A Minor Indiscretion (11 page)

I
t's raining. Lashing down. It's also pitch-black and I'm standing outside Jemma's flat, which is above her shop. The flat is also pitch-black, which is not generally considered a good sign if you're looking for a warm welcome. No one is keeping my sister's home fire burning.

In my temper, I have walked out without my handbag. In my handbag is my spare key to Jemma's front door. And I have only just realized the enormity of this slight technical omission. In my coat pocket, I had exactly two pounds and seventy-five pence, which was change from the sandwiches that Christian and I bought for lunch at Kew. (And doesn't that seem like a different lifetime?) I spent two pounds and fifty pence on my Tube ticket to get here because my car keys are also in my handbag, and I dropped twenty pence on the floor while I was searching for my money, which was picked up by a tramp whom I hadn't the nerve to challenge for its return. So now I have the princely sum of five pence, no checkbook, no credit card, no mobile phone, no keys. In a fit of pique, I hurl my five-pence piece down the street, rendering myself totally penniless. Great job, Alicia.

Jemma's shop is in Ladbroke Road, in quite a villagey bit just away from the main bustle of Notting Hill Gate. You Must Remember This…(great name, I know!) is in the middle of a small,
select row. There are a couple of café bistro places, one looking distinctly more salubrious than the other, a Majestic wine outlet and two antique galleries, one selling gorgeous Chinese artifacts, which I daren't go into because I'd come out several hundred pounds poorer. The parade also has one of those quaint old-fashioned cab ranks complete with a British racing green hut and a queue of shiny idle cabs parked outside, and I can't begin to imagine what might go on inside. The only thing that spoils the vista is a huge concrete tower block of flats looming over the top of it.

Jemma's is one of a rash of nostalgic and retro clothes shops in the area. It's a strange place, full of stuff that my mother still has in her wardrobe. Oxfam tat with Harvey Nichols price tags as far as I'm concerned. So what if they're 1960s designer labels? They're horrible! And why, oh why, would anyone want to wear cast-offs from the 1970s? Even if it does bear a Halston or an Ossie Clark moniker? For me, that was the time that taste forgot and it's best that we forget it too. My daughter has just bought her first pair of hot pants, which, twenty-five years later, are back in fashion for the third, or probably the fourth, time, and I shudder to think that I ever went out dressed like that. Jemma says I have no soul, but clearly her customers do, because she makes a small fortune despite her astronomical rent. To give Jemma her due, the bulk of her stock is pure vintage—there are very few wide lapels and flared trousers on view. Her chic, crowded rooms groan with rails of elegant beaded gowns from the 1930s and 1940s, which, in terms of style, I'm much happier to relate to. She says her customers want to look individual and creative in their dress, but that sounds suspiciously like sales-speak to me. Who would know, apart from another hip and enlightened “classic” clothing fan, that you weren't just wearing something you'd dragged out of a charity shop for a fiver? I would rather look new, but perhaps it's me that's missing the point. And there's no doubting my sister's commitment, as she devotes every waking moment into making it a success. If only she were as attentive to her relationships. But then, standing here in the pissing-down rain because my husband's thrown me out, I'm a fine one to talk.

I rap at Jemma's door once more, and the thought that I'm getting nowhere fast flashes through my brain again. I huddle into her strip of doorway so that I'm getting merely drenched rather
than totally drowned. I thought Ed said my sister had come back from Prague, but maybe she was phoning from there? There isn't a single sign of life. This place definitely has the look of its owner being terminally out.

I consider breaking in, but due to the value of the stock the shop has more alarms than a nuclear-power plant and, no doubt, half of the Metropolitan Police force would descend upon me, because policemen are never around when you want one and arrive in droves when you don't.

I can feel my hair tightening into ringlets, and I'm probably sporting the same hairstyle as Lenny Kravitz by now. I have to do something! I could go to my parents' house. They live miles away in Harpenden, but I could hail a cab and get them to fork out for it and then ask Ed to pay them back. It would cost a small fortune and serve him right! But they would worry terribly if I turned up in the middle of the night, as they'll have had their Horlicks hours ago and will be well into the land of Nod by now. They're that sort of people. Also, turning up there would make this whole stupid disagreement seem so much worse than it is. My mother would then spend the rest of her life thinking that we have a shaky marriage. My heart sinks to my sodden shoes. Perhaps we do.

I search my pockets again for any sign of cash, noting ruefully that my emergency ten-pound note is safely secreted in the little pocket of my handbag, which is also safely in my kitchen at home. Perhaps I need to put an emergency ten-pound note underneath the inner soles of all my shoes if I plan on being stupid on a regular basis. I would agree with you, at this juncture, that my emergency situation procedures could do with an extensive review.

I cannot in any event return home. That would be just too humiliating for words. I would rather huddle down in Jemma's doorway for the night. Lots of people sleep rough these days, and it's only for one night. I could head toward…er…somewhere that has arches and look for a spare cardboard box. I look at the torrential rain and wonder how on earth these poor unfortunate people manage. I feel on the verge of tears. I have a beautiful home and a soft, comfy bed. Ed cannot be so cruel as to leave me out on the streets. I won't let him do this to me, however much I have to beg.

Just as I am about to give up hope and slink back to the marital home, penitent, my icy fingers fold around a business card. La Place Velma. It has Christian's address on the back, and it shines in my hand like a beacon under the streetlight. God, he lives just around the corner. If I had a stone, I could throw it there. I could be there in five minutes. Less. I wish I had my phone, then I could ring him. I know, I know, I know. I know what you're thinking. I'm thinking it too. He's the last person in the world I should contact. But what else am I to do? At the very least, he might give me a corner of his floor, or a cup of tea, or be able to lend me some money so that I can get a room for the night. And didn't he say that I should drop in any time I was in the area? I sigh as a big splat of rain splashes onto the address and smears the ink. I just don't expect he thought that it would be at one o'clock in the morning.

E
d lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. His clothes were scattered on the floor in the way Ali hated most, and he was wearing just his boxer shorts. He had his arms crossed behind his head on the pillow and to the untrained eye he looked relaxed, but wasn't. There was a knot of tension in his stomach as if he'd had a bad curry, and the crick in his neck was reaching osteopath-visiting proportions. Every beat of his heart thundered through his body.

He'd been meaning to decorate this bedroom for ages, but as with a million other nonessential domestic duties, had never got round to it. The favorite excuse was time, but the overriding factor was lack of inclination. It would have been far easier to pay someone and keep Ali happy, but his motto was always: If you're going to make a mess of doing something, you might as well do it yourself rather than pay someone else to make a mess of it for you. And making a mess seemed to be his speciality at the moment.

Ed moved his gaze from the ceiling to the alarm clock, which blinked digitally at him in a very accusing way. Ali had been gone for ages. Real ages. Not storm-round-the-block-in-a-fit-of-temper ages. But gone-a-long-way-and-doesn't-appear-to-be-coming-back ages.

What an arse he'd been, ranting on like some sulking schoolboy when there could be some perfectly good explanation.
Why hadn't he listened? At least he should have extended his wife that little courtesy as she protested her innocence. There was no way Ali could be having an affair. Even if she had the inclination. There was no way she had the time. She was either at work or doing something with the kids. It didn't leave many opportunities for romping round sordid hotels or whatever one did these days in pursuit of extramarital excitement. Ed looked at the Kew Gardens ticket for two. That didn't sound like the perfect venue for a clandestine romp. But then, there
were
a lot of bushes.

He wished Ali would come back and they could talk about it. Ed was sure that she'd gone to her sister's flat, but he'd tried Jemma's number and it had been switched, intractably, to answerphone. He could imagine it now—they'd be halfway through their second bottle of wine and having a good old whinge about men. Him in particular. They were like two peas in a pod at times like these. Except all the previous “times like these” had been when her sister's boyfriends—in various states of marital entanglement—had left and Ali had rushed to the rescue. Undoubtedly, her sister was now reciprocating.

Ed looked at the phone. She could at least ring so that he wouldn't worry, but then Ali knew that he wouldn't sleep until she rang, so she was probably exacting some minuscule revenge by making him sweat. And sweating he was. It was a muggy night. The rain was still heavy, but it was bringing no freshness with it. He'd had to close the bedroom window, because the curtains were starting to get wet and he knew Ali would give him an ear-bashing if she came home to damp drapery. This was all the fault of Harrison Ford and the National Health Service, both of whom had left him feeling, in their own way, unsettled, restless and disgruntled. If he hadn't had his mind filled with fantasy longings of life in Hollywood, then perhaps he wouldn't have been so brackish with Ali when she'd stepped out of her allotted box to find a little fun.

The phone rang and he snatched it up.

“Hello?”

“Is there any particular reason you left me sitting at the Groucho for three hours like a lemon?”

Ed let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding. “Orla.”

“That's me.”

Ed rubbed his face as he clamped the phone to his ear with his shoulder. “I forgot. I'm so, so sorry.”

“You forgot?” Her voice was tense. “That's not awfully flattering, Ed.”

“Believe me, if you knew what'd been going on here today, you'd forgive me.” Ed suddenly felt very weary, the weight of a thousand tons of responsibility crushing down on his shoulders, and he wanted to weep, howl into the wind, rent his soul and purge his lungs of anguish with a plaintive, primal scream. Instead, he sighed a meaningful sigh.

Her voice softened. “Are you okay?”

“No,” he admitted. “I'm having a domestic crisis.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“In my life or for ringing?”

“Both,” Orla said, failing to recognize his attempt at humor.

“Yes to the first. Not particularly to the second.”

There was a weighty pause before Orla spoke again. “Do you want me to come over?”

“I don't think so.”

Again an uncomfortable silence. “You know I'm always here for you, Ed.”

He did now. “Thanks,” he replied.

“Will you call me tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Ed said, without really knowing why.

“Look.” Orla paused again, and all Ed wanted to do was hang up, curl up and try to go to sleep. “You only have to ask and I'd do anything,” she said. “I care deeply for you. You know that, don't you?”

He hadn't previously but, again, he did now. “Yes,” he said. “And thanks, Orla. I'm really sorry about tonight. It went straight out of my head.” And despite being on the phone, he made a straight-out-of-my-head type gesture. “I'll make it up to you,” he promised.

“I might just hold you to that,” she said, laughing slightly. “Good night, Ed.”

“Good night, Orla.”

She hung up, and before Ed could contemplate just what making it up to Orla might conceivably involve, there was a heart-stopping, ear-piercing, gut-wrenching scream coming
from the bathroom, and he shot off his bed and raced at full pelt across the landing.

 

Elliott was standing in the bathroom in the dim glow of the shaving light which they always left on because both boys were afraid of the dark. Why was that? They were two perfectly healthy, nurtured middle-class children. Why did they imagine unseen terrors that waited for them just around each darkened corner? What had happened to cause that? And why was it that the things that lurked in darkened corners of your adult psyche were the ones that you were able to ignore the best of all?

Elliott let out another unearthly shriek. Ed burst through the door like some boxer-shorted superhero. “What's the matter?”

Elliott howled again. “I want Mummy!”

Ed crouched down next to him and put his arms round him. “Mummy's out.”

Elliott screamed louder. “I want Mummy!”

“Darling. Mummy's out. Daddy's here. What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

“I want Mummy!”

“Is it your arm?” Ed felt his heart jump to his mouth for about the twenty-seventh time that day. “What's wrong?”

Elliott turned to him tearfully. His face was wet and shining in the light. Racking sobs shook his body. “I weed up my nose!”

“What?”

Elliott sobbed again. “I weed up my nose!” He looked horrified at himself. “I couldn't point my willy properly with my sore arm,” he wailed. “And my wee went up my nose!”

Ed stifled a smile. “It's not the end of the world, Elliott.”

But the small boy remained unconvinced and cried louder.

“It's just a little accident.” Ed went to pull his youngest son toward him and then remembered the wee dripping down Elliott's face.

Elliott's sobs subsided from hysterical to heartfelt. “I want Mummy.”

Ed swallowed hard. “She's not here.”

“Where is she?”

“She's gone to Aunty Jemma's.”

“When will she be back?”

Ed felt his eyes prickle. “I'm not sure.” He scooped Elliott up
and, holding him at arm's length, maneuvered him to the sink. “Come on, let's wash your face and get you some clean pajamas.” If he could remember where Ali kept the clean pajamas.

Elliott offered his face while Ed got to work with the flannel and soap. He took Elliott's pajama top off. Tanya appeared at the bathroom door, yawning. “What's wrong?”

“Elliott's had an accident.”

“Another one?”

“I weed up my nose,” her little brother said miserably.

Tanya looked impressed. “Great party trick.”

Elliott smiled proudly.

“Do you know where Mummy puts your clean pajamas?”

Tanya nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Be an angel and get Elliott another pair.”

Tanya ambled off and banged around in the big chest of drawers at the top of the stairs. At this rate, Elliott's accident was going to wake the entire street up. They'd remind him of it at drinks parties when he was twenty-one. They'd probably ask him to do it at drinks parties when he was twenty-one!

Thomas came sleepily into the bathroom. He was rubbing his eyes and looked deathly white. “Daddy,” he said. “I don't feel well.” And he promptly threw up over Elliott's pajama trousers, causing his brother to scream and indulge in a Navajo-style war dance round the bathroom, spreading the sick nicely round the vinyl flooring. “I want Mummy! I want Mummy!”

“I want Mummy too,” Thomas said politely, his pallid face merging nicely with the white bathroom tiles.

“I'm sorry. You'll have to make do with me. Tanya!” Ed shouted. “Clean pajamas for two!”

With much shushing, Ed manhandled both of his sons into the shower and turned it on full. It smelled like some foul torture chamber from the Japanese game show
Endurance.
Ali always dealt with this sort of stuff. She had cream for everything. Vomit and blood did not faze her. She just waded in and mopped it up while making comforting cooing sounds. Whereas if he saw anyone being sick, he just wanted to join in. Ed yanked the boys out of the shower and toweled them down.

“That's because he ate my burger as well as his own,” Tanya informed Ed, tossing the pajamas to him.

“Thanks,” he said. “You don't want to part with any of your body fluids, do you?”

“Don't be gross!”

“Just checking,” Ed said.

“Where's Mum?”

“At Aunty Jemma's.”

“Uh. What's happened now?” Tanya said.

Ed paused. “Mummy will tell you when she gets back.”

“Will she, hell,” Tanya said. “She never tells me anything juicy.”

“Go to bed,” her father said.

Tanya wandered off, muttering.

Ed stuffed Elliott in his pajamas and buttoned up his jacket, amazed that this former screeching wreck could now look so angelic. Thomas quietly changed in the corner. “If Mummy's not here,” Elliott mused, “can I get in bed with you?”

“Just this once,” Ed said wearily. “Don't make a habit of it.”

“Can I too?” Thomas asked.

Ed smiled. “Of course you can, darling.” And firmly pushed the thought of his son throwing up in the bed to the back of his mind.

He gave the bathroom floor a quick once-over, vowed to do it properly in the morning and then shoved the dirty clothes in the linen basket, also to be dealt with the next day.

Ed guided his sons back to his bedroom, and Elliott bounded across the double bed heedless of his sprained, bandaged arm and bounced under the duvet. Tiredly, Ed got in beside him. Thomas slid in next, making a tight sandwich of Ed. “Don't fidget, Elliott,” he warned. “Or you're back in your own bed.”

Ed turned off the light, and Elliott and Thomas curled against him. It felt strange having these tiny, bony bodies nuzzled in next to him instead of Ali. It had been a long time since Elliott had slept in their bed. Even longer since Thomas had done it. And it had been a long time since he had shared a bed with anyone other than Alicia. She'd always hated their periods of enforced separation when he was away working on a film—it turned her cranky or whiney. He'd never minded too much because he was always totally exhausted or totally drunk by the time he fell into his bed on location, and everything else revolved around work, work and more work. There was only one night when he'd gone to bed with
another woman, a production assistant or makeup girl, he couldn't even remember now. She was cute, young, available. They'd both been very drunk and he'd had a row with Ali about something or nothing. The girl had probably tried to pick up Harrison Ford and had failed. Whichever way, they'd spent the night together and it was great fun. Until the morning. And then he'd felt wretched and stupid and she'd felt sober and stupid. They inched round each other on the set until the movie was in the can, and he'd never done anything like it since. It wasn't that there hadn't been the opportunity, but he felt the whole casual-sex thing wasn't really worth the effort. He was happy with Alicia. He was in love with Alicia.

Elliott wriggled against him. “You smell nice, Daddy.”

Ed inhaled. Elliott smelled of wee. Thomas stank of puke. He would have to improve his nursing and washing skills.

Elliott sucked gently at his thumb as he drifted off into sleep. “I don't like it when Mummy's not here,” he mumbled.

“Me neither,” Thomas agreed.

“Ssh,” Ed said and stroked his sons' soft downy hair. He stared at the ceiling in the dark even though he could no longer see the tiny cracks where it badly needed painting over. Ed didn't like it when Ali wasn't here either, and he fervently hoped it wasn't something that he or his sons would have to get used to.