bed?”

“In
a bit,” I said.

I
poured myself a final glass of wine and retrieved my iPad from its hiding place
on top of the fridge, safe from Darcey and her lethal attraction to technology
that cost five hundred pounds as opposed to fifty, and sat at the kitchen
table.

A
brief scan of Facebook told me that my former colleagues were planning a night
out next Friday – “Survivors of the axe – we’re off to the Woodsman”. Lucky
them, I thought. Briefly, I considered inviting myself along, but there was no
point – I was ancient history, I wouldn’t understand any of the office gossip
any more. And then, as I’d done so often, I did a search for Mel’s name.

Her
security settings were hopelessly lax, I thought. But then, she used her
Facebook profile mostly for work, it seemed. That suited me – I didn’t care
that much about her private life. It was her career I was interested in, her
public persona that kept me checking up on her, month after month, year after
year, even though it made me feel sick with loss, anger and envy to do so.

“Lovely
article in the
New York Times
,” her most recent post said. “So awesome
to meet a journalist who really gets it. Thank you, Erin Brady, for the amazing
interview, and even bigger thanks to Annie Leibovitz for the gorgeous photos – I
don’t look like this in real life, I promise!”

Enough
with the false modesty, I thought, clicking on the story. “Melissa Hammond is a
truly phenomenal talent… at the height of her powers at thirty-six years of
age… Brings both exuberance and gravitas to the…”

God,
what a load of sycophantic bollocks. I could hardly bear to read it – but I
did, anyway. I read every overblown, flattering word, and then I spent ages
looking at the photos. Mel in her apartment, standing by the window cuddling a
Siamese cat, the light falling on her curtain of blonde hair and perfect bone
structure. Mel radiant, smiling triumphantly over an enormous bouquet of
lilies, her husband next to her, oozing pride. Mel working, lean, focussed and
unencumbered. Mel having it all – having what I’d wanted and worked for.

She’d
never had Felix, of course. That’s where it had all gone wrong.

But
I wasn’t going to think about Felix. That was a habit I’d resolved to break
when I married Jonathan. Jonathan – the perfect man. A catch, all my friends
said. And they were right. Why on earth would anyone married to someone as
handsome, successful, funny and kind as Jonathan spend time hankering after
Felix? Not me. Although, if I were honest with myself, it had been gloating as
much as hankering. Unlike Mel, Felix didn’t have a Facebook page to show off
on. When his name came up on Google, it revealed a series of near-misses, a
peripatetic succession of new starts all over the world, chasing a dream he
could never quite reach. Not that I searched for his name often – it was an
occasional, guilty indulgence that caused pain and pleasure in equal measure,
like picking the skin off my feet.

There
was no doubt about it: in life, I’d succeeded where Felix had not. My life
might not have worked out quite as I’d expected, but now I was a grown-up, and
I’d nailed it. Felix was a permanent man-child, living a life devoid of
stability, responsibility, family – all the things that really mattered. As far
as I knew, anyway – there was no reason to suspect that any of that would have
changed since I’d last Googled him. Perhaps now I might just have a quick look…

Almost
without my volition, by fingers moved over the keypad. Open quotes, Felix
Lawson, close quotes, enter.

Just
as the list of search results appeared on my screen, I heard Jonathan call from
upstairs, “Coming, Laura? It’s late.”

I
felt a rush of guilt and I closed the browser window, then closed Facebook too.

It
was a Monday morning, the day after our day off, when I first saw him. I should
have been feeling as fresh as the winter sunshine that flooded the studio with
light, but I wasn’t – I was dull and sluggish, my thighs still throbbing with a
residual ache from Saturday’s double show. My stomach felt heavy and sore, a
weight like liquid metal where there should have been lightness and space. It
was only my period, probably – that and the cappuccinos and blueberry muffins
I’d been mainlining all the previous day in the grip of a sugar craving.

I
gave the top of my baggy tracksuit bottoms a couple of extra turns to hide the
bulge I could feel around my waist, which I was sure everyone else could see,
gulped down two painkillers with a mouthful of water, and took my usual place
between Mel and Roddy.

“Oh
my God, I’m, like, totally broken,” Roddy said. “Did you hear me come in last
night? Or this morning, rather. It must have been after four, no word of a
lie.”

“It
was three thirty,” Mel said. “And you woke me up, crashing around like a herd
of bloody buffalo in the kitchen. And you left your eggy pan in the sink.
You’re disgusting, Roderigo. It’s like living with the boy who was raised by
wolves.”

Roddy’s
deep olive skin made it impossible to tell if he was blushing, but he ducked
his head and grinned contritely. “Sorry, Melba-toast. But they do say you need
protein before bed after a heavy session, to avoid a hangover.”

“Clearly
it didn’t work on this occasion,” I said.

“How
do you know? I might be feeling worse if I’d gone straight to bed. Although I
can’t imagine feeling worse than this.”

“Want
some of my ibuprofen?” I offered, but before I had a chance to rummage for them
in my bag, Anna arrived and the roar of conversation dwindled to a hum and then
stopped.

“Good
morning, boys and girls,” she said. “If you’re all ready, let’s begin.”

Mel
blew her nose and tucked the soggy tissue into the sleeve of her cardigan.
Roddy yawned hugely. Around us, the rest of the company sipped water, dropped
woolly hats and scarves into their open bags, and finished whispered
conversations as they hurried to their places.

I
half-listened to Anna’s instructions, flexing my stiff ankles and waiting for
the music to begin.

“One,
two, three, and…” Anna gestured to the pianist and Schubert spilled into the
room, as luminous as the morning. I felt the music enter my body, too,
compelling my limbs out of their fatigue, swelling inside me and replacing the
heaviness with a familiar bubble of excitement.

Anna
moved slowly among us, watching and assessing, dispensing a smile here and
giving a word of advice there.

“Good,”
she said, as the final bar ended. “We’ll move on.”

“See
the new guy?” Mel murmured, catching my eye in the mirror. We’d become expert
at lip-reading, conducting detailed conversations without making a sound while
our teachers’ backs were turned.

“Where?”
I looked around. Morning class was full, but Mondays generally were, before
the stresses of the week kicked in and drove people to Pilates or to the
physiotherapist’s office instead.

“Next
to Jerome. Red jacket.” Mel dropped into a deep, perfect plié and I followed,
instinctively keeping in perfect time with her and the music.

I
scanned the fifty or so heads in the room, looking for Jerome’s distinctive
ginger one. He was one of our male Principals – this new guy must be either
totally clueless or totally arrogant if he’d chosen a place next to Jerome on
his first day.

“Felix
Lawson,” Roddy said, lowering his voice as the music stopped once more. “The
boy wonder from the Bolshoi.”

Sharing
a flat with Roddy might have its disadvantages – his late nights and feral
housekeeping standards, for example – but it was worth being woken up in the
small hours and having dance belts festooned over the radiators for the stream
of juicy and infallibly accurate gossip he provided.

Roddy’s
looks might be pure Mediterranean – his parents were Spanish – but his accent
was deepest Essex and his manner high camp. He was a relentless and extremely
successful shagger; a dizzying procession of strange men making tea in our
kitchen in the mornings was another hazard of living with Roddy.