My Single Friend (35 page)

‘Oh God. Is that supposed to make me feel better? How depressing.’

‘What did you expect?’

‘I didn’t expect to see what I saw in that restaurant. What an idiot I am.’

‘You’re not an idiot,’ I say gently. ‘You fell in love. There’s nothing idiotic about that.’

‘I fell in love with a two-timing . . .
wanker.
’ Dominique’s vocabulary on this issue is uncharacteristically minimalist. ‘I’d say that was extremely idiotic. Clinically insane, in fact.’

‘You weren’t to know, Dom.’

‘Well,’ she straightens her back and wipes mascara from her reddened eyes. It’s an improvement, but she still looks as if she’s had a makeover in a blackout. ‘Never again.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

‘Oh yes I do,’ she says defiantly. ‘Shagging about is far easier.’

But far less fulfilling. Only now isn’t the time to tell her.

We turn into Victoria Street, not caring that we’re forty-five minutes late after lunch.

It’s then, when I think I’ve had enough drama for one day, that I spot my mother on the other side of the road. She looks different: her hair is curled for the first time since she tried to recreate Farrah Fawcett’s do in the late seventies, she’s wearing enough make-up to get a job as an air hostess, and she’s in heels. The last time my mother wore heels in the daytime was for my Cousin Kerry’s wedding three years ago, and she had to have her Scholl’s surgically removed for the occasion.

If that wasn’t suspicious enough, she’s accompanied by . . . A MAN. A tall, chisel-jawed man, with a George Clooney crop and a fashionable three-quarter-length overcoat.

She’s laughing and joking and . . . Oh. My. God. My mother is flirting. I don’t believe it. My mother isn’t
allowed
to flirt, not even with my dad. It’s a breach of her job description.

I am rooted to the spot, my lungs drained of oxygen.

‘Everybody’s at it!’ I glare at Mum. ‘Every time I walk through this city centre, I spot somebody.
At it
.’

‘At
what
?’ asks Dominique, blowing her nose.

‘First Henry and Erin, then Justin and that blonde, and now this! I can’t believe it.’

‘Who?’

‘Look.’ I point to the other side of the street where my mother is behaving as though she’s halfway through a third date.

Dominique squints through her bloodshot eyes. ‘Is that your mum?’

‘Apparently so.’

‘She looks
amazing
. Who’s the guy? He’s gorgeous.’

‘
Dominique
,’ I hiss, ‘that is my mother you’re talking about. My mother who is married. TO MY FATHER
.
’

‘Good point. I’m sure there’s nothing in it. It’ll be perfectly innocent.’

I watch Mum and this impostor make their way to the plush doorway of the Avalon Hotel, a place renowned for being chic, expensive and very romantic. He puts his hand on the small of her back and guides her to the door.

Perfectly innocent?

I am perfectly unconvinced.

‘DAVE, WAKE UP! COME ON, YOU LAZY GIT. WAKE UP, WILL YOU?’

I am standing outside my brother’s terraced house, throwing stones at his bedroom window.

‘DAVE! THIS IS IMPORTANT! LET ME IN!’

He surfaces like a narcoleptic diplodocus and emerges from behind the curtain. The neighbours are treated to a view of his naked torso, which is an alarming terracotta shade – a dead giveaway that he’s fallen asleep on the sunbed again.

Fixing his boxer shorts, he opens his window and scowls down at me. ‘Are you trying to get arrested?’

‘Open the door,’ I reply urgently. ‘This is important.’

‘It can’t be more important than me getting some sleep.’

‘It’s six-fifteen p.m.,’ I point out, exasperated. ‘Who sleeps at six-fifteen p.m.?’

‘I’ve just come back from a conference in Frankfurt, you idiot.’

I don’t feel at all guilty about ruining the beauty sleep of someone who’s been overdoing it on a company jolly, but it’s easier not to say this.

‘You’ll understand when I tell you,’ I call up.

‘Come back later,’ he instructs sleepily, closing his window.

‘No!’

‘Give me a shout in an hour an—’

‘MUM’S HAVING AN AFFAIR!’

He looks at me as if I am loopier than a Red Arrows formation. ‘You’re off your head,’ he mutters, starting to close the window again.

‘Look, are you going to leave me on the street to shout the gory details, or are you going to let me in?’

He grunts and turns away.

When the front door opens a minute later, I barge past and go straight to the kitchen. Like the rest of Dave’s home, the room is a cross between the
Big Brother
house and a permanently horny adolescent’s bedroom, circa 1992.

Posters of semi-naked Zoo girls adorn the walls and his furniture is an unsettling combination of flat-pack hand-me-downs from Mum and Dad’s place and tacky new items paid for in instalments (the electric blue plastic bubble chair in the living room is a favourite).

The feminine touches Cheryl has attempted make it even weirder. The dried flowers from Next Home are fighting a losing battle, I fear, on top of his collection of Street Fighter games.

‘Right,’ he says, appearing at the kitchen door in a short black dressing-gown and Quiksilver flip-flops. ‘What the bollocks is this about?’

‘It’s Mum,’ I sigh, putting my head in my hands. ‘I think she’s having an affair.’

He snorts. ‘You’ve been reading too many of them Jilly Cooper books.’ He marches to the fridge, sticks in his head and emerges with a carton of leftover curry.

I close my eyes in frustration. ‘I haven’t.’

‘You have,’ he grins. ‘You’ll be telling me she’s a champion polo-player next.’

‘I
saw
her,’ I insist.

He wanders to the cutlery drawer, removes a fork and starts making his way through a chilled chicken jalfrezi that looks more like Pedigree Chum.

‘Saw her doing what?’

I ponder for a second on how to articulate this. ‘Carousing,’ I tell him.

He frowns, taking this in. ‘Why’s she carol singing at this time of year?’

‘Not carol singing,’ I hiss. ‘
Carousing
. With a man.’

‘What sort of man?’

‘A good-looking one. A smartly-dressed one. One who looked distinctly like he was flirting with her. And she with him.’

He swallows his last mouthful and burps.

‘Oh God,’ I say in disgust.

‘What?’ he replies innocently. ‘No point being overburdened with a sense of decorum.’

‘No chance of that. Look, can we stick to the issue?’

‘You must have got it wrong,’ he says confidently.

‘Listen to me: she’s been buying loads of gorgeous make-up lately and going to salsa dancing and—’

‘Wasn’t it you who told her to go to salsa dancing?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘So if she is having an affair, it’s your fault.’

‘I never suggested she turn into a . . . a harlot.’

He rolls his eyes clearly still unconvinced, and returns to the fridge to see what else is available.

‘Look, there’s another thing I haven’t told you.’ I look at my hands. ‘When I saw her this afternoon, they were going into the lobby of a hotel.’

He stops in his tracks. ‘A hotel?’

I nod.

‘What’s she going to a hotel for?’

‘You tell me.’ At last I feel as if I’m getting somewhere.

‘With a bloke?’

‘A bloke,’ I nod.

Dave scratches his bum and considers this information. ‘And you really think—’

‘Dave, our mother is having an affair. I know it.’

Mum answers her mobile after three rings.

‘Ma, where are you?’ Dave demands. He’s never been big on pleasantries.

‘What do you mean, where am I?’ she hisses. At least, I think this is what she hisses because Dave and I are sharing the handset and, frankly, his big head is taking up most of the available space.

‘I
mean
, where are you?’

‘I’m in town, if you must know,’ she replies, bewildered. ‘I’m having a drink—’

‘Where?’ he interrupts.

‘What does it matter where?’

‘Tell me where you are, Ma.’

‘I’m in some bar.’ She sounds flustered. ‘I don’t know what it’s called. Schmooze or Booze or something.’

He cuts her off and turns to me. ‘She’s in Newz.’

‘Right,’ I reply. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We go there. Obviously.’

I pause as alarm bells start ringing in my head. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea.’

‘Why not? If she’s having an affair then there’s one way to make sure it stops.’

‘No. Dave, no. Really, no.’

He frowns. ‘What did you tell me for, if you didn’t want me to go and smack him?’

I’m starting to wonder myself. ‘Moral support.’

‘Moral support?’ He gives a short laugh. ‘Next time, try the Samaritans.’

It never ceases to amaze me how many women are attracted to my brother. The car journey lasts ten minutes and in that time he’s winked at, smiled at and swooned at so much it almost constitutes an epidemic.

The first time it happens, when we’re next to a brunette in a VW Golf at traffic-lights, I do a double-take to check she isn’t having a stroke.

‘What do these women see in you?’ I ask, incredulous.

‘Oh, thanks. Boost my self-esteem, why don’t you?’

‘If I boosted your self-esteem it’d be propelled into orbit.’

‘As a matter of fact . . .’ he begins, then stops.

‘What?’

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Come on. Since when have you been shy and retiring?’

He fixes his eyes on the road. ‘You might as well know. Cheryl and I have split up.’

‘What?’ I am shocked. ‘Why on earth did you split up with her? She was
great
for you. Honestly, you men have got so much to answer for. She showered you with presents, she was sweet, pretty . . . okay, she wasn’t the brightest, but—’

It suddenly dawns on me. ‘Oh my God.
She
dumped
you
, didn’t she?’

His jaw tightens and a vein bulges in his neck. ‘Apparently I took her for granted.’

‘She’s got a point,’ I can’t help saying, then regret it.

‘I know,’ he says solemnly, to my surprise.

‘Have you tried to get her back?’

He nods. ‘She’s seeing someone else.’

‘What? So soon? Dave, I can’t believe it. I’m sorry.’

For the first time in my life I think I’m about to see my brother cry. Then he pulls in the car and I realize we’re outside New Zealand House, home to Newz Bar. ‘Come on. Let’s go and sort this out.’

As expected for early on a Thursday evening, the place is busy, and locating Mum isn’t easy.

There are ways and means of handling the issue of Mum’s affair – and I’d prefer any of them to this. I tried to persuade him to let things lie so we can discuss it maturely with her at the weekend, but Dave is resolute.

‘I don’t think she’s here.’ I grab his arm and try to spin him round.

He shakes me off and points to the corner. ‘There.’

I stand and stare. Sure enough, there’s my mum. And there
he
is – The Impostor.

‘Maybe I got this wrong.’ I clutch at him again.

‘Looks clear enough to me.’ He frees himself and walks towards them.

I’m trailing behind when Mum’s companion stands and heads for the bar. Dave goes to follow him, but I say hurriedly, ‘Let’s speak to Mum first.’

‘I’d rather go and smack him.’

‘You can do that after,’ I tell him, buying time. He hesitates, then nods.

When we arrive at Mum’s table she couldn’t look more shocked if the Famous Five had turned up for a picnic. ‘What the hell are you two doing here?’ she whispers furiously.

‘Who’s this bloke you’re with?’ asks Dave. He’s always had an ability to get straight to the point.

‘
Bloke
?’

‘Yes,
bloke
,’ he replies accusingly. ‘Don’t try and deny it. We saw you. And Lucy saw you earlier
going into a hotel.
’

Mum glares at me and, as she’s about to say something, The Impostor reappears with a cranberry juice and a glass of wine.

‘Thanks, Jasper,’ she says nervously, taking the juice.

The Impostor turns to Dave and me and gives us a friendly smile. I’m not fooled. ‘Hi. Can I get you both a drink?’

‘They’re not stopping,’ says Mum, before we can answer.