Wedding Night (21 page)

“Mrs. Phipps is taking Noah on an educational trip to a Greek island,” says Mrs. Hocking, in deadpan tones that clearly mean,
This irresponsible parent is going on a drugs-and-booze mini-break and is dragging her poor son along to get high on the fumes; what can I do?

“Lovely!” Ellen says. “But what about your new puppy?”

“My what?” I stare at her blankly.

“Noah was telling us about your new puppy. The cocker spaniel?”

“Cocker spaniel?” I laugh. “I don’t know where he’s got that idea from. We don’t have a puppy, nor are we getting a puppy—” I break off. Mrs. Hocking and Ellen are exchanging looks. “What is it?”

There’s silence—then Mrs. Hocking sighs. “We did wonder. Tell me, has Noah’s grandfather died recently?”

“No.” I stare at her.

“And he didn’t have an operation on his hand during the holidays?” chimes in Ellen. “At Great Ormond Street?”

“No!” I look from face to face. “Is that what he’s been saying?”

“Please don’t worry,” says Mrs. Hocking hurriedly. “We noticed last term that Noah seemed to have … quite an imagination. He’s been coming out with all sorts of stories, some of which are obviously untrue.”

I stare at her in dismay. “What other stories?”

“It’s perfectly normal for children to live in a fantasyland at his age.” She’s deflecting me. “And, of course, he has had an unsettling time at home. He’ll grow out of it, I’m sure.”

“What other stories?” I persist.

“Well.” Again Mrs. Hocking exchanges looks with Ellen. “He said he’d had a heart transplant. Obviously we knew that wasn’t the case. He mentioned a surrogate baby sister, which again we thought probably wasn’t true.…”

A heart transplant? A
surrogate baby sister
? How does Noah even know about things like that?

“Right,” I say at last. “Well, I’ll have a word with him.”

“Tread lightly.” Mrs. Hocking smiles. “As I say, it’s a perfectly normal phase. He may be attention-seeking or he may not even realize he’s doing it. Either way, I’m sure he’ll grow out of it.”

“He even said you once threw all your husband’s clothes onto the street and invited the neighbors to help themselves!” says Ellen with a bright laugh. “He’s got such an imagination!”

My face flames. Damn. I thought he was asleep when I did that.

“What an imagination!” I try to sound natural. “Who on
earth
would do a thing like that?”

My face is still hot as I arrive at the special-educational-needs department. Noah has special after-school lessons every Wednesday, because his handwriting is terrible. (The official reason has “spatial coordination” in the title, and costs sixty pounds per session.)

There’s a waiting area outside the door, and I sit down on the miniature sofa. Opposite me is a shelf full of pencils with special grips and odd-shaped scissors and beanbags. There’s a rack of books with titles like
How Do I Feel Today?
On the wall, a TV is softly burbling away with some special kids’ program.

They could do with a department like this at the office, I find myself thinking. I wouldn’t mind escaping for half an hour a week to play with beanbags and point to the flash card reading
Today I’m Sad Because My Boss Is a Git
.

“… I had an operation at Great Ormond Street.” A voice from the TV attracts my attention. “My hand was sore afterward and I couldn’t write anymore.” I look up to see a small Asian-looking girl talking to the camera. “But Marie helped
me learn to write again.” Music starts playing, and there’s a scene of the little girl struggling with a pencil while a woman guides her. The final shot is of the girl beaming proudly while holding up a picture she’s drawn. The image fades and I blink at the TV, puzzled.

Great Ormond Street. Is that coincidence?

“My mummy is having a surrogate baby.” A freckled boy appears on-screen as the music changes. “At first I felt left out. But now I’m really excited.”

What?

I grab the remote and turn up the volume as Charlie introduces his surrogate baby sister. The piece ends with them all sitting in the garden together. Next up is Romy, who has had a cochlear implant, and then Sara, whose mummy has had plastic surgery and looks different now (but that’s OK), and then David with his new heart.

The DVD doesn’t have a point to it, I swiftly appreciate. It’s a promotional freebie for
other
DVDs. And it’s just running on a loop. One inspirational, heart-churning story after another.

I’m almost blinking with tears as each kid tells his or her poignant tale. But I’m seething with frustration too. Did no one think to watch this DVD? Has no one linked Noah’s stories to what he’s been watching?

“Now I can run and play,” David is saying joyfully to the camera. “I can play with Lucy, my new puppy.”

Lucy is a cocker spaniel. Of course.

The door suddenly opens, and Noah is ushered out by the SEN teacher, Mrs. Gregory.

“Ah, Mrs. Phipps,” she says as she does every week. “Noah’s making very good progress.”

“Great.” I smile pleasantly back. “Noah, sweetheart, put
on your coat.” As he heads to the pegs, I turn back to Mrs. Gregory and lower my voice. “Mrs. Gregory, I was just watching your interesting DVD. Noah has quite an imagination, and I think he may be identifying with the kids shown in it a little too much. Could you possibly turn it off when he’s sitting there?”

“Identifying?” She looks puzzled. “In what way?”

“He told Mrs. Hocking he’d had a heart transplant,” I say bluntly. “And an operation on his hand in Great Ormond Street. It all came from that DVD.” I gesture at the TV.

“Ah.” Her face falls. “Oh goodness.”

“No harm done, but maybe you could put on a different DVD? Or just turn it off?” I smile sweetly. “Thank you so much.”

Some children think they’re Harry Potter. Trust mine to think he’s the star of a self-help DVD. As I walk out with Noah, I squeeze his hand.

“So, darling, I was watching your teacher’s DVD. It’s fun to watch stories, isn’t it? Stories about
other people
,” I add for emphasis.

Noah considers this for a long, thoughtful moment.

“If your mummy has plastic surgery,” he says at last, “it doesn’t matter. Even if she looks different. Because she’s probably happier now.”

My smile freezes.
Please
don’t say he’s told the teachers I’ve had plastic surgery and am happier now.

“Absolutely.” I try to sound relaxed. “Um, Noah. You do know that Mummy hasn’t had plastic surgery, don’t you?”

Noah’s avoiding my gaze. Oh God. What’s he said?

I’m about to reiterate to him my complete lack of plastic surgery (one Botox session doesn’t count) when my phone
bleeps. It’s a text from Lottie. Oh God. Please don’t say they’ve somehow managed it.

We’re boarding. What do u think of the Mile-High Club? Could call baby Miles
Or Miley
xxx

Swiftly I text back:

Don’t be gross! Have a good one xxx

I stare at my phone for a few seconds after I’ve pressed
send
. They won’t try to do it on the plane. Surely not. Anyway, the airport staff will have put in a discreet call to the cabin crew, warning them about the frisky couple in business. They’ll be on the case; I can relax.

Still, my heart’s thudding. I glance at my watch and feel a renewed frustration at the totally crap travel options. One direct flight to Ikonos a day? It’s insane. I want to be there
now
.

But since I can’t, I’m going to do a bit of research.

I find it exactly where I expected to: in the box under her bed, stacked with all the others. Lottie started keeping a diary when she was fifteen, and it was a pretty big deal. She used to read bits out to me and talk about getting them published one day. She would say portentously, “As I wrote in my
diary
yesterday …” as though somehow that made her thoughts far more significant than mine (unrecorded, lost to the mists of time. History will weep, obviously).

I’ve never read Lottie’s diaries before. I’m a moral person.
Also: I can’t be bothered. But I have to know a little about this Ben guy, and this is the only source I can think of. No one will ever know what I did.

Noah’s safely watching
Ben 10
in the kitchen. I sit down on her bed, and Lottie-scent wafts up from the duvet cover: floral, sweet, and clean. When she was eighteen she wore Eternity, and I can catch a whiff of that too, coming from the pages of the diary.

Right. Let’s dive in, quick. I feel very tense and guilty sitting here, even though I’m Lottie’s key holder and have a perfect right to be in her flat and she’s on a plane, miles away, and, anyway, if someone
did
walk in I would thrust the diary very quickly under a pillow and say,
Just here for security reasons
.

I open the diary at random.

Fliss is such a bitch
.

What?

“Fuck off!” I automatically respond.

OK, that was needless and immature. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. There’ll be some explanation. I look more closely at the entry. Apparently I wouldn’t lend her my denim jacket to take on her gap-year trip.

Oh, really? I’m a bitch because I wouldn’t just hand over
my
jacket which I paid for? I’m so outraged I feel like phoning her up right now and having this out. And, by the way, where has she written about how I
did
give her about six pairs of flip-flops and never saw them back
and
my Chanel sunglasses because she begged and begged?

I stare at the diary, seething gently, then force myself to turn over a few pages. I can’t wallow in some fifteen-year-old
argument. I need to skip ahead. I need to get to Ben. As I turn the pages, skimming the text, I almost feel like I’m on her gap-year journey with her: first to Paris and then to the South of France, then Italy, all in bite-size snippets. It’s kind of addictive.

 … think I might move to Paris when I’m older … ate too many croissants, urgh, God, I’m fat, I’m hideous … this guy called Ted who’s at university and REALLY COOL … he’s really into existentialism … I should get into that, he said I was a natural …

 … AMAZING sunset … drank too many rum-and-Cokes … really REALLY sunburned … slept with this guy called Pete, shouldn’t have … made this plan to move to the South of France when we’re all like thirty …

 … I WISH I spoke Italian better. This is where I want to live, forever. It’s AMAZING … ate too many gelati, urgh, my legs are hideous … leaving for Greece tomorrow …

 … this place is INCREDIBLE … amazing party atmosphere, like we all just GET each other … I could LIVE on feta … diving in these underwater caves … this guy called Ben … picnic with some of the guys and Ben … slept with Ben … AMAZING …

“Lottie?” A male voice interrupts my concentration, and I start so violently the diary flies up into the air. I make an instinctive grab for it, then realize that’s incriminating, so I draw my hand away sharply and it falls on the floor, where I kick it away, then finally lift my head.

“Richard?”

He’s standing in the doorway in a raincoat, his hair disheveled and a suitcase in his hand. His face is agitated, and he’s definitely looking more young Gordon Brown than young Pierce Brosnan.

“Where’s Lottie?” he demands.

“I’m here for security,” I mumble hurriedly, my face blazing with shame and my eyes darting to the diary. “Security.”

Richard looks at me as though I’m making no sense at all. Which, to be fair, I’m not.

“Where’s Lottie?” he demands again, more forcefully. “What’s wrong? I go to her work, no one will tell me where she is. I come here, you’re sitting on her bed. Just tell me.” He drops his suitcase. “Is she ill?”

“Ill?” I almost want to laugh hysterically. “No, not ill. Richard, what are you
doing
here?”

His case has an airline tag on it. He must have come straight from the airport in a dashing, romantic manner. I feel quite sad that Lottie isn’t here to see it.

“I made a mistake. A bad mistake.” He strides to the window and stares out a moment, then darts me a look. “I don’t know how much she tells you.”