The Next Best Thing (12 page)

She made a break for it and cornered Toni, feeling the need to talk to someone who didn’t think that life began and ended off the North Circular.

‘Hi, Toni, do you remember me?’

Toni frowned slightly.

‘I was goal defence to your goalkeeper in the netball team.’ She’d never thought she’d be using that line, but at least it put her on the map for Toni.

‘Of course, how are you? What are you up to now?’

‘I’m a translator.’

‘That’s right, I remember you being good at languages. Hang on, though, didn’t you use to write for one of our magazines?’

For a bit, but I went over to translating. Only room for one writer in a relationship. I think you know my partner, actually. Will Thacker, he does stuff for you occasionally’

Toni’s eyes widened in respect. ‘Oh, gosh, so
you’re
Mrs Thacker.’

‘We’re not actually married.’

‘Well, rather you than me. I must say he’s a brilliant writer but he must be hell to live with, I’d have thought.’

Jane felt herself colouring. ‘Not really, no, he’s terribly easy . . .’ she groped for words ‘. . . I mean, obviously he can be quite demanding . . .’

‘Demanding is putting it mildly, I’d have thought. Still, you look good on it.’ Toni cast her hand round the room. ‘Isn’t this hilarious? We’re doing a piece
on school reunions so I thought I’d put in a little research.’ She smiled at Jane. ‘Let’s have lunch,’ she said. ‘Maybe I could lure you back to do something for
us. Don’t bring Will, though, otherwise we won’t get a word in edgeways.’

‘All right, great,’ said Jane, still a bit put out by her remarks about Will, but flattered by the suggestion.

‘You and Will have got kids, haven’t you?’ Toni asked.

‘One daughter.’

‘I’ve got two, just gone off to boarding school. Fantastic arrangement, they love it, come home at weekends, means I can work late all week without feeling bad, you should think
about it.’

For a brief moment, Jane thought it did sound like a very good idea. The tantalising carrot of all those free evenings, release from the bedtime routine. Then she remembered she didn’t
approve of boarding school. ‘I couldn’t do that,’ she said, ‘I’d feel terrible. I’ve always thought that having a child away from home would be like adopting an
animal in London Zoo.’

Toni snorted. ‘Like a chimpanzee, you mean? It’s not that bad, you still see them at the weekends. And you shouldn’t exaggerate the mother thing. She’ll grow up before
you know it, and you’ve got to think where that’ll leave you.’

‘That’s exactly why you have to make the most of it,’ said Jane. ‘I’d hate to think I hadn’t made her childhood as happy as it could be.’

Toni shrugged. ‘I do think it’s a bit of a trap, this business of putting the children first all the time. You aren’t necessarily doing them a favour by making them feel
they’re the centre of the universe. They think that anyway.’

It’s all right for you to say that, thought Jane. She remembered going to Toni’s birthday party, in her large and messy house, surrounded by brothers and sisters, her parents happily
sitting hack and letting them run riot. How she had envied her that casual freedom, a normal family with two parents.

Jane was ten when her parents divorced. Nobody spoke of single-parent families then, they were still a rarity. When her father walked out, her mother had taken to her bed for several weeks. Jane
remembered making breakfast for her one morning, setting out the tea and toast then carrying the tray carefully up the stairs until she tripped and sent the lot flying. Normally her mother would
have been straight there, cleaning it up and telling her it didn’t matter, but this time she just stayed in bed. So Jane had fetched a bowl of water herself, scrubbing at the stair carpet,
hot tears running down her checks. The next time her father came to visit, she lay down in the road in front of his car so he couldn’t drive away. He didn’t come again after that.

This was why she was so adamant that she and Will should always stay together. She would do anything to shield Liberty from that kind of pain.

Lydia appeared between them. ‘Oh my God, isn’t this just a riot? Steven May, can you believe I ever went out with him, although of course he used to be considered quite a catch, his
dad owned that garage.’ She frowned at Jane, trying to remember. ‘Didn’t you have a thing with him at some point?’

Jane stared at her in disbelief. Could her memory really be that selective? ‘I went out with him for three years until you stole him off me,’ she said indignantly, ‘I’m
still not over it, you know!’

Lydia had the grace to look slightly guilty. ‘Oh dear, so I did, I’d quite forgotten. How brutal we were then.’

‘No, you were brutal, the rest of us just picked up the pieces,’ said Jane. She could laugh about it now, but it wasn’t so funny then. She had spent many happy evenings at his
house where his mother cheerfully administered to the needs of her three sons. His father would come in after work and sit benignly in the bosom of his family. He had a bald head with a crown of
hair, like the picture on the Daddy’s Sauce bottle. When Steven went off with Lydia, his mother told Jane he’d made a big mistake, didn’t know what he was throwing away.

He was coming up to talk to her now that Toni and Lydia had drifted off into conversation about magazines. She remembered his walk; it had a cocky lift to it that was still appealing.
She’d tried so hard to get him back
—
it was humiliating to think of it, the tears, the begging, the eventual acceptance of his rejection. She had refused to speak to Lydia for
two years, which was childish of her, and difficult, too, with their mothers being so close.

‘Hallo stranger,’ he said, ‘fancy seeing you here.’

She laughed, relieved that he no longer had the same effect on her. ‘Clad to see your pick-up lines haven’t moved on. It’s good to see you, Steven.’

‘Likewise’ He smiled at her. His eyes hadn’t lost their twinkle, at least. ‘Brings it all hack, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, though I’m not sure how much of a good thing that is . . . Anyway, how’s business? Did you take over the garage?’

‘Certainly did. As you can see, I’m as predictable as ever. You would have got bored with me, you were too clever for me by half.’

He wanted her forgiveness.

‘I’m not sure about that,’ she said, ‘but you’re right, it wouldn’t have worked out.’

He smiled in relief. ‘You look fantastic,’ he said, then lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You’ve aged better than Lydia, to be honest.’

‘That’s nice of you, but you know it’s not true.’

‘I mean it! So tell me, who’s the lucky fellow?’

‘He’s a writer, actually . . .’ And she was off down the familiar track, giving a mouth-watering account of her fascinating partner, her gorgeous daughter, the perfect
life/work balance she had worked so hard to achieve. But her version of the ideal life was slightly lost on Steven.

‘Shepherds Bush, that’s a bit rough, isn’t it?’ he said in suburban concern. ‘Still, I hope he treats you right. You deserve it.’

‘He treats me just fine,’ she said quickly. ‘Shall we get another drink?’

On the way home Jane thought about Steven May and his life at the garage. He had a wife and four children — he said his wife had always wanted four because everything
came in packets of six so five was a stupid number to make a picnic for. Jane imagined them on happy family days out, a giant coolbox in the back of the people carrier, packets of jam tarts being
shared out on a blanket on the sand. He was so certain about everything, whereas she seemed to live in a fog of doubt these days, constantly wondering if she might be barking up the wrong tree.

They were on the Mile End Road now, and Lydia had put on Donna Summer at full volume. ‘I remember driving down this road with Steven May in his Trevor Seven,’ she said, tapping the
wheel in time to the music and putting on a sexy pout for the benefit of the car that had drawn up alongside them at the lights. ‘We were on our way to Stringfellow’s. God we thought we
were sophisticated, we thought we were just it. Isn’t it funny how you move on. Though thank the lord we do.’

‘I wish you’d shut up about Steven May,’ Jane said. ‘He was my boyfriend first, you know. Though he never took me up the West End; his idea of a night out with me was a
quiet drink in a pub in Epping Forest.’

‘Here we are,’ said Lydia as they drew up outside Jane’s house. ‘Good fun, wasn’t it. Are you glad you came?’

‘Yes,’ said Jane, I really am. Thanks for the lift.’

‘Bit of a boost, isn’t it, seeing all those boys who clearly still fancy us. Good to know that Peter Griggs is always there for me if all else fails.’

Good old Lydia, she always liked to keep her options open.

‘I thought you were spoken for these days?’ Jane commented.

‘Indeed, you’ll get to meet him at the party. Did I tell you we’re going to South America for Christmas?’ She smiled her dazzling smile. ‘See you then.’

And she was off.

The house seemed cold and pretentious when Jane let herself in. That concrete staircase was a big mistake, she should never have allowed Will to talk her into it. She climbed
up its minimalist treads, past the galleria and into the bathroom where the green glass washbasin mocked her, perched like a mixing bowl on its limestone base. Who did she think she was, living in
this monument to cutting-edge urban design?

She slipped into bed and thought about Steven May, so confident about his life. Whereas it seemed that the older she got, the less certain she became about things, a kind of reversal of wisdom.
If she was honest, there were only two things she felt sure about right now. First of all, she loved her daughter to death. And secondly, she was looking forward to her Friday cinema trip with a
sense of anticipation that was way beyond the reasonable. And which had entirely to do with the prospect of bumping into her new friend in the foyer of the French Institute.

On a filthy December night, the best place to be was holed up at home with a ready meal and a bottle of wine. This was Rupert’s thought as he made his way through the
rain down the Kings Road, towards his favourite source of comfort food. He’d had a horrible day at work and stepping into Marks and Spencer was like coming home to mother. Not his own chilly,
spiky mother, but the mother he would have liked to have had. Quiet racks of ordinary clothes, blouses and trousers of the type worn by normal women, giving way to pretty underwear, cosmetics and
flowers before you arrived at the shelves of easy-to-cat food. No effort required, microwave packs, heaven forbid that you should have to cut the ends off your own green beans. The only burden lay
in deciding between Italian and Thai, gravad lax or sushi.

Rupert opted for beef casserole with dumplings, a smoked-salmon starter and treacle sponge, plus a lump of blue Stilton and a bottle of claret. It was the kind of meal he used to dream of when
he lived in New York. There, you could get any food you fancied delivered to your door, but then you still had to be on your toes with the cash and the tip and the obligatory pally exchanges with
the delivery boy. It was nothing like the anonymous experience of shuffling round M&S with a wire basket, hovering over the Chinese Meal for Two as you projected the TV evening ahead. Britain
was without doubt the cosiest country in the world.

Rupert’s quiet night in was going to be spent alone, and he was looking forward to it. Lydia usually slept at her own place on Thursdays, which meant Rupert could do exactly as he pleased.
He needed to take advantage of this luxury while he could. Very soon he would be entering the compromise and shared decisions of marriage, and in some respects he wasn’t at all sure he was
ready for it.

He wandered out of the food section and into men’s underwear where he selected a three-pack of black socks which he placed in his basket on top of his dinner. Some men stopped buying their
own clothes once they were married. Their wives picked out their pants and advised them on which suits to buy. He knew Lydia was already chomping at the bit to give his wardrobe a thorough
overhaul.

The girl at the till filled a carrier bag with his meal and socks and took his bank card. ‘Would you like any cash back?’ she trilled.

‘Yes, fifty pounds please.’

It amused him, this little ritual that took playing at shop to ridiculous lengths. Mr Brown went to town and he bought: beef and dumplings, sticky treacle pudding, three pairs of socks and fifty
pounds. The first time someone had asked him if he wanted cash back, he thought he had won some kind of lottery, as though Britain had become a benevolent spoon-feeder during his years abroad,
dishing out bonuses to random supermarket customers.

Back at the flat, Rupert went to the bedroom to take off his shoes and put on his favourite pair of slippers. Lydia couldn’t stand them, she especially hated the nylon
fur all flattened and brown around the edges, and the green and red plaid. She said they reminded her of Rupert the Bear, whereas she much preferred Rupert the hereditary peer. He saw she was
right. It was what he had wanted when he proposed, for Lydia to bring up his standards and make him a more acceptable person. But he still enjoyed the chance to slob out when given a chance.

He hung up his jacket in the wardrobe and pulled on his old sweater, dressing the part for a night in with himself. In the kitchen, he poured himself a glass of wine and went through the post.
It was a relief to open the envelopes in his own time, without Lydia chivvying him along, and he was particularly pleased to find the Beales list had arrived. He added it to the pile of favourite
nursery catalogues he kept beside the phone then took them all through to the sitting room to make his final choice. He was planning to order some roses for his garden in France and even the names
soothed him: damask roses, Bourbons, the thornless Zephirine Drouhin, Felicite and Perpetue, Roseraie de I’Hay, Perla de Montserrat, Mme. Isaac Pereire. It was like inviting a bevy of ghostly
ladies to beautify your life, to come and lay their gracious white arms around your troubled soul. He couldn’t show any interest in Lydia’s refurbishment of the flat, but the plans for
his garden were on a different level altogether. They spoke of passion and release, conjuring up a paradise of perfume and soft velvet petals and sunshine.