Me and Mr Jones (35 page)

So that was one fly in the ointment dealt with at least. The situation with David wouldn’t be quite as easy to resolve, though. Lilian had promised to send him back home, but he hadn’t appeared so far. He hadn’t even phoned. Maybe he didn’t want to come back? Maybe he had chosen Dorset after all. She kept picking up her phone and selecting his number, then her finger would hover over the ‘Call’ button without quite managing to press it each time. What if the marriage was over?

Still, she had a distraction at least – the lunch date she’d arranged with Nicholas on Wednesday. Good work, Emma: swing from one uncertain relationship to another, why don’t you? As Tuesday night and Wednesday morning ticked by she found herself becoming increasingly tense, but tried to ignore her multiplying doubts. Needs must, she kept reminding herself. This was closure in its purest form.

They had arranged to meet at the bar in Butlers, a smart, upmarket hotel in Clifton. She’d met clients there before, as there was a large sunny lounge room full of squishy armchairs, perfect for coffees and chat, with a bar set further back, and a restaurant even deeper into the building with views over Clifton Suspension Bridge. There were also, of course, rooms upstairs. Emma felt slightly sick, wondering if Nicholas had optimistically booked a bedroom for them as well as a table in the restaurant. A mistress for lunch, and his wife for dinner. He’d probably already done a nubile, adoring student before breakfast. Once a cheat, always a cheat – but hers for the taking, if that was what she wanted.

She took a deep breath as she stepped through the front door of the hotel. Not for the first time she wondered if she was losing the plot, coming to meet Nicholas at all. If she was any sort of proper wife, she’d walk straight out of there and get on the phone to her husband. Instead she smiled at the receptionist and kept going.

The lounge was full, as usual, with a mixture of business types poring over paperwork, elegant women surrounded by shopping bags gossiping over a pot of coffee, and a collection of yummy mummies with babies and toddlers in tow.

‘Emma! Is that you?’ came a voice, and she spun round. ‘I
thought
it was,’ said Sally, beaming. She got up from where she’d been sitting in the corner with the mummies, podgy curly-haired Violet in her arms.

‘Sally!’ It had been so long since she’d seen her friend, it didn’t feel quite real at first. She’d been in her own private world all day, focused solely on meeting Nicholas. Now the two worlds had collided, and the effect was disorienting.

The two women hugged, and Emma stroked Violet’s soft cheek, feeling the familiar twist of yearning. This was what it was all about, at the end of the day – a babe-in-arms. Her arms. ‘Hello, beautiful,’ she cooed. ‘Look at you, haven’t you grown!’

‘She’s just started walking,’ Sally said proudly. ‘Actually took her first steps at her party – she’s always loved an audience, haven’t you, sweetie?’

‘Wow,’ Emma said, feeling bad at the mention of Violet’s party and the unspoken accompanying fact that she’d bailed out of attending.
If only you’d been there, you could have witnessed the event for yourself . . .
‘Very impressive, putting on a show for your guests,’ she added. ‘I can’t
think
who she takes after.’

They both smiled and any background awkwardness melted away. Paul, Sally’s husband, was the loudest, most gregarious man she’d ever met, a total show-off and party animal. He thought ‘shy’ was something you put coconuts on.

‘So how are things?’ Emma went on. ‘We should catch up sometime.’

‘We so should,’ Sally said. ‘It’s been months. Hey, why don’t you join us – we’re having coffee.’

Emma shook her head. She could see over Sally’s shoulder that one of the babies had just been sick over its mother’s creased T-shirt. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting someone here for lunch.’

‘Oh, right. Another time, then.’

‘Another time,’ she agreed. ‘Anyway. I’d better—’

‘Hey, I was just thinking about you actually. Total coincidence. You’ll never guess who walked in, not five minutes ago.’

I bet I can
, Emma thought, her heart bucking. ‘Who?’

‘That disgusting old lecturer you used to have the hots for – well, I say
you
had the hots for him; we all did secretly, I think.’ She laughed self-consciously and shifted Violet on her hip. ‘Remember? Nicholas Something-or-other. Hasn’t aged brilliantly, I must say – like Bill Nighy’s older, wrinklier brother – but I would have recognized him anywhere.’

‘Nicholas Larsson. Yeah.’

There was a pause and then Sally’s face changed. ‘That’s who you’re meeting?’

Emma nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Violet started squirming and Sally put her down on the carpeted floor, almost unseeing. ‘Emma . . . What’s happening?’ she asked. ‘Tell me you’re not . . . involved. With
him.
Are you?’

Emma bit her lip. ‘I . . .’

‘Because I remember how he chewed you up and spat you out last time,’ Sally said, her voice becoming shrill. One of the shopping ladies glanced up in interest. ‘I remember how devastated you were, how shitty he was. Please don’t—’

‘It’s okay,’ Emma said. She remembered with a stunning bolt of clarity how she’d wept in Sally’s arms back then, how her friends had plied her with gin and Double Deckers, how they’d been united in their chorus of ‘What a bastard!’ fervour. It had been so long since she’d had a cosy girlfriends’ night, she realized in the next moment. They’d all moved on, got married, settled down. How had she let this friendship with Sally slip so badly since then?

‘Really,’ she added, because Sally was still looking at her doubtfully. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘Do you?’

Emma hesitated. Did she? A long moment passed and then slowly, numbly, she shook her head. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said hoarsely. She struggled to get back to the cocoon she’d been in earlier, the world where this meeting had seemed to make sense, but reality was hitting her like wave after wave of cold water. What
was
she doing, coming here to meet Nicholas on the sly?

‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’ Sally asked, looking concerned. ‘Why don’t we talk this through together?’

Emma felt rooted to the ground. If she sat down and talked this through with Sally, she knew what Sally would say. And Sally would be right.

‘I wish you’d phoned,’ Sally went on, one hand on her arm. ‘You could have told me you were having a difficult time.’

‘Yeah.’ Emma shrugged, not knowing what else to say. Why
hadn’t
she phoned? Because she’d cut herself off from the real world, swotting up on baby websites like a loser, obsessing about the one doomed time she’d ever been pregnant – that was why. And also, in fairness, because Sally only ever seemed to be able to talk about sleepless nights and teething these days, which only made her feel more unhappy. Even now the conversation had broken off because Violet was suddenly crawling very quickly towards the shopping ladies’ pile of bags, and Sally had to make a fast lunge to grab her, apologizing over the sound of her daughter’s indignant squawks.

‘Whoops,’ she said, returning to Emma. ‘Listen – what are you doing tonight? It’s been months since we had a proper chat without Madam here interrupting. Shall I come over?’

‘Oh
yes
,’ Emma said, struck by how badly she wanted the company. ‘Would you? I’d really love that.’ She couldn’t remember the last time Sally had suggested meeting in the evening; she’d pleaded tiredness practically since giving birth, suggesting they meet during the day instead, which meant Violet being in tow. Much as she wanted to make life easier for her friend, it had secretly irked Emma, having the baby intrude on their friendship by constantly tagging along. She’d been jealous.

‘Great,’ Sally said. ‘Well,’ she went on, suddenly hugging her again, ‘whatever happens with him, I hope it all works out. Just . . . be careful.’

Emma caught a sweet waft of Sally’s shampoo as she hugged her back, mingled with the faint tang of ammonia emanating from Violet. ‘I will,’ she replied. ‘See you later.’

She took two steps into the bar, saw Nicholas sitting waiting at a table with a newspaper and a glass of red wine and walked straight out again, trembling all over. She called Flo and lied that she was going to meet a new client and would be back in tomorrow, then went home and locked the door, her heart rushing. It felt like a near-miss, as if she’d screeched to a halt at the very edge of a precipice. After a few minutes she texted him a polite, formal message, saying she thought it best if they didn’t meet again, and turned her phone off.
Goodbye, Nicholas. I changed my mind. I saw sense at the last minute, just before I made the most terrible mistake.

He’d survive, of course. Knowing him, he’d already be chatting up the waitress.

She sank into a chair, feeling wrung out by the drama, but elated that she’d done the right thing. Having a baby with another man – with him! – would not have been the solution; it couldn’t possibly have ended happily.

Thank goodness for Sally. Her friend had no idea what she’d just done back there, how her perspective and her unknowing comments had saved Emma from that devil on her shoulder. She owed Sally big time.

Gazing around, she realized just what a state the flat was in. Recently it hadn’t seemed worth the effort keeping on top of the place – not when there was only her living there. As a result, the washing-up had mutated into leaning towers of saucepans and crockery, there was dust on the mantelpiece and fluff balls on the carpet, hair in the shower cubicle and toothpaste splatters adorning the basin. The bin needed emptying, the recycling box needed sorting and putting out, there was a pile of paperwork she had neglected . . .

There was something quite cathartic about mopping and hoovering and scrubbing, though, she decided, an hour or so later when she’d tackled the worst of it. Not only did the place look a lot better, but she felt better as well, more in control. She went out to the supermarket and stocked up on healthy food, a bunch of pink gerberas and some wine for later. It was time to stop existing on ready meals and chocolate biscuits. It was time to get her life back on track.

That evening Sally arrived, drinks were poured and they tucked into posh crisps and nice cheese. ‘This is sweet,’ Sally commented, gazing around at the flat. ‘What’s the plan with this place, then – how long are you staying here?’

Boom. Straight in with the big question. ‘Well, it’s a six-month contract, but . . .’ Emma sighed. ‘It kind of depends on David, really.’

‘What do you mean?’ Neither Sally nor Emma had ever been the sort of wife who left massive decisions like where they might live to the sole direction of their husbands.

‘Things haven’t been too brilliant, to be honest,’ Emma replied. ‘David’s been in Dorset for weeks, helping his parents. They’re moving out of their house, and he’s hankering for us to buy it off them.’

Sally gaped. ‘Seriously? He wants to move to the sticks? God. And what about you?’

‘I don’t,’ Emma said flatly. ‘I want to stay in Bristol.’

‘Oh no.’ Sally reached across the sofa and took her hand. ‘So . . . what’s the latest? Where are you up to? I mean, there’s room for negotiation, right?’

Emma shrugged. ‘We’re kind of stuck,’ she admitted. ‘Both digging our heels in. We haven’t actually spoken all week.’

The words sounded awful said out loud, much more alarming than they’d been inside her head. ‘Shit,’ said Sally. ‘What are you saying? Surely you’re not looking at . . . Splitsville?’

Emma winced. Splitsville was the very last place she wanted to be, but she was no longer sure where they were heading. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘We had this massive showdown at the weekend. And I do mean massive. I had a go at his mum – a proper drunken rant – and David took her side. And since then . . . nothing.’

‘Ouch,’ Sally said, then her lips twitched. ‘Bet it felt good, though, didn’t it – socking it to that miserable old bag. She so had it coming to her.’

‘I did kind of let rip,’ Emma confessed. ‘Although, miracle of the year, we actually sorted it out the next day – me and the old bag, I mean. She even apologized, can you believe? Ironic, isn’t it, when David and I aren’t speaking.’

‘Oh, hon. It’s tough, isn’t it. Paul and I haven’t been getting on well, either. It’s like – real life can be such a bloody drudge, can’t it? We’re constantly knackered. We never have sex. We’re skint because I can’t find a part-time job, so Paul’s working extra hours to cover the bills.’ She bit her lip. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love Violet. I love her to bits. But it’s not the happy-family thing I thought it would be. I miss my old life too.’

‘Getting old sucks,’ Emma agreed. ‘It was so much simpler being young, free and single, wasn’t it? Now look at us – all grown up, whinging about our rubbish husbands.’ She tried to laugh, but it didn’t sound very genuine. ‘And here’s me, so desperate for a baby that I was seriously considering . . .’ She broke off at once.
Watch what you’re saying, Emma.
But then this was Sally. If she couldn’t tell her, who could she tell?

‘What?’ Sally prompted.

Emma twisted her wedding ring round on her finger. ‘I’ve been so desperate,’ she repeated. ‘It’s so awful, every sodding month: not pregnant, not pregnant, not pregnant. And then I build myself back up over the next fortnight – right, this will be the one, don’t worry, plenty of time, it can still happen. Then I’m ovulating and absolutely frantic with this kind of madness that I must, must, must conceive. Poor David. Must be terrifying for him. Honestly, I turn into this raging wild beast of a sex maniac.’

Sally elbowed her. ‘Poor David, my arse. I bet he loves that.’ Then she squeezed Emma’s hand. ‘Oh, love,’ she said in a softer voice. ‘I had no idea. Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘I just felt so miserable,’ Emma admitted. ‘And obsessed. I felt as if talking about it might jinx my chances. And it’s boring, too – nobody wants to hear endless moans about stupid useless ovaries.’

‘You can always talk to me,’ Sally said stoutly. ‘Any time.’

Emma said nothing for a moment. She didn’t want to remind her friend how often their phone calls had been called to an abrupt halt in the last year, if Violet was crying or hungry. ‘Thank you,’ she said eventually. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen now anyway. Because if David doesn’t want to know, then . . .’ She stopped and screwed up her face. ‘Well, I had been thinking, maybe Nicholas . . .’