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I spin on my heel and leave the kitchen. I stop briefly in the anteroom, where the waiter’s tidying up the champagne glasses.
‘Did my companion guarantee the booking with a credit card?’
‘Yes… yes, it’s policy.’
‘He can’t make it, so please charge whatever cancellation fee you need to his card, thank you.’
‘I’m afraid at such late notice, you will be charged the full price.’ The waiter shakes his head apologetically.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘And, while you’re at it, please send the group a bottle of champagne. That one we had earlier? Just add it to the bill, thanks.’
I walk back through the hotel lobby and signal for a black cab, barely registering the activity going on around me. My mind’s racing: I’m remembering Ness’s phone call to me after the reunion; the warning tone in her voice: ‘Will you stay in touch, do you think?’
While the taxi weaves its way through Friday-night London traffic, I open Facebook on my mobile, and there, in among the notifications, I find Ness’s message: ‘Happy birthday, Stella! Hope you’re having a lovely evening! Xx’
Sick? She’s not sick: she’s clever. George! I think. How can you be so gullible? And then, as the taxi draws up outside my apartment block, I remember a simple fact that sends me to the wine bottle before I even take my shoes off: he’s not mine. Ness has every right to pull rank on my birthday because George is not mine.
SIXTEEN (#ulink_1b55f39d-e610-5df5-a3b7-295108519f0c)
George (#ulink_1b55f39d-e610-5df5-a3b7-295108519f0c)
When I put the key in the lock, I don’t know whether I’m worried about Ness or angry with her for making me miss Stell’s birthday dinner. I’d told her I had a very important ‘client dinner’.
‘Please can you come?’ she’d said. ‘I’ve been throwing up all day and I… I just need you.’
‘I can’t, hon. I’m sorry, but these people are in town for one night only.’
‘Can you send someone else?’
‘I would if I could, hon, but it’s me they want.’
‘George, please? I need you.’ Her voice was hoarse from vomiting.
‘Is there no one else you can call? Just till I get home?’
She’d gone quiet then, and I’d caught myself: am I such a monster that I won’t go to my sick wife when she needs me? Because I’m out with my lover? I’d paced the office, torn between burning desire to see Stell and the duty I felt to go home to Ness.
‘I’m sorry. Of course I’ll come. You’re right. I’ll get Adam to go to the dinner. I’m sure the client won’t mind and – well, if they do…’
‘. . . if they do, perhaps they’re not the sort of client you want.’
‘Exactly.’
And so I stop at Waitrose on the way home and pick up a bunch of guilt flowers for Ness.
‘Honey!’ I call as I push open the door but there’s no reply. The light’s on in the living room so I look there first and, bingo, there she is, sprawled, fast asleep on the sofa, her hair spread all over the cushions. I stand over her for a minute, wondering whether to wake her up or just make her more comfortable there on the sofa, when I notice something in her hand and my whole body stiffens. A pregnancy test.
‘Oh my God! Ness! Is it? What is it? Are we… ?’ I squeeze my hands into fists, not sure whether to take the test from her hands or wait for her to tell me. Ness’s eyes snap open and she pushes her hair out of her eyes as she struggles to sit up, her hand clamping back around the test. Slowly, she registers me standing there and her face breaks into a huge smile. She holds the test out to me.
‘Here, look.’
‘What is it? What does it mean?’
‘Read it!’
So I look at the test, and I see that it says one word and one word only: ‘Pregnant’.
‘Oh my God! Ness! Does this mean… ?’
She nods.
‘Oh my God! There’s no doubt?’
‘Well. You can get false negatives, but I don’t think you get false positives, so…’
‘I’m going to be a dad?’
‘Yes.’
I fling myself down on the sofa next to her and scoop her into my arms, hugging her to me and kissing her face and her hair. She clings on to me.
‘You’re happy about this?’ she asks.
‘Of course I’m happy! Why wouldn’t I be happy?’ I swear I want a baby more than she does; I long to see that little crumpled face that looks like a brand-new, old-age version of me. ‘Oh my God, oh my God. I can’t believe it! You clever thing! How?’
‘George! You know exactly how!’
‘But – when?’
‘You remember that night your client cancelled? I reckon it was then.’
‘But why now?’
‘Oh I don’t know, George! Stop analysing it! Maybe the time’s right. Maybe the stars aligned and a pink unicorn sprinkled some fairy dust over our house. I don’t know.’
I look at her and maybe I’m imagining it but already there seems to be a radiance about her. Suddenly I feel very protective of her. She’s carrying the most precious cargo in the world: my child.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to bed. You need your sleep now, more than ever. You both do.’ I take her hand and lead her up to the bedroom where we fall asleep in each other’s arms.
At the very back of my mind, behind everything else, just one dark cloud: Stell.
SEVENTEEN (#ulink_c79bad4e-35f9-5393-ba3e-20b9af48e6b6)
Stella (#ulink_c79bad4e-35f9-5393-ba3e-20b9af48e6b6)
I don’t contact George again after my birthday. He texts a little – though not as much as I’d have imagined, to be honest – but I delete his messages as soon as they come in, without even reading them. Was he the one let down on his birthday? Humiliated in front of strangers?
Instead, I spend all weekend alone. When the chips are down, you can rely only on yourself in this life. Remember that! I tell myself. Walking on the heath and passing time in coffee shops, I take the full blame for the debacle of my birthday night and berate myself with every step. George was played by Ness. This I see, and he’s an idiot not to see. But there’s a reason why I never get involved with married men and it’s just as valid with George as it is with anyone else. Yes, he was my George and yes, he should be my George, but he’s married. End of.
‘It’s sleazy, Stella, it’s seedy and it’s not you!’ I say out loud lying on my sofa on Sunday afternoon. ‘I don’t care who he is, it stops now.’ I get out my old notebook with the wedding dresses and the signatures and throw it in the bin without looking at it, then I toast my decision with a glass of good wine and some olives and start to feel a little better.
By the time I return to work early on Monday morning, I’m almost myself again, excited about what the coming working week will bring as I head towards the office, and then I see him – George – standing outside the office door looking absolutely freezing despite his winter coat. My first instinct is to run into his arms, then I remember what he did and I want to dodge him and walk the other way but he’s looking out for me and already he’s seen me. I stop and look at him.
‘What brings you here?’
He takes a step towards me, his hands held out. ‘Stella. Stell. Please.’ I notice that his knuckles are rudely red next to the white of his fingers. His nose, too, is red, and his face is pinched with cold. He stamps his feet on the pavement, his breath coming out in clouds.
‘Please what?’ I say.
‘Please don’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like this!’
‘I’m not being like anything. I’m just trying to unlock the office. It’s eight o’clock on Monday morning, and I have a company to run – as do you.’ While I fumble for the keys in my bag, George tries to pull me round and hug me but I stand stiffly, my face averted. He lets his arms drop.
‘I’m sorry about your birthday,’ he says. ‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am, but I couldn’t help it.’
‘OK,’ I say, unlocking the door. ‘Have a good day.’
‘Is this it?’ he asks. ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ His voice is sodden with sadness and something catches in my chest.
I turn to face him. ‘How’s Ness?’
A micro-pause. ‘She’s much better, thanks.’
‘What was wrong?’
‘She was sick. Vomiting. A bug, I guess.’
‘Did you see her throw up?’
George flinches. ‘What?’
‘She wished me a happy birthday on Facebook that morning. She said, “hope you’re having a lovely evening – kiss, kiss”.’
‘You can’t read anything into that!’
I shrug. ‘Whatever.’
‘She was sick, Stell. Don’t be like this.’
‘Like what?’ I know it sounds arrogant to assume that Ness feigned sickness to stop him seeing me on my birthday – especially when she doesn’t know about our affair – but I know I’m right.
‘You know she’s already warned me off you?’ I say. ‘She called me after the reunion. Did you know that?’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. She’s not stupid. Did you actually see her throw up? Did you see vomit come out of her mouth? Even once?’
George shakes his head slowly. ‘Look. Whatever you’re implying, you’re wrong. Trust me.’
We stare at each other and I realise there’s something he’s not telling me; that there’s more to this and that, in our little trio, I’m the only one who doesn’t know. I look away.
‘Look. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ness, and I don’t care. It’s none of my business. But just know that she’s manipulating you. Don’t be gullible. That’s all I’m saying.’
Saying the words out loud, I feel so mean; so petty. ‘Why am I even standing here on the pavement discussing with you whether or not your wife was sick? The point is you say I’m your “everything” but I’m not. Not at all. I’m only your “everything” when it suits you. As I said before, it’s not who I am. This is not my life and I will not continue like this!’ I’m embarrassed to realise I’m shouting.
‘Stell. I’m sorry. I stuffed up.’ He’s scuffing the pavement with his toe.
‘Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson,’ I say. ‘That’s all. Now I have to get to work. Have a good day.’
I give George a peck on his cold cheek, then I open the door and step inside the office reception. I try to shut the door behind me but he holds it.
‘Stell, please.’
We tussle for a moment and, again, I’m struck with how undignified this is. Never in my life have I aspired to be a woman who tussles with her lover on the doorstep of her office. I peel George’s cold fingers off the door.
‘Let go, please, George. I need to get into work. Goodbye.’
I shut the door in his face.
EIGHTEEN (#ulink_33ad4d55-6ecb-5ae2-af06-4f64a5ceb6c0)
George (#ulink_33ad4d55-6ecb-5ae2-af06-4f64a5ceb6c0)
Stell stops taking my calls and refuses to answer my messages. She doesn’t even check Facebook – all my messages sit there unread. It’s as if she’s blocked me from her life – and of course that makes me desperate. Like an addict, I check all my social media obsessively, monitoring whether or not she’s online. If she is, I never catch her.
So I try to focus on Ness, but the initial excitement about the pregnancy starts to wear thin: she’s capricious, sick a lot, tired all the time, and lets me know in no uncertain terms that I can forget about sex until she starts to feel better. It’s too early for a scan so we don’t even have one of those grainy pictures to look at. Sometimes I wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
Meantime, on the long evenings in front of the television when Ness is in bed, I can’t stop thinking about Stell. Do I love her? I want her. I want to possess her. I want to be the most important thing in her life. I need to be the most important thing in her life; I need her to look at me as if I’m her sun, her moon and her stars. I’m obsessed with her. Is that love? I think so.
And then another thought: what if it was Stell, not Ness, having my baby? The thought makes me catch my breath. I close my eyes and imagine me and Stella in bed, my hands sliding over the tautness of her swollen belly, feeling the movements of my child under her skin. I imagine making love gently, gently to a pregnant Stella.
I’m not religious, but I say a little prayer. Please, God. Somehow.
And then reality slams me in the face. The love of my life is expecting me to leave my wife, but my wife is pregnant. I know I’ve sunk low sometimes, but leaving a pregnant woman? I can’t do it.
So what can I do? How can I buy myself time?
Could I tell Stell that Ness is sick? Something that means I have to stay with her for a few more months to ‘support’ her and ‘help’ her? I stare blankly into the middle distance, tapping my forehead as I work through my ideas. If Ness was allegedly going for regular treatments, I could even come to her antenatal appointments. I’d come out of it smelling like roses on both sides.
And then the solution hits me: cancer.
A curable one, of course: I wouldn’t want to give Stell the impression Ness is dying. I don’t want to tempt fate. But yes: cancer’s a good bet. A small one, caught early but requiring seven or eight months of treatment.
Sad face: I’m so sorry, Stell, but I can’t leave her right now.
