Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
MARCH 2011
It was a perfect Saturday morning in late March, the sun shining warmly in a cloudless sky. Only the faintest breeze stirred the buds on the magnolia tree that grew outside my bedroom window. I lay on my back in bed, relishing the fact that I didn’t need to get up for several hours – and that when I did, it was to do something I’d been looking forward to.
Smiling, I reread the text that had just pinged on my phone. It was from Patch:
PATRICK HAMILTON:
Still on for this afternoon? Fancy a movie?
We were indeed still on, but it had been a close call. The previous afternoon, while I was at work, Rowan had rung me in a panic to ask whether I was free to look after Clara for her.
‘That fucker Paul’s let me down. Again,’ she said. ‘I’m booked to do the make-up for a massive wedding, which means loads of cash, which means I’ll be able to pay my rent this month. So?—’
My eyes fixed on my computer screen, not really seeing the note that had been in my calendar for a couple of weeks, but knowing that it was there. But I could cancel – of course I could.
I just didn’t want to.
‘Naomi? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Sorry – I think the reception cut out there for a second.’
‘You do have plans, don’t you? You’re just wondering if you can cancel them.’
Damn it, Rowan, why do you have to see straight through me every single time? ‘I’ll cancel them. It’s fine.’
‘You’re seeing Patch, aren’t you?’
Shit. Busted. But why did I feel like that when I wasn’t even doing anything wrong? I’d told my friends, on the train back from Paris, about Zara’s request. What I hadn’t told them was what I suspected Zara might be up to behind Patch’s back, and what that might mean for them as a couple.
And the few times I had met up with him – to go for coffee, grab a sandwich while he waited for his train, help him choose a birthday gift for his sister – I’d told my friends about it. Every single time. Even though there’d been nothing important to tell.
‘Yeah, we said something about meeting up. He can’t see Zara because she’s in Stockholm for work. But it’s nothing definite. I can take Clara, no problem.’
I heard Rowan take a deep breath on the other end of the line. ‘I’m going to ask Abbie. If she and Matt can help, I’ll take them up on it. If they can’t, I’ll ring you back, okay?’
‘Seriously, Ro, I’ll do it. It’s not a problem at all. It’s?—’
‘Love you, hopefully I won’t need you.’
She ended the call. I spent the rest of the afternoon jumping like I’d been poked with something sharp every time my phone rang, and felt almost shocked at my relief when, at five o’clock, the text from Rowan arrived:
ROWAN:
You’re off the hook. Have a lovely day xxx
And now here I was, with plans to go and see a movie with him. Just a movie. The kind of thing teenagers did on a first date. Only we weren’t teenagers, and this wasn’t a date. But it was also the kind of thing friends did together on a Saturday afternoon when they had time on their hands, I reassured myself. I’d be able to text Zara afterwards – Saw Patch today, we went to the cinema. He’s missing you like crazy xxx – with a clear conscience, because there was no way it could be interpreted as anything other than innocent.
And it was innocent, I told myself. Since that New Year’s Eve, there’d been no repeat of the moment of connection I’d felt with Patch – the pang of heartache for him that had made me want to hold him close and protect him from hurt.
And now I felt as if he needed protection more than ever. The promise I’d made to Zara when we were in Paris – that I’d see Patch, hang out with him, report back to her if his behaviour seemed suspicious in any way – had troubled me at the time. And now I had the sense that there’d been something else behind her request: a need for me to keep Patch busy on his free weekends while Zara herself was otherwise occupied.
Earlier in the week, we’d exchanged text messages that had left me feeling profoundly uneasy.
Zara:
Hey Nome, what’s up?
Naomi:
Not much. Work’s hectic. How about you?
Zara:
Same, same. Listen, did you know Patch is in London this weekend?
Naomi:
He mentioned he was on a break from work but I thought he’d be going to Paris to see you. Why?
Zara:
Yeah, no, he’s not.
Then my phone had rung and I’d spent half an hour frantically juggling my boss’s diary to fit in an important client who wanted to meet with her urgently, but only had three half-hour slots available over the next fortnight.
When I next checked my mobile, there’d been another, longer text from Zara.
Zara:
I just spoke to him. I said he should go to London and hang out with you if you’re free. But Nome, if he asks, I’m in Stockholm for fashion week, right? Actually if anyone asks. Okay?
I felt as if I’d entered into some kind of unholy pact with her – and with myself. Lying on her behalf, because that was the only way to protect Patch from being hurt. Having to deny any feelings I might have for Patch – because it would be disloyal to her. And now, lying to Rowan about both those things.
It made the innocent plan Patch was suggesting feel grubby and illicit. It made me feel bad about something I should be feeling good about. It made me feel like a bad friend for not helping Rowan out when I could have cancelled Patch’s and my arrangement before anything was even properly arranged. Except then he might have altered his own plans and gone to Paris to see Zara and found – what?
I was caught in the middle of an ever more complex tangle of lies and half-truths, and I didn’t feel good about any of it.
Still lying in bed, I checked my phone and saw another message from Patch.
PATRICK HAMILTON:
Hold on, just looked outside. It’s gorgeous! Maybe we should go for a picnic or something instead?
A picnic? I imagined telling Zara that. We went for a picnic on Hampstead Heath. We had smoked salmon and champagne. No. Just no. My discomfort about coving for Zara would only be compounded if she got the sense that her boyfriend had been up to something on-the-face-of-it romantic with me.
Naomi:
Movie sounds good
Redheads like me can’t take any chances in this weather. If I go out in the sun I’ll get freckles.
PATRICK HAMILTON:
No worries
My mum’s got red hair too so I get it. Although Dad always tells her a woman without freckles is like a night without stars.
And he added a semicolon and a closed bracket – a wink.
Shit. But it meant nothing, I told myself. It was just a sweet remark about his parents – the kind of thing a friend would say. So I responded with a ‘lol’ and I swiftly arranged to meet him in town to see The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo , even though I had no interest in it at all.
In the event, though, I found myself transfixed by the film. From the opening credits, I almost forgot that Patch was there next to me, until my shoulder accidentally brushed his arm or our hands met when we reached for popcorn.
Afterwards, we walked out into the bright afternoon and stood blinking in the sunlight like people who’d just arrived from another planet.
‘Wow,’ Patch said. ‘I could use a drink after that. How about you?’
‘For sure. And some food – I hardly got a look-in on that popcorn.’
‘Really?’ His face fell. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Just kidding. I had loads. Still hungry though.’
‘Me too – even though I scoffed all the popcorn. Where shall we go?’
‘There’s a place – someone at work was talking about it. Like a diner, that does burgers and cocktails and stuff. All very trashy. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.’
‘Sounds great.’
Vaguely, I started walking, and Patch fell into step next to me.
‘Nome?’ he asked after a few seconds, and I felt a little glow of pleasure at him using the same pet name my closest friends used for me. ‘Have you spoken to Zara recently?’
Oh no. I felt suddenly aware of those texts on my phone, right there like an unexploded bomb. If I got run over by a bus right now, I thought absurdly, and the emergency services had to look for a contact number for my next of kin and Patch was there, he might see them.
That was ridiculous – it wouldn’t happen. But what was going to happen was I was going to have to lie to him: do the thing I’d promised Zara I would do, fulfil my side of the bargain that meant I got to see him.
‘Not spoken. She texted me a few days ago – she’s somewhere with work, I can’t remember where exactly.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I was just wondering whether she was okay. Last time we spoke she seemed a bit… I don’t know.’
‘I’m sure she’s just distracted with work,’ I answered, hating myself and praying he wouldn’t ask anything more, force me to elaborate on what I was pretending to know.
To my relief, it turned out my memory of my conversation with my colleague was clearer than I’d thought. Patty Palace was just round the corner from the cinema – a noisy, warehouse-style place with paper tablecloths and chefs with bandanas round their heads sweating over a sizzling grill.
‘Does this look okay?’ I asked.
‘Brilliant. I feel like I just spotted a mirage in the desert.’
‘I think you mean an oasis. They’re the things with water and date palms and shit. Mirages are?—’
‘The things that aren’t real?’
‘Correct.’
Laughing, we pushed open the heavy glass door and found a table in a corner, surrounded by pop-art posters and noisy groups talking and laughing over their meals. I was reassured – this was as far from a romantic destination as it was possible to get. I could tell Zara about it in detail and she wouldn’t need to worry. I just needed to distract him from asking me any more about her.
We sat down and studied the menus, which didn’t take long, because they consisted of just a few items printed on yellow A4 paper.
‘Negroni?’ I suggested.
‘For sure. And a beer, so we stay hydrated.’
‘Good thinking. There’s going to be a lot of salt involved here, I reckon.’
‘There’d better be. Double cheeseburger with extra bacon?’
‘Fries, obviously. Plain or dirty?’
‘Dirty for sure. And onion rings?’
‘Be rude not to.’
Grinning at each other, like we were complicit in some kind of secret ritual, we ordered our food and drinks. Damn, he had a great smile, I thought. I couldn’t help noticing a girl at the table next to us nudge her friend and whisper something, and them both surreptitiously have a good old stare at Patch.
This must be what it was like for Zara every time she went out with him, I thought. Except Patch probably got the exact same with men checking out Zara.
Then Patch asked, ‘So what did you think of the film?’
I took a gulp of my negroni, the giant ice cube pressing cold against my nose. ‘It was – complex.’
‘Why do you say that? It was a great thriller for sure.’
‘Yeah, I could have done with a bit less violence if I’m honest.’
‘You were watching through your fingers at one point, I noticed.’
‘Was I?’ So he’d been looking at me in the darkness.
‘I wondered if I needed to hold your hand.’
I laughed awkwardly. ‘I could’ve done with a hand-hold.’
‘Damn.’ He took a swallow of beer. ‘A missed opportunity.’
Stop flirting with me , I thought. But his words gave me a small glow of pleasure I couldn’t quite suppress.
I was saved from having to respond by our food turning up, and we dived into it as if we hadn’t eaten in days. I was too hungry to care if I got ketchup on my chin and had to blow on my onion rings because they were too hot to eat.
See , I told myself. You don’t fancy him. If you did, you’d be licking your fingers seductively instead of scattering paper napkins everywhere.
‘Anyway,’ he said, adding salt to the already salty chips, ‘What did you mean by complex?’
‘The film? Like you said, it was a thriller – and a good one. But there was a message there, too, I thought.’
I paused, thinking, and took another bite of my burger.
‘About how women could be driven to violence, because society is so full of violence towards them?’
Surprised, I swallowed. ‘Yeah. That. All that suppressed trauma needing some kind of an outlet.’
He nodded. ‘That was hard to watch. I couldn’t help thinking – if it had been my sister, or Zee, or you…’
His words touched me. I was reminded of Zara’s dismissal of her boyfriend – a loveable hunk of meat . But it felt unfair – just because he wanted to protect the women he cared about didn’t make him some knuckle-dragging chauvinist. And to have been included in the list of women worthy of his protection made me feel absurdly pleased.
‘What are you thinking?’ he asked. ‘You’ve gone all serious all of a sudden.’
‘I’m just thinking – I like seeing you. I’m glad we’re friends.’
‘I’m glad we’re friends too.’ He smiled, took another swallow of his cocktail, then added, ‘Except when I’m not.’
I felt a tingle of anticipation – part excitement, part apprehension. ‘What do you mean?’
‘That us being friends means we’re not more than friends.’
The mouthful of burger I was eating suddenly felt too big to swallow.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘No,’ I agreed sombrely. ‘Probably not.’
His face was serious, all the lightness of a few moments before wiped away. ‘Have I offended you?’
I shook my head. ‘I just think – we shouldn’t talk like that.’
‘I know.’ He sighed, his eyes holding mine. ‘And nothing’s going to happen. But I just wanted you to know something, Naomi.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Things aren’t great between me and Zee. I’d never cheat on her, but I – it helps to see someone else, sometimes, and forget about it all.’
‘Why are you…’ Voicing the thought felt terrible, like a betrayal of Zara. ‘I mean, if things aren’t great, why don’t you…?’
‘End it?’ he finished for me. ‘I can’t. What you said about trauma – there’s a lot of that in her past. She – it’s not my place to tell you, really.’
‘She what?’ I asked, dry-mouthed.
‘She tried… a few years back, when a relationship ended, to – you know. Harm herself.’
‘Oh no, Patch. That’s awful.’ I felt like another link had been added to the tangled chain that bound me to Zara. She was fragile, I knew, but it had never occurred to me that she might be suicidal, or had been in the past. I could never do anything that might trigger that again.
‘So you see,’ he went on, his eyes cast down, ‘I could never hurt her like that.’
‘I couldn’t, either,’ I agreed, feeling the knot in my stomach grow tighter.
He reached over and put his hand over mine. I felt the warm pressure, the rough skin at the base of his fingers. Then, after a second or two, he moved it away.
We finished our burgers, had more beer and more cocktails and didn’t talk about Zara again. By the end, we were giggly and silly, but we didn’t mention anything serious like feelings, and when we parted at the Tube station it was with a hug that felt almost brotherly.
That night in bed, I replayed every moment of the day, preserving the memory of everything he’d said, holding on to the knowledge that we’d done nothing wrong, nothing to betray Zara’s trust.
But the knowledge brought me no comfort – it was as bittersweet as the fading taste of vermouth on my tongue.