Prime Time (33 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

I felt even worse in the morning, shame and humiliation compounded by a horrible hangover. I staggered around the kitchen, dropping things and averting my gaze from the congealing Chinese until I felt up to the task of disposing of it.

I couldn't decide whether my clumsiness was down to the DTs or more PMT. In theory I should be in my manic, positive phase now, but these days I seemed to spend every day of my life teetering on an emotional knife edge. Perhaps Sally-Ann was right and I was menopausal instead. What a cheering fucking thought that was.

I pushed the dishes to one end of the table and sat down with my third very strong coffee, adding the possible shrivelling of my ovaries to the mental list of issues of joy on which to congratulate myself.

1) Have made a total prat of myself with a younger man who was evidently stringing me along just so that he could make an even bigger prat of me in a film which, for a portrait of just how bad older women could look with too much lipstick and the wrong dress on, rivals
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?

2) Have lost my best friend, who might have had some sensible, grounding things to say on the matter and who I should have listened to in the first place.

3) Have been beastly to the only person who
has
tried to be nice. Here I grew hot-faced as I recalled shrieking at Andrew to get out of my house. The details were a bit of a blur now but I could remember shoving him and him protesting through the letterbox. Of course he probably wasn't trying to have an affair with me at all – who on earth would want to? – but was paying me compliments to try to make me feel better about going out on national television looking like Bette Davis.

4) Have provided enough WIT points to keep Stanley in therapy for an extra decade.

Every time I thought of my son, my eyes filled with tears. He was already upset and now I'd done this to him. I prayed that the kids at school had been so disbelieving they hadn't bothered to check the telly or had forgotten when it was on. Better Stanley was thought to be a fantasist than the spawn of a mad, drunken, hormonally-ravaged mother like me.

Had Stanley even seen it himself? Hopefully he'd been too busy eating pizzas. I prayed Daniel had taken him out to eat instead.

I wished I could find out. Then I could say the video machine hadn't worked here and he might never need see it. My phone was still quiet. We didn't usually have contact when Stanley was with Daniel unless he phoned to say he'd be late back or something, but now he had the new mobile I thought he might have sent me a text.

I wondered whether to send him one. I wouldn't mention the film in case it reminded him. In case Daniel had set his video after all, and Stanley asked to watch it. I would just gauge his mood.

Hi darling hope u having good time with dad. Love you very much xxxx

As a sudden afterthought, I sent one to Andrew too.
Sorry.

I pressed
send
. Then when I'd stared at it for 20 minutes and nothing had come back, I put the phone down and made a supreme effort to get up and throw all the food out of the back door where it was instantly attacked by a hoard of screeching gulls. I watched as one got another's head in its beak as they fought over the last pancake roll.

5) Have wasted money and become one of those people who throws away a quarter of their food uneaten.

6) And also the sort of person who spends the day in bed.

Because having fucked up so royally on every count, there was nothing I could begin to contemplate doing now except climbing back under the duvet with painkillers.

I looked at myself in the hall mirror as I made for the stairs. Yesterday's make-up was still smeared around my face, which was blotchy from crying. My hair stood up in clumps, sticky with old hair gel. My eyes were creased and baggy. I looked about ninety.

Cal, eat your heart out.

I was at least up and showered and dressed when Daniel came banging on the door the next morning, although I still felt like shit and the sight of his sanctimonious face did nothing to improve things.

‘I've taken Stanley to school,' he said pompously. ‘And how do you think he's going to feel when all his friends have seen his mother looking like
that?'

I felt instantly sick. ‘What did he say?'

‘He was embarrassed – what do you think? Luckily for you, I turned it off before he could see too much.' Daniel looked at me scathingly. ‘But we saw enough.'

I swallowed.

‘I'm wondering if, in the circumstances, I should pick him up from school again tonight,' Daniel went on in the same contemptuous tone. ‘And take him back with me.'

‘No,' I said at once. ‘He's been with you two nights already. He's coming home now.'

Daniel looked me up and down. ‘I've already told Stanley to phone me if he'd prefer not to. So perhaps I should take some more clothes with me in case.'

‘How dare you!' I cried hotly. ‘He lives here. How dare you suggest he might not want to be with me?'

‘Well can you blame him? Making a spectacle of yourself like that. What were you thinking of?'

‘You sound like my mother.'

‘A pity you don't. You sounded drunk.'

Daniel took my silence as an opportunity to stick the knife in a bit more. ‘You're not really setting a very good example, are you? It's hardly surprising that Stanley is anxious about school. It's what's going on here. He says you've been away a lot. I think maybe he should be spending more time with me if you can't cope …'

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Normally I would have been yelling at him by now but I just felt like crying.

‘I can cope.' I said eventually.

‘Well, I don't think you can and I want to be a lot more involved. I want him to spend half the Christmas holidays with me.' The thought of Christmas, about which I had done precisely nothing, and that we wouldn't now be spending with Charlotte, made me want to cry even more.

‘How does Emily feel about that?' I asked tightly.

For a moment there was a flicker of discomfort across his face.

‘Stanley is my son and she will always welcome him, of course,' he said stiffly.

‘Yeah, right. So she can go on badgering him about his calorie consumption.'

Daniel stood up straighter. ‘I don't think you are in any position to criticise Emily.'

I was suddenly weary. ‘Oh bugger off, Daniel.' I tried to shut the door. ‘I've got work to do.'

Daniel remained in my way. ‘I'll call Stanley later to see how he is,' he said ominously. ‘And I'll come and get him if he needs me.'

After he'd gone, I tried hard not to burst into tears. Stanley hadn't answered my text yesterday and I had absolutely no idea what he was going through at school. Daniel was right – I was a terrible mother. I'd been totally carried away with the film and, all that time, Stanley was worrying about this revolting child, Robbie, and feeling awful about himself and I'd done nothing to help. I felt hot with shame.

The phone started ringing. I glanced at it as I walked past; it was Mike. I couldn't face talking to him now. Whatever new deadline he'd just created would have to wait.

I wondered whether to text Stanley again, but if his phone started beeping in the middle of a class it would be confiscated and that would stress him even more. If only Charlotte would get in touch. All of a sudden I remembered seeing her number flashing up on Saturday night and rushed to the phone to see if she'd left a message. She'd know what to do now. Even if it only involved a large glass of wine and a doughnut. I pressed buttons and listened to the robotic voice.
You have no messages.

She must still be deeply upset with me. I cringed all over again at the thought of what I'd said about her on the film.

I spent the afternoon pacing and twitching and failing to come to a decision. I toyed with the idea of either meeting Stanley from school – shuddering at the thought of coming face to face with Andrew – or waiting by the bus stop. But decided that if the kids were really teasing him about me, that would make it all worse.

When the phone rang again about half an hour before he was due home, I nearly ignored it, imaging it would be Mike again, who'd been alternately trying the landline and my mobile and no doubt leaving increasingly tetchy messages if only I could be bothered to listen. But something made me go and look at the display and I snatched it up in panic.

‘Stanley?'

He sounded normal, cheery even. ‘Can I stay the night with Connor, mum? He's got the new Pro Evo soccer and his mum says it's OK. And he's got some stuff on his iPod I can put on my phone. If I come home now and get some clothes, his mum will pick me up at five. Mum, is that OK?'

I was swallowing, trying to make my own voice light. ‘Yes, yes, it's fine. Are you OK?

‘Yeah, gotta go – the bus is coming.'

‘But Stanley, what about –'

The phone had gone dead.

He came in looking the same as he always did. Hair on end, muddy trousers, overflowing rucksack trailing beside him. I wanted to hug him for ever. He wriggled away from me.

I followed him round as he gathered up more clothes, games, CDs, and school books, handing him clean uniform, making him a drink, waiting …

At ten to five, I couldn't stand it any longer. ‘Stanley,' I said, voice bright and brittle, praying I could hold it together. ‘What happened about the film? Did the other boys at school see it?'

Stanley didn't look at me. ‘Oh yeah, it was cool. They said a few things but I told them you were an actress and so you had to take on all sorts of roles and in this film it was one of an unhinged woman with ageing issues. I said you were pretending because that's what an actress has to do – pretend.'

He turned and smiled. ‘I told them they put special make-up on you and had a special lighting man to make you look so horrible.'

I stared at him wordlessly, both horrified and impressed. ‘That's really clever of you.' I managed eventually. ‘How did you think of saying that?'

Stanley shrugged. ‘Mr Lazlett told me to.'

While I was digesting this startling information, Stanley dug around in his rucksack and thrust some papers into my hand. ‘There's stuff from school and I need a costume for the play.'

‘Play?' I asked weakly.

‘Yeah. I'm in it.' He gave a huge grin now. ‘Mr Lazlett said as I've got acting in my blood I should have the lead. I'm the chief inspector and I get to question all the suspects. Everyone else is well jealous. But Robbie wants to come round and do lines with me. He's my sergeant.'

I felt the tears well in my eyes. Dear, kind, thoughtful Andrew.

Stanley frowned. ‘Why are you crying?

I sniffed and made myself beam. ‘I'm just so proud of you.'

I kissed him goodbye at the door, waving to Michelle, who was parked in front of the gate. ‘I love you, Stanley. I'll see you tomorrow.'

He swung his rucksack onto his back and picked up the bulging carrier bag at his feet. ‘Yeah.'

I watched him walk away looking taller, somehow more grown up, than he had done on Saturday morning. Halfway down the path he paused and turned.

‘You OK, Mum?' he called.

‘Yes, darling, I'm fine.'

Chapter Thirty-eight

I didn't actually know what I was. I was relieved Andrew had saved Stanley from embarrassment, mortified that he'd had to, disappointed in myself for being so blind and stupid and – a feeling that was gaining in intensity the more I thought about it – absolutely enraged with Cal.

I went through the papers Stanley had given me from school, thinking there might be a note from Andrew but it was all about the Christmas Fayre and the second-hand uniform shop and a skiing trip in February.

I shook my head. Andrew hadn't replied to my text apology – why should he decide to write to me now? He'd been kind enough to get Stanley out of a hole by giving him the lines to explain how “horrible” I'd looked, but he probably wanted nothing more to do with me. And anyway he was married to this woman who didn't understand him.

I squirmed again at the way I'd reacted to that. It was none of my business if he was the sort of bloke who liked to whinge about his wife and how presumptuous I'd been to assume it meant he was after me!

Presumably Cal was no longer after me either. He'd said he'd call today. Part of me never wanted to speak to him again, seeing what he'd done to me on film; the other part of me remembered our passion that Saturday night, the way he had of fixing his brown eyes on mine and making me feel a million dollars. Had I imagined it all?

I felt wound up, cross and hormonal. I knew even as I picked up the phone I shouldn't do it. That I should just maintain a dignified silence and see if he ever got in contact again. But I wanted to understand. Wanted to know what had made him pretend to like me, or if he had been pretending. It seemed extraordinary lengths to go to, just to get a bit of film footage. But if he did feel anything for me, why hadn't he phoned …

He answered at once. ‘Hello, it's Cal!' He sounded brisk and business-like. My heart plummeted. ‘Can you just hold a minute?'

I could hear other voices. I waited silently until he came back. ‘Hello?' he said again.

‘It's Laura.'

‘Hold on,' said Cal. There was the sound of a door closing and it all went quiet. ‘Laura?' His voice was much closer now. ‘How are you?' His tone was as warm as ever. ‘Sorry I haven't called.'

‘It doesn't matter,' I said dully.

‘And sorry again about Saturday. I'd have loved to see you again. And we will have that lunch sometime –'

The “sometime” landed hard in stomach. ‘That's OK,' I said, my voice still sounding strange and flat. ‘Don't worry about it. I know you're busy.'

‘No Laura, I am sorry, really – you've been such a good sport. It's not you, honestly.' I stiffened.
Oh God, please don't say “it's me”. I shall throw up. A good sport? I thought you were making love to me …

He was still talking. ‘I'd have liked to watch the programme with you …'
Liar! After the way you made me look?
‘But the thing is ' He lowered his voice. ‘It's Tanya – she was quite upset about Saturday night.'

I frowned, not expecting that. ‘I don't understand.'

‘I said we just got a bit carried away – my fault. All that champagne. When you –' He gave a small chuckle. ‘Well, I just couldn't resist you and I've been in the dog house ever since. When she's calmed down a bit, you know, we can maybe do something – but at the moment she'd throw one if I saw you.' I heard him sigh. ‘It was Ross and Matt. They carried on with the witticisms until it was bloody obvious what I'd been up to. So I had to tell her something. They're sods, really.'

For a moment I was speechless, feeling sick and cold. Wasn't Tanya with Lenny? Was Cal telling me that, in fact …? I forced my mouth open. ‘I didn't realise you and she were –'

‘Yes,' he laughed easily. ‘Supposed to be moving in together. I don't know, to be honest, if it will work out but –'

‘Well, good luck!' I interrupted, trembling with pain and fury. ‘I'd better be going.'

‘Oh yes, and you,' he said warmly. ‘Someone will be in touch from the office about any outstanding expenses. You really were terrific – ‘

‘'Bye, Cal.' I pressed my thumb hard against the red button on my phone.
Go boil your dick.

I sat quite still on the kitchen chair. It was odd how it was always my first instinct when bad news came to stay motionless. It was illogical but it was though I believed that if I didn't move at all, I could suspend everything, that I wouldn't feel. I knew once I stood up, if I even stretched out a hand for my cold cup of tea, that the waves of wretchedness would come crashing in.

I'd imagined us cuddled up on my sofa, walking along the beach in the morning, hand in hand. Now it turned out I'd just been a drunken shag. The temporary other woman in his long-term relationship with his young girlfriend. He'd just been flirting with me to get me to do what he wanted. No wonder Tanya had always been in such a foul mood.

I pictured those soulful brown eyes I'd been so taken in by. Remembered us locked together on my hotel bed. Never had I felt worse about myself. My errors of judgement were piled high, one upon another. Cal, Charlotte, Andrew. How many more situations could I misread?

How could I ever have thought Cal would really be interested? I should have known it was too good to be true. I was in my 40s. Sagging and past it. Of course he would want some firm, youthful beauty – not me.

Every time I thought of myself staring drunkenly into the camera I was washed over afresh with waves of hot shame then cold dread, and something peculiar happened around my knees. It was so deeply cringe-inducing it made me feel the way I had when Daniel's mother had insisted on sharing with me the lurid details of how one of her operations had gone wrong. However often I'd said, ‘Please don't, I'm feeling squeamish,' she'd carried on until I'd had to sit on the floor and put my head between my ankles.

Except this time, I wanted to put my entire body into a very deep, dark hole and leave it there.

Keeping still wasn't working. I sat squirming with humiliation and hurt, and the sickening knowledge that I had been breathtakingly, awe-inspiringly stupid.

Out in the hall, the phone was ringing again.
Fuck off, Mike, and leave me alone.
I grabbed my bag and keys and ran out of the house.

I drove to the gym without thinking. Perhaps it was wanting to lose myself. I had my iPod in my handbag. I pulled into the car park thinking maybe if I could exhaust myself on the treadmill, with the music up really loud, I could block out the thoughts that ran round and round my head. Calm myself as I'd been able to at other times. I felt shivery and sick, my heart was pounding as if I'd already been running.

‘I saw you on the telly!' As I walked toward the big glass entrance doors, a short, dark-haired woman who looked vaguely familiar was coming out, swinging a gym bag. She stopped and laughed. ‘I recognised you at once. I said to my husband – I've seen her up at the gym.'

I nodded. ‘I was brilliant, wasn't I? What did you think of my bingo wings?'

The woman looked startled.

‘Sorry,' I muttered, as the doors opened. ‘Having a bad day.'

As I came through the turnstile, my heart sank as I saw Clara and Alfie at a table in front of me, next to the huge twinkling Christmas tree. It was too late to do anything but say hello.

Clara looked radiant. In front of her was a panini and a glass of red wine, some carrot cake and a large flapjack. ‘I told Vicki to shove it,' she said happily.

‘Oh.' I made myself smile back.

‘She was so awful on Saturday night. Said I'd let her down by not losing more weight. I was terribly upset but then, as Alfie said, I realised real friends accept you as you are, so I told her.'

She looked lovingly at Alfie beside her, who, I noticed, was even thinner and more good-looking and was gazing back at her equally adoringly.

‘I said, stuff your bridesmaid's dress. Alfie likes me just as I am.' She took his hand.

‘Good for you,' I said, a huge lump in my throat, feeling touched and overwhelmed, terrified I'd cry and spoil their happy moment. ‘That's lovely. Well, I must go – not got long and I need to get on that cross-trainer!'

Clara looked surprised. ‘Aren't you going to stay and see Andrew about the gym challenge? I thought I'd still do it anyway as Alfie is. He sent us all a text. Didn't you get it?'

I shook my head. ‘He didn't send it to me. He doesn't want me involved any more.'

Clara frowned. ‘I'm sure he does. Are you OK, Laura? Listen, I'm really sorry I haven't seen the film yet. I videoed it but …' She smiled at Alfie again.

‘You haven't missed a thing,' I said quickly. ‘It's rubbish.'

Alfie stood up. ‘Let me get you a coffee or something,' he said kindly. ‘Andrew will be here in a minute – his text to you must have got lost.'

‘No!' I took a deep breath. ‘No, sorry. I must get on.'

Clara stood up too, and took my arm. She looked concerned. ‘You seem upset. Has something happened with Cal?'

I shook my head. ‘There was no Cal. I've got to go. Please, Clara, please don't tell Andrew I'm here.' I almost ran through the doors to the changing room.

It was deserted. I shoved my handbag in a locker and dragged off my sweatshirt, finding I was trembling. The thought of coming face to face with Andrew had filled me with unspeakable panic. Grabbing my iPod, I was just about to leave, when I heard a wail of anguish from behind me, followed by loud sobbing.

I peered round the corner to see a girl crying hysterically into a towel.

As I hesitated, I recognised her as the once-gorgeous, now emaciated, fitness obsessive that Clara and I had seen running endlessly with weights. Annabel, was it? She looked thinner than ever. I looked from her to the door. I was anxious to get into the gym before Clara could come after me, but I felt bad walking away from someone this state.

I walked tentatively toward her.

‘Are you all right?' I asked, even though she clearly wasn't. Obviously she must have just received terrible news. Clara had said she was rich – perhaps her entire fortune had just been lost in a banking crisis. Or every living relative had died in an earthquake and she was now all alone in the world.

I patted her gingerly on the shoulder, looking to see if she was clutching a phone beneath the towel. Instead she held up what looked like a Coke can and burst into a fresh torrent of tears.

I put my arm around her skinny frame and she immediately clung to me, gulping out something I couldn't understand. I caught the words “wrong” and “mistake” in between great, racking convulsions.

I could hardly leave her now so I led her to a bench and made her sit down. ‘I'm sorry, you'll have to say it again,' I said, praying that she hadn't just been told she only had six weeks to live and was clinging to the hope that the hospital had mixed up the results, because I wouldn't know what to say. Perhaps I could call someone for her. I tried to remember if my mobile was in my handbag.

She took a huge breath and held up the drink can again. ‘It's got sugar in it,' she howled. ‘I picked up the wrong one.'

I stared at her. ‘Well, never mind. I'm sure one sweet drink won't hurt you – you're so thin already.' I took the can from her. ‘Look, it's only got 85 calories in it – that won't make any difference.'

‘It's sugar!' she wailed again. ‘I won't be in ketosis!'

I frowned. ‘Well, I don't mean to be rude but someone like you shouldn't be. It makes your breath smell and when you're as skinny as you are, it makes the body start eating up its lean tissue – your heart and liver and things will begin to disappear.'

This made her cry even harder and I immediately regretted what I'd said – especially as I wasn't over-sure of my science but was just regurgitating something Clara had said to justify having a digestive biscuit with her orange juice. I decided to rephrase it.

‘You don't need to lose weight,' I said, more gently. ‘When I first saw you, I was so envious because you had such a perfect body. And honestly,' I added truthfully, ‘you looked much better then.'

Annabel continued to weep loudly. ‘My – husband – didn't – think – so,' she gulped between sobs.

‘Has he left you or something? Try to take some deep breaths,' I advised, as she buried her head in my shoulder and howled some more and I made “I'm dealing with it” faces at two women who'd just come in and were hovering nearby.

Her husband, Annabel told me, when she'd recovered herself sufficiently to speak, and the two women had disappeared in the direction of the swimming pool, had indeed left her. For a girl with the improbable name of Jiggy, who was a size four.

In explaining why he felt moved to pack his bags and take up residence in Jiggy's loft apartment in Hoxton when he had a beautiful home here in Broadstairs and had only been married for 18 months, he had made much of the fact that not only did Jiggy have her own political PR company, but that she was very small. ‘He kept saying,' Annabel sniffed, ‘how tiny she was.'

She gazed at the can she was still turning around in her hands. ‘And it made me feel,' she went on brokenly, ‘for the first time in my life – fat.'

I knew exactly how she had felt.

‘Men are such bastards,' I said. ‘He didn't leave you because you were too fat – you looked absolutely beautiful that first day I saw you. He left you because he's an inadequate shit who has problems with commitment and loyalty and is one of those men who thinks there's always something better going on elsewhere.

‘I can just imagine this Jiggy,' I continued. ‘She's probably one of these high-powered women who secretly longs to be at home in a pinny. She probably over-compensates for her sterile existence by acting as his sex slave or something. When he gets fed up with her hip bones sticking into him, he'll move on again.'