You, Me and Other People (16 page)

On the way home, my head hurts, my heartbeat is irregular, I have a nagging pain in my arm and I’m driving a car. Not a good combination and, since having a heart attack at the wheel is not something I want, I pull over and try to breathe deeply.

Kiera rings and I press the Bluetooth. ‘What happened to you?’ she asks.

‘I had to go, sorry.’

‘Are you all right, Adam?’ She sounds concerned.

‘I’m fine, it’s just been a long day.’

‘Look, there’s no easy way of saying this without nagging, but I need to know if you’ve asked Meg.’

Kiera’s concern for me is now making sense.

‘Meg hasn’t spoken to me since I asked her, Kiera. She told me we’re finished – never to speak to her again.’

Kiera makes a gasping sound.

‘I’ve texted her, emailed her. Told her what she has to do. She knows the urgency and I know she’ll do the right thing.’

‘Thank you. I’m sorry.’

There is nothing else to say. I mutter a goodbye, start the engine and flick the radio on. Not in the mood for music, I turn to LBC, where there’s a debate in full flow. The voice of a woman, identified by the host as Rabbi Rebekah Morley, speaks in clear tones.

‘It’s because of the absence of God in most people’s lives!’ She seems outraged. ‘It seems like most people nowadays are happy to sin as long as they’re not discovered. For too many people, it’s not the “doing something bad” that bothers them, it’s the fear of being found out. It seems to be okay as long as that doesn’t happen.’

A softly spoken man interrupts.

‘Hold on, let’s be clear here. What’s a sin? Do we go by the Ten Commandments?’

I switch channels and unscrew the cap from my bottled water. The soft harmonies of the Eagles do not distract me from the earlier mention of the Ten Commandments.

Honour thy father and thy mother.

Thou shalt not kill.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s goods.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

I’ve never envied Sylvia or any other ‘neighbour’ a thing and I’ve never thought of killing someone – not really. I have committed adultery and I did honour my mother and father – to a point. That is, until their last double act – but that’s something I don’t want to think about right now. I simply haven’t got the head-room left.

At home I pour a large Jim Beam, no ice. I swallow it in three gulps and pour another. I pull a seat out at the tiny table. Opening the letter I’d found in my pocket earlier, I see it is two pages long. Sybil’s flowery handwriting stares up from the pages, which smell of her home in the Cotswolds – something like lavender and rosemary mixed together. I haven’t had a handwritten letter in over twenty years; if it wasn’t from Sybil, I’d be quite excited. I straighten out the many creases on the page, take another gulp of whiskey and begin to read.

Dear Adam,

Yes, you are and have been dear to me, despite the fact that you’ve been a total idiot. I’ve been wondering how to contact you, since you didn’t respond to the message I left on your phone. You cheated on her, Adam. It’s unforgivable. You should never have done that, not to my beautiful, sensitive, loving daughter. That said, I know without even talking to you that you’ll want her back. I know from talking to Meg you want her back. Meg just wants you both to get back together, to have her family whole again. I also know Elizabeth will come around. If you give her time, show her that you still love her, don’t give up on her, she will find a way.

I swallow hard, stand up suddenly, knock the whiskey tumbler over. In the bathroom, I pull my clothes from me, change into my running gear. My head, I’d swear, is making whirring sounds I feel so fucking dizzy with it all. Grabbing keys, I slam the front door, leave the building and start to run. I run for miles, sticking to the pavement as I’ve forgotten my reflective gear. I run for miles with only my thoughts. I run for miles, telling myself that Forrest Gump has nothing on me. By the time I return home, I’m greeted by the scents of my neighbours’ dinners wafting through the communal hall.

Inside, I ignore the broken glass and the mess. Still sweating, I pour another drink and sit on the sofa with Sybil’s pages.

When I was a little girl, I dreamed of getting married to a man I loved and who loved me back. All grown up, I realized the man I did marry was a complex bastard. But I loved him, and he loved me back. I loved him enough to forgive the fact that he loved alcohol more than me. He never drank a drop until our son died, and after that he never stopped until it killed him. Other people told me I was stupid for staying, but I know what worked for me and Elizabeth. The life in between was still worth living.

I digress. You probably know all of this through Elizabeth anyway. The point I’m trying to make is that LOVE, real love, can truly overcome adversity. So, Adam. Do you REALLY LOVE her? Your Beth? Above all else? Like she deserves to be loved? If so, now would be a good time to let her know.

Yours,

Sybil x

Crunching the broken glass into the wooden floor, I cross the room to the table and drag the laptop towards me. My wife deserves the very best love that the world can show her, but she also deserves the truth, and it should come from me.

‘My dearest Beth …’

I type the document in Word, two fingers only, but at speed. The need to write this letter came over me so strongly while reading Sybil’s that I need to get it out there before I change my mind.

Tonight, I’m hurting because I lied to you again when I bumped into you at the hospital. I want to stop doing that, telling you lies, so I’ve decided to write to you.

Right at this moment, I hate myself.

A long time ago, you asked me to go to counselling, and I think we lasted two sessions before I convinced you it was a waste of time and that we were fine and that you were fine and that I was fine. I lied again. The full truth is that I had a one-night stand with a woman who was then a client. It was, I swear, just once but we have a child.

I have never been involved in this child’s life. That was the way the woman involved wanted it and I was never more relieved to hear those words. I do need you to know that I have been unfaithful to you only twice – recently with Emma, and years ago that once with Kiera, who is mother to Noah.

The fact that there’s a child will have you reeling. Don’t imagine that I don’t know how this will hurt. Don’t imagine that I don’t remember how hard you and I tried for that second child. I remember the disappointment in your eyes every month; it was mine too … I know the existence of Noah is the thing that you’ll never be able to forgive.

I’d love to be able to say that the weight of my lies is the sudden reason for my honesty. That’s not true. I’m telling you this now because, if I don’t, Meg will tell you anyway – and I wanted this to come from me. You deserve that, at least.

Noah is ill. Kiera, his mother, contacted me recently to let me know that he has leukaemia. Without a stem cell donation, his future is bleak. They have tried to find a match from the donor register and all known family, without success. I have been tested and I am not a match. I have told Meg the truth and asked her to be tested. She is a sibling and Noah’s best hope. I knew, when I asked her, all of this would come out. I knew, but I had to do it. He’s only a little boy, an innocent child who asked for none of this.

Despite all of this shit, please know that I’m so proud of you and thrilled that you have finally been recognized for the amazing songwriter that you are. You deserve everything that’s coming your way, Beth. It’s just the beginning of a journey that will be everything you ever dreamed of, when you were squirrelled away in the attic with your keyboard, guitar and your words.

I will always regret what I’ve done, the hurt I’ve caused, and I will always love you.

Adam x

I read it back only once. Then I call it ‘Letter to Beth’. Then, without thinking about it, I attach it in an email to her with the words, PLEASE READ THIS in the header. Then, I press send. Then, I feel my eyes fill. I will myself not to cry, instead allowing my body to rock forward and back. I wonder how I’m ever going to be able to go on without her. I want to call out her name. I want to pick up the phone and plead. But all I can do is wait, wait for the fallout …

‘Don’t worry, I understand. Really, it’s not a problem.’

While I have not exactly lied to Giles, I haven’t exactly been honest either. I made Meg’s visit to me sound like it’s a matter of life or death. Now, listening to him, I feel guilty.

‘Will I see you before you go?’ he asks.

I’m confused. Does one kiss mean we’re ‘seeing’ each other? I hope not. I hope that it’s just what people say when they mean they might bump into me in Waitrose.

‘No,’ I tell him, just for the avoidance of doubt. That way, prospective kisses and Waitrose have both been ruled out. ‘I’ve got such a lot to do,’ I add, to soften the blow.

‘Good luck then – text me when you’re there?’

Fuck, he does mean the non-Waitrose seeing me thing. I say I will, and hang up. And I no longer feel guilty. Nah, one dodgy kiss does not a ‘seeing-me-thing’ make.

I check my emails, deal with the one from Josh attached to a long list of bullet points. He is, at this stage, making me much more nervous than I need be, but I can’t be cross with him. The film company have paid for a hotel for two nights, but he’s suggesting I should stay for a third. He has a list as long as my arm of appointments of people to see, places to go. Hollywood … Even the word makes my flesh goose-bump with excitement.

I close the laptop, staring at my nails. My mother has painted them a garish pink and I don’t have time to get them redone. One of my thumbs has a treble clef, sort of turned into a heart. It’s bloody awful, but I couldn’t tell her. I did manage to stop her doing it on both and now I’m wondering if I have time to remove it all. Have I got enough acetone? Mentally, I put it on my ‘To Do’ list as I gather together the ingredients for supper. I’m making another lasagne, this time for someone who will eat it – Meg. When I think of her, my stomach lurches. She’s okay. Nails aside, everything’s going to be okay.

The lasagne is bubbling away in the oven. Meg’s last text says she’s running an hour late, but I’m not panicking. She will be here soon. Sitting at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, I focus on what’s happening over the next few days. I am going to LA! I’m a happy girl. Pouring a glass of wine, I open the email that has just pinged through on the laptop. It’s from Adam and contains an attachment that says PLEASE READ THIS. It feels a bit like Alice in Wonderland and I giggle aloud.

My instinct is screaming not to open it. I open it anyway. Immediately, the words jumble up in front of me. He’s a liar who wants to be honest – good. What? A child? What child? What the fuck?

I can’t swallow. I have no spit. There is none, my mouth is dry. I lick my lips. Leukaemia. Kiera.

I stand up, push the laptop away from me, like I’ve been scalded. Kiera, Noah, sickness. Oh my God …

My hand is clutching my upper left side. It’s as though, if I don’t keep it there, my heart will actually leap out of my chest. It will find a way. It will spring through my ribs and land on the kitchen floor, pulsate a little in front of me before it withers and dies. Right there on the oak planks. My heart will fucking die and I will just stop breathing.

Adam has another child. With someone called Kiera. He was at the hospital. So was Kiera. She has a sick child.

I rush to the sink. Only liquid comes up. I’ve been so busy, I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I spit, turn the tap on, rinse my mouth out with cold, limey water and try to stand up. My head feels like it doesn’t belong on my neck. My brain feels like it doesn’t belong in my head. My life has just taken a turn that surely belongs in someone else’s life.

The pull of the laptop is magnetic and I’m back at the stool, yanking it towards me. My eyes fill with a torrent of tears I had never believed possible. I had so wanted another child … We – we had so wanted another child. And all the time, he … I read on and get to the part about Meg.

It all makes sense now. Her recent distance, her need to see me before I go to LA. Fucking hell, the poor girl. She … The poor girl.

I hear her car pull up outside. I’ll kill him. I swear. That fucking bastard. And Kiera Pugh … To think I felt sorry for her: that fucking, husband-fucking whore. Meg’s key turns in the hallway door. I try to stand up and go to her, but my legs won’t move. They feel as though they’ve been weighted with cement. I’m telling myself to walk on out to the hall, grab my daughter in a bear hug and never let her go, but moving is out of the question.

She comes into the kitchen, takes one look at me and bursts into tears.

‘You know?’

I nod. Continuously. Tiny nods, like my head has developed a relentless tremor.

She comes to me instead, wraps her arms around me, then eventually stands back. ‘How?’ she asks.

My head jerks to the laptop. ‘Read that.’

I refill my glass, pour one for her. ‘Are you staying? Driving back?’

She doesn’t look at me, continues reading. ‘I’ll stay,’ she whispers.

I fill it to the brim.

‘Right,’ she says after a couple of minutes, pushing the laptop away and lifting the glass to her lips. She hasn’t even taken off her coat yet.

‘Have you had the test?’ I manage to get the words out.

‘Today …’

‘When will you know if you’re a match?’

‘A few days, next week?’

‘What happens if you are?’

‘I’ll go through a stem cell donation. Let’s not talk about that.’ She makes a squeamish face and starts to take her coat off.

‘Leave it on,’ I tell her. ‘Can you drive me somewhere?’ I switch the oven off, glance around the kitchen for my keys. My legs suddenly have motion and I move to the coat rack in the hall, throw the first coat to hand over my clothes.

‘Where are we going?’ She follows me.

‘Just drive,’ I tell her, as I close the door behind me. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

When we’re there, I ask her to wait in the car, saying that I’ll only be a few minutes.

‘Mum?’ she calls to me and I bend back into the passenger seat. ‘You’re scaring me,’ she says.

I reach across, cup her face with my hand. ‘Don’t be scared. I’ll be straight back.’

I am buzzed in by the porter. He knows me, after all. I am one of those trusty estate-agent girls from down the road. He looks up from his paper and smiles as I pass his desk. At Kiera’s front door, I hesitate just a second, then I ring the bell.

She answers moments later. ‘Lizzie! What a surprise. Come in.’ I can see her face compute the fact that it’s late evening and wonder what the hell I’m doing here. And what the hell am I wearing? She can’t help herself. She’s staring at my coat, which is, in fact, Adam’s old Barbour. He uses it for gardening. I find myself questioning why it’s still on the coat rack in the hall.

‘My name is Beth,’ I tell her.

Her face wrinkles in confusion. Well, it wrinkles around the eyes. Her Botoxed forehead doesn’t move.

‘I was christened Elizabeth. My mother calls me Elizabeth or Liz. My brother-in-law, Ben, always calls me Lizzie. My friends, though, my husband, they all call me Beth.’

It’s instant. An immediate flash reaction. A look of absolute dread.

I have come here to slap her face. That was what I imagined doing back in front of my oven, with its by now burnt lasagne. I have come to feel the back of my hand on her cheek. To leave my mark on her. To let her know who I am. To let her see the wife’s face. I have come to hurl insults. To let her neighbours know what they are living beside.

Now that I’m here, all I see is a woman who looks almost as bad as me. Her face is drawn, her eyes shaded from weary tears. It strikes me that it’s only women, women who have such a capacity to cry.

‘Will you please come in?’ Her voice is little above a whisper.

I shake my head. ‘My name is Beth Hall. My husband is Adam Hall. Our daughter is Meg.’

‘Lizzie, Beth, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry.’

‘You have a son.’ My mouth is dry again.

‘Noah …’

I stare at her.

‘Meg,’ she says to me, and I can’t tell if it’s a question, a statement, a word, or what.

At that point, I turn around. Meg is waiting for me in the car. I have nothing to say to this woman. Yes, she’s a husband-stealing bitch. But she’s a husband-stealing bitch whose son is dying.

She calls after me. ‘Beth, please. Do you know if Meg …?’

The lift is waiting for me. All I have to do is press the bell and I’m in its inner sanctum. Minutes later, I exit to the bitter chill of a November evening. Meg has the car running to keep warm and I jump in the front.

‘Do I want to know?’ she asks, as she turns towards home.

‘The mother.’ I pull Adam’s Barbour up around my neck, shivering. ‘She lives in there. Temporarily. While the kid’s in hospital.’

I can tell she’s wondering how the hell I know this.

‘Is she still alive?’ Her forehead rises to produce line after line after line.

‘Yes, she’s alive. I never touched her. And don’t frown. It’s bad for you.’

Meg giggles. ‘Frowning? Frowning is bad for me?’ Mum, my father is an arsehole. He’s bad for me. I have a brother I’ve never known. Let a girl frown?’

‘You’re right. Frown away, my love. Frown away. Let’s go home and get completely sloshed.’

She agrees with me. It’s a good idea, she tells me, but I already know her heart’s not in it. Probably because it’s bruised and battered and maybe even broken, like mine.

I huddle deeper into the coat, reach out and turn the heater up. ‘It’s getting colder,’ I say.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ is her reply. ‘And you’re on your way to LA.’

The sooner the better, I think, feeling cold to the core.

‘I should warn you Karen’s at home.’

‘Karen? Why?’

‘We can get sloshed, all three of us.’

‘Why is Karen there?’ I am immediately suspicious. ‘Oh God, no … Please tell me Karen doesn’t know about this.’

‘I called her. I was terrified how you might react, so I called in the troops.’

I’m really miffed but try not to show her. Of course I would have told Karen, but Ben has only just moved in with her.

‘And she has a bag with her,’ Meg continues talking. ‘Probably an overnight one, or it could be quite a big bag.’

‘What the fuck, Meg …’

She takes her eyes off the road a second and turns to glance at me. ‘I just spoke to her. On the phone when you were in with the mother. Karen was coming down for support anyway, but has since learned that Uncle Ben has known about this, this “situation”, for a while. She’s furious and has walked out.’

I am completely confused. Karen has left Ben in Karen’s flat. I guess she couldn’t throw him out, because Adam’s in Ben’s flat. Which means I get Karen. Her car is in the driveway when we pull in. The security light beams down on her and she turns to face me as we get out of Meg’s car. She gives me a big shrug that says something like, ‘The whole world has gone mad.’

‘Can I stay here while you’re in LA?’ she asks as we embrace. I bury my head in her shoulder, remembering that Adam is due to spend some time here in the garden then. He wouldn’t dare now. He really wouldn’t dare.

‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘Although I hate to point out the obvious: that Ben is in your flat and he should be packing the bag?’ I nudge my head towards the holdall which is, thankfully, not too big.

‘He will be, when I’ve had time to think and clear my head.’

I unlock the door to the smell of burnt cheese and decide immediately that I am never, ever again cooking a lasagne. Having failed to smack the hell out of my husband’s ex-mistress, it’s the only decision I make this evening that I think I’ll stick to.