A Hidden Life (40 page)

‘I don't think she does. Want me back I mean.'

‘She wants you, though,' Phyl spoke so quietly that he found it hard to make out what she was saying. ‘And you want her.'

‘I don't want her.'

‘You do! Don't lie to me, Matt, I know you do. There's all that stuff about us not making love often enough … I know all that, I know I … Well, doesn't matter. But I know you still fancy her and don't dare to lie to me and say you don't. You do, and you took advantage of me being away and you thought you could get away with it and she asked you to her house and you took a chance that I'd never find out that you stayed the night.' Phyl was crying now, the tears pouring down her cheeks, and her voice had risen so that she sounded mad, hysterical. She was shrieking. Matt put his arms around her and she shook him off with a violence which pushed him back hard against the back of the sofa. ‘You fucked her that night and I suppose a few times since and if I hadn't suspected anything, you'd have gone on and on and I … I … I can't compete with that. I can't do seduction. I've never been able to and I'm not going to start now. So you can have her and welcome. I'm leaving.'

‘Phyl? Please. Calm down. Just for a minute. Listen to me. Please, darling.'

She put her head in her hands and leaned over her knees, sobbing.
He put his arm around her shoulders and waited for a moment, expecting her to push him away again but she didn't. She was too overwhelmed by her misery, probably didn't even notice that he was touching her.

‘You're right about some things, Phyl, and wrong about others. I
did
fancy her. I was feeling – well, we hadn't been … you know what I'm trying to say, without me spelling it out. Ellie is so blatant. She's so … I'm not blaming her, you understand. I could have got up and walked out at any point and I didn't. It's me. My fault. I am not making excuses for myself. But other things are also true and they're more important. I love you. That's the truth and I don't care if you do come back at me and say my behaviour shows the opposite. It doesn't. It shows stupidity. Recklessness. Greediness. Randiness. All sorts of unworthy things but not that I don't love you. She made sure of me. Got me drunk. Okay, okay, I could have said no to the booze too, but I didn't. I am not going to deny it. I wanted to go to bed with her and so I did. And that's it. I've regretted it ever since. It only happened once and it's not going to happen again. Not ever, I promise. In fact, I'm going to avoid seeing her at all and if I do have to meet her, for some family thing, I'll make sure you're there too. I will never, I swear, be in the same room alone with her as long as I live.'

Matt paused, waiting for Phyl to say something. Were his words having any effect? The silence went on and on. In the end, he spoke again, just to break it.

‘Please don't leave me, Phyl. I'll never … We can start again. We can be happy. I'll take you to Paris. I know I've been saying that for months but I will. We can go whenever you like. I love you, Phyl. Please look at me. Say something. Say you won't go. This is our house. It'll just … it'll die without you. I will. I'll die without you.'

‘You won't,' she said. ‘Why would you?'

‘You know what I mean,' Matt whispered, hardly daring to hope, but feeling his heart lift at her words. At least she was speaking to him. ‘I may not stop breathing, but I won't be able to function. I'll be so unhappy that I'll just … shrivel. Wither. I'd go mad from loneliness. I couldn't cope. Really.'

‘You'd cope admirably. You could hire a housekeeper.'

‘Oh, God, Phyl, you're misunderstanding me deliberately! I know I could do that, but I'd be empty and dead inside without you.' Another thought occurred to him and he felt suddenly icy cold all over. ‘You haven't said anything about all this to Lou, have you?'

‘What? That I was leaving you? Getting ready to move into a bigger flat with her and Poppy? No, I haven't. Not yet.'

‘Then please, Phyl. Think about it. Our whole life … I … Don't you believe that I love you?'

‘I do. But is that enough for you? If you don't fancy me any longer, what kind of a sex life will you have?'

‘Not fancy you? Wherever did you get that idea? Of course I fancy you. I always have. Nothing,' he added, taking her in his arms, ‘has changed about the way I feel about you. It won't. Not ever.'

She was allowing herself to be kissed. The relief he felt as her mouth opened under his was so enormous that he found himself on the point of tears. I can't cry now, he thought, I have to convince her. I have to start all over again. I have to make her know how much I love her. She was pulling away from him now and he frowned at her.

‘I'm going out. I'm going for a walk. I have to think about this, Matt,' she said, and left the room. He sat on the bed, wondering where she would go. He heard the car starting. Brighton. She'd go and walk on the beach and Matt knew he wouldn't be able to relax until she returned. Her belongings spread all over their bed made him feel almost sick and he wondered how long it would be before Phyl began to put them back in the drawers.
If
she put them back in the drawers.

Cinnamon Hill Productions was uncharacteristically quiet. Summer schedules meant, Lou knew, that there'd be a desk free for her when she came in. She was sitting at it now, angry because Harry wasn't going to be coming in even though he wasn't on the rota as being on holiday. Damn and blast him! She'd been rehearsing for more than two weeks exactly how she'd be when she saw him: nonchalant, insouciant, funny, happy, completely and utterly normal and moreover
drop-dead gorgeous. She'd picked up a couple of new tops and a skirt in the sales, had a haircut and applied her make-up with a care and attention she hadn't lavished on her face since she was about sixteen. In those days, when she still believed in the magical transforming power of lipstick, eye shadow and mascara, she used to study articles in magazines with obsessive attention, committing to memory every one of their pronouncements.

‘Where's Harry today?' she asked a deeply tanned Jeanette. She had clearly just come back from somewhere very hot. ‘He's not on holiday, is he?'

‘No, but he's gone down to Sussex today to see Malcolm Boyd. Wish I could have gone with him.'

Malcolm Boyd was the pin-up hero of several of what Lou now also called ‘broken-glass movies' and the UK's answer, according to the celeb mags, to Johnny Depp. Why would Harry be talking to him? It crossed Lou's mind that he might actually be avoiding her. If he was, what did it mean? Not that he'd thought better of his Paris declaration. He'd have been in touch: by phone, by email, in person even, if he'd wanted anything about their relationship to change. All she'd had, since that awful night was one sheepish email. Lou knew it by heart:
I'm so sorry about last night, Lou. Please let's still be friends. Harry x.
She'd written back even more briefly.
No worries. See you soon. Lou.
No kiss. What was that x about on his part? It was certainly deliberate and she read it as a pathetic attempt to ingratiate himself, make himself feel a bit better for ruining their romantic trip. She prided herself on being over the worst of what she'd felt, coming back home in such a rush after getting up the very next day after that awful night and taking the first available Eurostar out of Gare du Nord. But even now, remembering it made her shrink and cringe.

She opened her email account. Nothing there apart from a few spam items. Harry wouldn't see the need to write to her but the fact that he'd buggered off to Sussex when he knew she'd be coming in meant – what did it mean? Precisely nothing. Ciaran Donnelly – she hoped against hope, every time she logged in to her email, that even though it had only been a few weeks since she'd delivered
Blind Moon
into his hands, there would be a message from him. She fantasized about it. Sometimes she imagined him reading the script and being
so bowled over that he rang her at once on her mobile. There were days when she checked her voicemail and text messages over and over. At other times, mostly in the middle of the night, she imagined a terrible rejection:
Don't ever try writing a script again –you just haven't got what it takes – better to be honest than to raise your hopes only for them to be dashed over and over again
 … Thinking such things was enough to make her weep, so she tried to keep away from them and concentrate on the happy daydreams. What was the point of fantasies if they didn't cheer you up? That was what they were designed to do, right? Take you from your grotty little world into a better one. A more glamorous one. A world where the credit line:
Screenplay by Louise Barrington. Based on the novel by John Barrington
was blazoned across an enormously wide screen in curly letters of deepest scarlet.

She began to type a message to her mother. That had been the condition of Phyl leaving and going back to Haywards Heath. Lou had promised to email every day and let her mother know how she was. In detail. Happy as she was for Phyl to help out with Poppy, she wanted, more than anything, her little flat to herself. She wanted the luxury of being miserable without having to submit to questioning and attempts at cheering her up. Was she properly miserable? Lou wasn't even sure about that.

She arrived pretty quickly at the conclusion (after a couple of days of moaning and weeping on and off) that what she was feeling was simply an acute case of deep disappointment. She sort of came to her senses. Harry had failed to give her the treat, the boost, she was expecting, but actually, he'd not done anything that dreadful. He'd snogged her. He had a girlfriend. So bloody what? Men were always doing stuff like that. They were all, if they could possibly get away with it, two-timers. He'd have said he behaved in an exemplary manner and hadn't two-timed anyone. Hadn't he stopped himself from going to bed with her in a most restrained and gallant fashion? Bully for Harry and full marks for gentlemanliness and all-round good behaviour! Lou, for her part, wished she'd had at least one night of passion with him, but what would have been the point of that? How would she have felt, hearing about the American girlfriend, if she'd already been to bed with Harry? A hell of a lot worse, is how. So okay, well done, Harry, for drawing the line when he did. Still, the
thought of what she'd missed out on sometimes made her grind her teeth in frustration. On the plus side – and she forced herself to consider a plus side, even when she felt a long way from positive – she was clearly no longer terrified of being touched by a man. She would have welcomed it and that had to be a good thing.

What to say to her mother? It occurred to her, now that she'd managed to poke her head out of the accumulated rubble of her own feelings, that she hadn't asked Phyl the right questions. Or even enough questions, come to think of it. Her mother had definitely not been her usual cheerful and chatty and placid self. Now that Lou thought back on the time they'd spent together, she'd been too quiet and she looked like hell. She'd done her best, true enough, to make Lou feel better but you could see her heart hadn't been in it. It was as though she was doing it in her sleep, or while being really preoccupied with something else. There were dark rings under her eyes and an expression of unexplained misery when she thought you weren't looking. Why didn't I ask her before she went home? Because I was too caught up with what I was feeling. She sighed and began to type
Here at Cinnamon and not much going on. Harry away, so no need for embarrassment. Sorry I put you through all that, again. And you didn't look as though you were feeling great. Is anything wrong? I feel bad not asking you when you were here. But pl. tell me if it is! Lots of love, Lou xx.

The phone in her handbag began to trill. That'll be Mum, she thought, not bothering to press ‘send'. I can ask her straight out what's wrong.

‘Hiya!' she said, in the tone of voice she always used when she knew it was Phyl at the other end. ‘Is this Louise Barrington?'

Shit! Not Phyl at all but someone – oh, God, that Golden Ink man. Jake Golden. She must have sounded ridiculous. She said, ‘Yes, this is Louise Barrington. So sorry. I was expecting it to be someone else.'

‘I'm sorry to disappoint you!'

‘No, no, not at all …' When was this dancing around going to stop? Why didn't he come straight to the point? He sounded much less eloquent than the last time they'd spoken. She paused and waited for him to say something sensible.

‘Hello? Are you still there? I'm ringing to see whether you're free
for lunch sometime this week. Thursday? Or Friday?'

‘I'm busy on Thursday, but Friday's fine.' She was perfectly free on Thursday as well, but one thing she'd learned from the same magazines that had taught her all she knew about make-up was that you never accepted the very first date offered. You never let on that you were sitting in your flat staring at the walls and wondering whether it was worth microwaving a potato for lunch. You invented dates. Appointments.

‘Friday, then. Do you know La Bergerie? It's very near Tottenham Court Road station. I can send you the map reference on email if you like. About twelve-thirty okay for you?'

‘Yes, that's fine. And I'd love some directions. My email is
[email protected]?

‘Okay! I'll send it straight away. I'm looking forward greatly to meeting you. Goodbye.'

‘Bye' Lou put the phone away, wishing she'd had the presence of mind to ask how she was supposed to recognize him. Google Images, she thought. Thank heavens for Google and all its works. She pressed the right buttons and there he was – always, she noticed, turned away from the camera. And in group shots, always in the back row, half-hidden behind someone else. So, modest and also tall. Fairish hair and glasses. Well, she'd find out soon enough. And the one thing the Google Images couldn't provide was his birth date, so she had no idea how old he was. She left Images and Googled Golden Ink. There was plenty of stuff on the internet about the firm and the books they published but nowhere could she find his date of birth. Never mind. Why should she care how old he was? He was maybe going to reissue
Blind Moon
and that was the only thing that mattered.