Monday to Friday Man (25 page)

‘He doesn’t know what he’s missing out on,’ she goes on. ‘You’d think he’d jump at the chance of seeing women in PVC corsets. He’s no fun any more.’

Our taxi pulls up alongside a smart private house in South Kensington. We are ushered inside, into a wide hallway with a chequered floor, sparkling chandelier (modern) and paintings of important-looking though somewhat lugubrious aristocrats on either side of the walls. Nancy shows no sign of inhibition as she flings off her coat and hands it to the cloakroom attendant without as much as a thank you. I, on the other hand, peel my coat off self-consciously and thank him for the two of us.

We hand over our invitations and a gentleman in black tie stamps a Playboy bunny print onto the back of our hands. I follow the noise downstairs. My knees are trembling and ironically I am pleased Nancy is right behind me, wafting perfume. ‘How’s it going with Jack?’ she shouts above the noise.

‘Great!’ I shout back.

We walk into a crowded space packed with women in suspenders, corsets and fishnet stockings. I brush past a woman wearing just a thong with glitter wings on her back.

‘The trick is,’ Nancy whispers, as if she were a pro, ‘to keep on moving, then no one can latch onto you.’ Across the room stands a woman with blonde hair extensions, being photographed dressed in nothing but tassels on her bosoms, and I stand in awe at her self-confidence, unable to take my eyes away from her.

‘Cheap Euro trash.’ Nancy dismisses her, after scrutinizing her from head to toe. ‘Men don’t like that. They like
class
.’

Jack stands behind Nancy and me. ‘That’s an example of where less is not always more,’ he whispers to us. ‘Both of you, on the other hand,’ he says, looking at our outfits, ‘look incredible.’

Nancy laughs flirtatiously as he leads us to the bar.

Jack plies Nancy and me with drinks all evening, and when he’s out of earshot, I attempt subtly to ask some of his friends about Jack, his place in Bath and whether they know his family well. His colleagues mention how easy he is to work with, but that’s about as far as I get. I feel stupid digging around for dirt that isn’t there. I reach over to touch his arm and Nancy seems put out that I’ve interrupted their conversation. ‘Just off to the Ladies,’ I tell them both. I wrap my arms around Jack’s neck, Nancy irritably moves to the side. ‘When I come back, I want you to dance with me. Don’t move.’

‘Promise,’ he says and blows me a kiss.

I enter the Ladies and see a couple of women surreptitiously approaching a cubicle.

When I’m on the loo I hear the unmistakable sounds of snorting coming from next door. The first time I took cocaine was when I was at Manchester with Anna. It was three in the afternoon on a rainy Sunday and I can remember Anna chopping up this white chalky mess with one of her debit cards. When I tried it, it felt like nothing more than a strong cup of coffee, but I do remember feeling conspiratorial with Anna, as if we were doing something forbidden on a wet sleepy Sunday afternoon. Although it’s not my thing, nearly everyone in the media seems to do coke, though to my surprise I don’t think Jack does.

Jack isn’t in the bar. There’s no sign of him anywhere. Where’s Nancy? I stagger down the dark stairs and into the musty basement, where everyone is dancing. I lurch through the sweaty throng, the room is spinning, my feet are trampled on, a woman crashes into me, drunk. People are kissing, pressed up against each other. I’ve had enough of this now and want to go home. Where are they? I scan the room frantically. I look at my watch. It’s past midnight. Maybe Nancy’s gone home, but how odd that she didn’t tell me? It’s too hot in here and I desperately need some fresh air. I make my way across the room, music booming in my ears. Someone or something latches onto my leg. I turn to see a man who looks like an Italian footballer, thighs like nutcrackers, behind me, his legs locked into mine, gyrating against me. Oh good grief! I try to detach myself, then gasp when a woman with blonde wig and an enormous cleavage hurls herself to the floor, right in front of me, and starts doing, let’s just say, acts of a highly sexual nature which encourage men to jump on top of her, including Mr Nutcracker Thighs. I’m pushed against two people groping each other like rampant teenagers. Rapidly I edge away and run upstairs, determined to retrieve my coat from the cloakroom and just go. I’m cross. I shouldn’t have come, and Nancy shouldn’t have left without me. As I hand my ticket to the curly-haired cloakroom assistant I hear muffled voices coming from the corridor.

‘I have this feeling she thinks it’s more serious than I do,’ he says. ‘I get the strong sense she wants to settle down . . . I mean, she is thirty-five . . .’

‘Her clock is ticking, Jack.’

‘Oh God, I can’t handle that. I seriously can’t handle that. There’s no way I’m settling down. I’m going to have to talk to her.’

‘I think you should.’

‘She’s always banging on and on about the weekends too, doesn’t understand I need my own space. Also I have to work.’

‘Of course you have to work, darling. You’re very successful. She should understand that.’

‘Yeah, but she doesn’t have a career, does she?’ He laughs. ‘She’s only a shop girl!’

‘Exactly. Honestly, Jack, you mustn’t feel guilty about ending it,’ Nancy advises, ‘and I think you need to do it now.’

‘Excuse me?’ says the cloakroom attendant, staring at me. ‘Is this your coat?’

‘How do I tell her?’ Jack goes on. ‘I always said that it was only a bit of fun . . .’

‘It’s not your fault, darling. Come on, we’d better find her.’

‘Hang on, Nance. Just one more kiss.’

Nancy giggles. ‘I’m married.’

‘So?’

‘You’re a naughty, naughty man, Jack Baker.’

When I hear them leave, I grab my coat and run.

In the taxi, I take out my powder compact and look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, my cheeks flushed. I snatch off my wig, vigorously wipe the red muck from my lips and scrub the caked foundation off my cheeks. Shivering, I pull my coat closely around me, cold with the memory of Jack and Nancy together. Nancy and Jack are disgusting, pathetic excuses for people. I should have trusted my instincts. I knew it. Who was I fooling? Myself, that’s all.

I’ve always tried to see Nancy’s point. OK, she isn’t my type, but I respected the fact that she was married to Nick and the mother of Hannah and Tilda. How could she have done this? Why would she want to humiliate me?

Then there’s Jack. Nancy! He likes Nancy! He kissed her! I snap shut my powder compact. I hate myself for falling for a man like him. I should have known better. Look at me! Guy was right. I don’t fit into his life and I never will. He wasn’t ever serious about me; he was just out for a good time. He’s a liar. All those secret phone calls. I bet he
is
married! He goes back to his wife at the weekend. I don’t trust anything he’s said any more. I feel so upset and stupid. My mobile rings and his name lights up the screen. I don’t wait for him to say ‘hello’. ‘I heard you Jack. I saw you.’

‘Saw what? Where are you?’

‘Going home, and don’t you dare follow me. I want you out of my house.’ I switch my phone off.

‘Everything all right?’ the driver asks, looking at me with concern through his front mirror.

‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I tell him, my chin wobbling.

‘Men,’ he says. ‘We’re not worth crying over, love.’

The driver pulls up outside No. 21 and I pay him with a tip before rushing to Gloria’s door, knocking frantically. No answer. I look up to her bedroom window and then vaguely remember she’s in Ireland, going to a friend’s birthday party. I need to see Gloria! I can’t be on my own tonight! I can’t see Jack. What if he’s on his way back now, determined to talk to me? I don’t want to be in the same room as him ever again.

I rush across to No. 21 and unlock the front door.

I strip off, tossing my stupid platinum bunny costume to the floor and pull on jeans, a jumper and slip on some trainers. With Ruskin in my arms and an overnight bag slung over my shoulder, I hail another cab.

Guy opens the door, hatless and in his dressing gown and when he sees my crumpled face he pulls me inside.

‘I’m sorry for just turning up . . . I tried Gloria . . .’ He leads me down the hallway, guides me into a small sitting room. I watch him manically tidying the sofa to make some space for us to sit down. He appears nervous as to why I have turned up on his doorstep in the early hours of the morning, and excuses the mess. Sprawled across the floor are garden-design books and pencilled drawings. ‘What’s happened?’ he asks me.

‘You were right,’ I blurt out. ‘Jack and I, it’s all over. I caught him with her . . .’

‘Her? Who?’ he says gently.

He sits next to me, an arm around my shoulder, and waits for me to say something. ‘You were right,’ finally I admit. ‘How stupid of me to think I had anything in common with him! I was just so lonely after Ed and . . .’ I tell Guy about the evening, how one moment we were drinking at the bar . . . the next moment . . .

‘Jack and Nancy,’ he repeats in disbelief. I don’t think even Guy can comprehend it. I’m waiting for him to say, ‘I told you so’, but . . .

‘Oh, Gilly,’ he says, pulling me into his arms, ‘I’m so sorry.’

Guy and I drink tea and talk. I’m relieved Jack can’t find me here. ‘You were right not to trust him, Guy,’ I say more calmly. ‘They deserve each other.’

‘Well, one thing’s for sure – Jack doesn’t deserve you.’

I lean in closer towards him, resting my head against his shoulder.

‘He doesn’t, Gilly. I don’t think you realize how lovely you are. You have no idea, do you?’

‘Guy, stop it,’ I say, though inside my heart melts at his words. ‘Tonight, it’s all my fault, I should have known . . .’

‘No. Jack is deaf, dumb and blind if he doesn’t realize how special you are.’ He hugs me more tightly, ‘And unlike all the other girls I know.’

‘I wasn’t his type,’ I console myself.

‘You don’t need to change, Gilly. None of this is your fault. He’s the idiot, not you, and I think it’s just as well you went to this Playboy party tonight.’

I sit up. ‘Why?’

‘It’s better to find out now rather than later,’ Guy says.

We sit quietly for a while, Ruskin and Trouble lying by the fireplace, keeping an eye on us. ‘Can I stay here tonight? On the sofa?’

‘Of course you can,’ he says, kissing the top of my head tenderly.

I turn to him abruptly, aware of a major piece in this puzzle that I am forgetting. ‘Oh my God. What am I going to tell Nick?’

‘You tell him the truth,’ Guy insists. ‘He needs to know.’

‘Nancy, she’ll make out I’m lying, she’ll . . .’

‘When it comes to trusting you or Nancy.’ Guy shrugs his shoulders. ‘Come on, Nick knows you love him, he’s your twin. I’d trust you with my life.’

‘You would?’

‘You can’t tell a lie, Gilly. You’ll always do the right thing.’ He takes a strand of my hair, sweeps it away from my face. ‘That’s what’s so wonderful about you.’

39

I wake up the following morning on Guy’s sofa bed, Ruskin lying by my side. When I stroke him he moves away and resettles himself, reminding me he’s not a morning dog. My head pounds and slowly the realization of last night comes back to haunt me: Gilly Brown, single again, humiliated, soon to be without a lodger (how am I going to pay for all my bills
plus
my mortgage now?) and soon to be a messenger to Nick, bearing bad news.

Guy enters the room. ‘Fancy some breakfast?’ he asks, handing me a dressing gown.

I nod, stretching out my arms before following him into the kitchen. It’s a small open-plan space, and on one wall is a pinboard mounted with black-and-white photographs of family members. I smile at the picture of Guy standing next to his sister Rachel, dressed in his wedding suit and electric-blue shirt. ‘You kept your hat off.’ I sigh proudly.

‘All day long.’

‘That tie looks great on you.’

There’s a lovely black-and-white picture of Guy and Flora together in New York, when Guy pressed the confirm button. Flora’s long hair is swept across her face and she’s laughing as she clings onto his arm. ‘It was really windy that day,’ Guy smiles. Flora is tall, slender and bohemian in style. She’s in her early thirties but has a young face and a serene, graceful quality about her. I can picture her trekking in a foreign country with her camera equipment slung onto her shoulder, exploring places and capturing moments.

‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, as I move away from the photographs and pull up a stool. He opens the fridge, takes out a bottle of milk and scans the shelf for butter. I’m aware, after feeling so close to him last night, that he hasn’t fully looked me in the eye, preferring to keep busy. ‘No nasty Nancy dreams I hope?’ he continues.

I smile. ‘I’m sorry, Guy, for offloading all of this on you, for coming round so late.’

Guy flicks on the television, offers to make me some scrambled eggs and bacon. ‘You don’t ever need to be sorry for needing a friend in the night,’ he tells me, finally looking my way.

We swap sections of the newspaper, I pour him some more coffee, Guy feeds the dogs scraps of toast under the table. ‘What are you up to this weekend?’ he asks.