Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
For a second, I wondered whether I was going to throw up again. I could feel the toast churning uneasily inside me, but I quickly realised that I’d seen off whatever bug I’d had – this was something different. Surprise, of course – but more than that. Shock. Betrayal, even. And along with all that, a kind of sick sense of foreboding.
But that was ridiculous. I’d done nothing wrong. It was Zara whose behaviour had alienated her from the Girlfriends’ Club inner circle – Zara who’d been in the wrong. I’d done nothing to be ashamed of, nothing that would earn me retribution or ostracisation. Of course, the way things had turned out for Zara hadn’t been ideal – but whose life was, really, ever? Certainly not mine.
My friends knew what Zara was like – they’d been on the sharp end of her behaviour for years. They had no reason to trust her and no reason to mistrust me. And I had no reason to be feeling the way I was now – nervous, furtive and discombobulated, as if I’d done something terrible and been caught out and now everyone was talking about me, and once they’d finished talking they’d have all made their minds up to hate me.
I shook my head, gulping the dregs of my tea, then grimacing because it had gone cold. I was being ridiculous.
Perhaps she hadn’t even arranged it – perhaps she’d just coincidentally been in the same bar they’d been in the previous night and joined them for a quick drink and a selfie.
But my rationalisation of the situation totally failed to reassure me.
I switched on my phone and looked at the image again. Zara’s face was still there. I didn’t press like on it.
Instead, I tapped through to WhatsApp. Normally, we’d check in once we got home from a night out, all of us tipsily saying what fun we’d had or carrying on the threads of conversations we’d begun earlier. Almost always, whoever woke first the next morning would kick off the day’s chat when she was still in bed, and we’d all compare notes on our hangovers before getting on with our days.
But this morning there was nothing – silence, a blank screen apart from a final message Abbie had posted the previous evening saying she was stuck at her desk and would be half an hour late. I hesitated for a moment, then grasped the nettle and posted.
Naomi:
Morning gang! How was last night? Did I miss anything interesting?
There was no response.
Come on, Naomi, give them a break. It’s still early.
Trying to stop the niggling voice in my head that told me something was up, I forced myself into a whirlwind of activity, making beds, tidying the kitchen and ironing a shirt for Patch to wear to work.
Then, like a moth drawn to a life-threatening naked flame, I picked my phone up again.
Abbie:
Hey, Naomi, glad you’re back in the land of the living! Are you feeling better?
Kate:
These twenty-four hour bugs are the worst but when they fuck off you feel SO good, like a new person.
Rowan:
We missed you xxx
Which was all very well, but told me precisely nothing about what had transpired the previous night.
I wanted to ask – I needed to ask. But I found I couldn’t. These women were my closest friends in the world. They must know how I’d feel about Zara having been there – so either they didn’t know I knew, which seemed unlikely given the photographic evidence, or they didn’t want to talk to me about it.
It felt confusing and frightening and unfair. Part of me believed – or wanted to believe – that I was being silly and irrational, that I was acting as if we were all teenagers instead of grown women who knew how to navigate relationships and use our words. But the problem was, I didn’t feel like a grown woman – I felt just like a teenager who was being left out by a clique of her friends.
‘Babe?’ Patch’s voice interrupted my thoughts. ‘Are you going to stare at your screen all morning, or are you going to kiss me goodbye?’
‘Sorry.’ Without me noticing, he’d showered and dressed. I reached up and gave him a peck on the lips, barely noticing the fresh oak moss smell of his aftershave and the breadth of his shoulders in the crisply pressed shirt. ‘Have a good day. Will you be home for dinner?’
‘Doubt it. Got a late meeting. I’ll grab something in town.’
‘Okay.’ Suddenly needy, I added, ‘Love you.’
‘See you later.’ He shouldered his laptop bag and hurried through to the hallway. I heard the brief pause and rustle as he pulled on his coat, then the rattle of his keys, then the crash of the front door closing behind him.
‘Mummy!’ Toby’s voice immediately pierced the silence. ‘I’m bored.’
‘How would you like to go to Granny’s?’ I asked.
Both children leaped up from the sofa like it was an ejector seat, sending the blanket they’d been snuggled under flying, along with their empty toast plates.
‘Yay!’ Meredith squealed.
‘Can we go now?’ demanded Toby.
‘Can we stay all day?’
‘Yes, you can. Come on, let’s get our coats and I’ll take you there on the bus.’
I felt a twinge of guilt, but it melted away almost immediately. Patch’s mother loved having the children – the longer the visit, the better as far as she was concerned. The games that left me seething with frustration after playing them for twenty minutes would keep her happily engrossed for hours. And as for my worries about whether she was capable of looking after them alone – well, nothing had happened so far, and there was no reason to think that it would today.
So I wasn’t surprised that she replied to my text delightedly agreeing to my last-minute plan, assuring me that she had a cast-iron stomach and hadn’t come down with anything worse than a cold in years, and telling me to leave them there as long as I liked.
‘And what are you going to get up to today, then, Naomi?’ she asked when I dropped them off. ‘Anything nice?’
‘I’m going to meet a friend for lunch in town.’
‘How lovely – good to see you getting out like a proper lady who lunches. You deserve a break.’
If only you knew , I thought, kissing her and the children goodbye. I wasn’t so much a lady who lunched as some kind of guerrilla, planning a surprise hit on an unsuspecting victim – one who I wasn’t even sure would be where I was expecting at the time I made my attack.
But she was. When I arrived in Mayfair an hour later, the streets were already packed with people braving the grey, drizzly afternoon: office workers hurrying to meetings with their laptop bags and take-out coffees; tourists shrouded in rainproof plastic capes; glamorous women sheltering under umbrellas as they made the short journey from taxi to boutique.
This used to be my turf, back when I was working. Or near enough – the law firm where I worked was headquartered on the other side of Central London to Rowan’s West End office. But still, I found myself rediscovering the familiar rhythm of the crowded lunchtime streets as I dodged slow-moving tourists, threading my way expertly through the crowd while simultaneously glancing in tempting shop windows and looking at my phone.
I hadn’t properly appreciated it at the time, I thought with a pang. I’d been too busy being stressed by work, hurrying out for a sandwich before the next meeting or averting a crisis caused by something my boss had neglected to tell me to do. But I’d loved it. I’d loved the cut and thrust of office politics, the challenges that came my way almost hourly, which I’d need to solve without appearing ruffled or unprofessional. I’d loved being a tiny cog in the huge machine of corporate London.
I’d loved it when my boss smiled at me over her coffee and said, ‘So when are you starting that law conversion course, Naomi? You’re wasted as a secretary.’
I’d lost that opportunity – or given it away – when I’d decided to stay at home with the children. At first, I’d told myself it would only be temporary, but now I wasn’t too sure. Had I left it too long? Was I too old, too out of touch? Would I ever stop missing it?
I approached the plate-glass window of Walkerson’s Elite, the estate agency where Rowan worked, as warily as if I was a burglar planning a midnight hit on the place. But I realised almost immediately that there was no point attempting stealth. Rowan’s desk was right there at the front of the office, facing the window, and she was there, her phone pressed to her ear, a pen in her hand as she jotted on a spiral-bound notebook.
At first, she didn’t notice me. I hesitated outside the door, waiting to catch her eye, then pushed it open and stepped inside, the warmth of the interior welcome after the gusty cold of the street. Hearing the door – or feeling the chilly blast of air I brought with me – she glanced up, her expression changing immediately from polite enquiry to surprise and then something like bewilderment.
‘Yes, of course,’ she said into the phone. ‘I’ll relay that to the vendor this afternoon. I agree it’s a bold offer, but they’re keen for a quick sale and you’re in a good position to proceed, so I think we can be optimistic. Leave it with me. Okay. You too. Bye now.’
Then she replaced the handset on its cradle with a clatter and said, ‘Naomi! Hi!’
Her tone was bright and welcoming – almost too bright and welcoming. Her face didn’t look particularly welcoming at all.
‘Hey,’ I said, leaning in for a hug, but it proved impossible thanks to the desk between us, and I almost knocked over her computer screen. ‘I came to see if you fancied lunch.’
‘Lunch?’ She sounded like I’d suggested we spend the hour between one and two climbing Ben Nevis. ‘Why?’
‘Because…’ All at once, the impetus that had brought me here – Rowan’s my best friend. She’ll tell me what’s going on – had deserted me. ‘It’s lunchtime. I thought you might be hungry, after last night.’
Normally after a night out, we’d spend the morning eagerly discussing the bacon sandwiches and filthy Maccy D’s we couldn’t wait to eat. There hadn’t been any of that chat on the WhatsApp today, I realised.
‘Hungry? Sure. I mean, I guess I am. I’m just a bit snowed under. I was going to grab a sandwich and eat here – I’ve got a viewing in forty-five minutes.’
‘Oh.’ I stepped back, feeling a bit like I might be about to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Ro. I ought to have checked. It’s just, I thought?—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She stood up, pushing back her hair and reaching for her coat. ‘Of course we can have lunch. It’ll have to be quick, that’s all. There’s a Pret just round the corner.’
Not quite what I had in mind , I thought. I’d imagined us going somewhere quiet, where I could treat Rowan to a pizza or maybe even Welsh rarebit, which she adored, and a pudding afterwards, and find out properly what was going on. But I had to work with what was on offer.
So, five minutes later, I found myself perched on a high stool at a counter, picking at a cold, rather damp salad while Rowan spooned up chicken and mushroom soup next to me.
‘So how are the twins?’ she asked. ‘Over their bug?’
‘Yeah, they’re all good. How’s Clara?’ I was itching to get past the formalities, but if she was standing on ceremony, I’d have to do the same.
‘She’s all good too. Looks like her and Jonny are an item again. To be honest I think I’d be more upset than she would if they broke up.’
‘I can imagine.’ Then I leaned closer to her and asked, ‘How did last night go, anyway?’
‘Ah, it was lovely to catch up. You know, it always is. I was home by eleven, though – I think we’re all getting old.’
‘No strawberry mojitos, then?’ I felt as if the time we had together in this narrow window in Rowan’s day was slipping away, and wanted to bring the conversation round to Zara – but, at the same time, I didn’t.
‘No strawberry mojitos.’ Rowan’s smile was wary. ‘So you know Zara joined us.’
At least she wasn’t trying to deny it, or hide it from me. Although even if she was telling me the truth, it wouldn’t necessarily be the whole truth.
‘Did she say…’ I began, then changed tack. ‘How is she?’
Rowan shrugged. ‘You know. She’s Zara.’
I tried to laugh, but it came out all shaky.
Rowan went on, ‘I think she regrets what happened. She didn’t say so, of course. But I got that sense. Because, Nome, you know…’
‘What?’
Rowan looked down, twisting her paper napkin. ‘I regret it. At least, I regret how it all turned out.’
What did she mean? Did she mean that if things had been different, Zara would still be part of the group – or that I wouldn’t?
‘Do you mean if she and Patch—’ I began.
‘No!’ Rowan dug the wooden spoon into her cup, fishing out a final bit of mushroom, then looking at it and putting it back again. ‘Don’t be mad. If you and Patch weren’t together, what would have happened about my godchildren?’
I laughed, slightly reassured. ‘I’d have married someone else and you’d be fairy godmother to my kids with him.’
‘I suppose I would. Maybe. But still, I think that we—’ A shrill trilling sound came from Rowan’s bag. ‘Sorry, Nome, I just need to… Hello, Rowan speaking. Of course. Two fifteen works great. Give me five minutes and I’ll see you there.’ Rowan tucked her phone away in her bag. ‘Shit. They’re early. I’m so sorry, babe, I’m going to have to dash. I’d have told them no but it’s a five million quid listing and it’s just not shifting and the commission…’
‘That’s okay. I get it.’
Abandoning my salad with no great regret, I hurried after Rowan to the door, fighting my way into my coat as I walked. She was already striding away, her long legs scissoring effortlessly along, but she stopped to wait for me.
‘We must do this again properly. Promise?’ She pulled me into a hug.
‘That would be great. Listen, do you mind if I text you? I really want to?—’
‘Here’s the thing, Nome,’ she said, smiling in a way that looked almost forced. ‘I’ve been wondering if we were wrong about Zara. But we’ll talk later, okay?’