The Fall-Out

Chapter 20

TWENTY

‘Mummy?’

‘Mummy, where’s Daddy?’

The sound of my children’s voices and their footsteps on the wooden floor jerked me out of sleep. The patter of little feet – if only whoever had come up with that cliché knew that first thing in the morning, it was more like a herd of wildebeest invading my bedroom.

I reached automatically over to Patch’s side of the bed, but encountered only chilly, empty sheets, same as I had the previous six nights.

My head pounding and my eyes scratchy with tiredness, I sat up. ‘Daddy slept downstairs.’

‘Why, Mummy?’ Meredith asked.

Why indeed? Work was hectic and he needed his sleep. He was training for some hardcore fitness thing and getting up early to go to the gym. That was what he said, anyway.

‘Meredith, could you stop asking why when I don’t know? Just maybe for one day. Even a couple of hours.’

‘Why don’t you know, Mummy?’ chimed her brother.

Oh, for God’s sake, just shut up. Fortunately, I managed to say the words in my head rather than out loud. But I’d been more snappy with the children than usual, more absent. Not as absent as their bloody father , I thought, in an unsuccessful attempt to mitigate how guilty this made me feel.

‘Come on then, you two.’ I forced a cheerful note into my voice and pushed the duvet aside, my ears straining to hear sounds of life from downstairs. But there was nothing – Patch had already left for the day.

When I’d dropped the children at nursery, been to see Bridget and returned home, the house felt emptier than ever. The central heating was off and I shivered when I removed my coat, but I couldn’t be bothered to go upstairs and find a warmer jumper. I could see drifts of dust on the skirting boards and crumbs on the floor under the kitchen table, but I couldn’t summon the energy to run the Hoover round, even though a bit of housework would warm me up.

I made a coffee and sat down, looking out into the garden hoping for signs of spring. It was already April, but it had been raining relentlessly and the drifts of blossom that had appeared on the trees had been stripped away by wind. The blackbirds I’d seen flying to and fro from the overgrown ivy on our neighbour’s wall weren’t there – I imagined them deciding to raise their family somewhere that felt more like a happy, welcoming home.

‘Come on, Naomi,’ I told myself. ‘Get a grip. It’s not that bad.’

But it felt that bad. It felt worse than when Patch had returned to work after his paternity leave and I’d been left with alone with two tiny babies, exhausted and terrified. Worse than when I’d woken up the morning after Abbie’s engagement party with the hangover from hell and a sense of impending doom. Worse than when Toby got croup and I’d rushed him to Accident and Emergency in the middle of the night, the sound of his rasping breaths making me feel sick with fear.

Because at those times, I’d known that the Girlfriends’ Club had my back. I’d had Rowan to come and change nappies, feed me cake and bundle me into a hot shower. I’d had Kate to commiserate with over a bacon sandwich and a Bloody Mary, agreeing that was the only thing that would take the edge off. I’d had Abbie to do a late-night mercy dash to sit with Meredith overnight and cuddle me the next morning when I cried with relief that Toby wasn’t going to die after all.

Automatically, I reached for my phone. The impulse to talk to my friends when I was sad, or happy, or even just plain bored was so deep-rooted than even unease about the response I might get couldn’t overcome it.

Naomi:

Morning gang! What’s going on? Feels like it’s been quiet on here the past few days.

Rowan:

I’m all good – work’s just crazy. What’s up with you?

Abbie:

Bloody April, innit. Feels like Narnia, where it’s always winter and never Christmas. This too shall pass.

Kate:

I’m just eating my body weight in pasta, trying to get through it. At least Daniel and I are off to Sicily in a few days so we’ll see some sun.

My best friends in the world, and all they seemed to want to talk to me about was work, the weather and their holiday plans. I might as well try confiding my worries to a bloody hairdresser , I thought miserably.

I set my phone aside and poured the dregs of my coffee down the sink, resigned to the fact that I was going to have to tackle the cleaning before it was time to pick the children up again, bring them home and watch everything descend into chaos again.

Then I heard its cheerful ringtone trilling from behind me and abandoned the bottle of anti-bacterial kitchen spray. An incoming call wasn’t exciting in itself – I often got phoned by the twins’ nursery, by my mother-in-law and by scam numbers trying to sell me non-existent phone upgrades. But this was a withheld number, and that almost never happened.

I considered ignoring the call – if whoever it was wanted to speak to me, they could leave a message – but at that moment I was bored enough and lonely enough to want to talk to anyone, even if it was about a car accident that hadn’t been my fault (and had never happened).

‘Hello? Naomi speaking.’

‘Naomi? Hi. It’s Zara.’

I was so surprised my legs almost gave way under me, and I sat down hard on the thing nearest to me, which happened to be a plastic basket half-full of dirty laundry, in which I found myself trapped, my legs and arms sticking out of the top, the phone pressed to my ear.

Maybe we should do this again , she’d said, the last time I saw her. It felt like far longer than six weeks ago when I’d picked up the camera from her – the camera, still in the drawer, its secrets locked within. I’d been clear I didn’t want to see her again, or have anything more to do with her.

But that had been before she’d turned up at the Girlfriends’ Club, taking the place that should have been mine.

‘Naomi? Are you there? Please don’t hang up.’

‘I haven’t hung up,’ I gasped, fighting to extricate myself.

‘I guess this call’s a bit of a surprise. I’m sorry. But I wondered if you’re free tonight?’

‘Tonight? Why?’

‘I thought maybe we could meet up for a drink.’

Seriously? A drink? Which part of I’m not sure that would be a good idea hadn’t she understood?

‘Hold on,’ she went on, her voice husky and strained. ‘Hear me out. I know you’re busy and everything. But I could do with some company. I’ve been staring at the same four walls every night for the past week and I think I might be going a bit mad.’

You and me both , I thought. Except the difference here is, you were always a bit mad. We just didn’t see it.

Although the idea of Zara not having a glittering social life that involved going somewhere different every evening was so alien as to be almost laughable. It couldn’t be true – she must have loads of friends. And she hadn’t exactly held back when it came to turning up on an evening out with my friends – in fact, she’d seen them together more recently than I had. Perhaps she’d be able to tell me what had happened at that meeting – what had led to Rowan’s comment about them having been wrong about Zara – because it didn’t look as if anyone else was going to.

‘Okay,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘But I’ll need to check if Patch is going to be home. Can I text you?’

‘Sure. Do you still have my number from… you know, before? I’m sorry, I withheld it because I thought you might not answer if you knew it was me.’

Damn right I wouldn’t have. But in spite of myself, her admission of vulnerability touched me.

We ended the call and I fought my way out of the laundry basket. Then I texted Patch, telling him that he really, really needed to be home by seven, because I was going out. I didn’t tell him where and he didn’t ask; perhaps he assumed that I was meeting up with Rowan and the others to make up for the night I’d missed. To my surprise, he agreed, saying that his right hamstring had been playing up and his trainer had said to rest it for a few days, so a quiet night would do him good.

By now, the adrenaline from Zara’s call had worn off and my sense of urgency was replaced with scepticism – surely this was some sort of joke? But when I texted the number she’d given me, she replied straight away saying she was so excited to see me, and giving me the address of a bar in Covent Garden.

And so I found myself there at the appointed time. At least, I found myself pacing up and down an unfamiliar street, my umbrella protecting my blow-dried hair from the drizzle, damp soaking through the soles of my ancient suede boots, increasingly convinced that this was a joke – a trick to get me out of the house, or make a fool of me, or just waste my time.

Because Bar Chloe didn’t appear to exist. The door numbers either side of the one Zara had given me were there – a dance studio and the offices of a design agency – but in between them was what looked like a residential townhouse: a tall, white-fronted building with a few early petunias struggling in planters underneath the windows. The shiny black front door was closed, the three buttons on the entry panel were blank and I didn’t have the courage to buzz them and see what happened.

It was seven twenty-eight. I’d wait another ten minutes, I promised myself, then I’d go home and block and delete Zara’s number, as if she was a Tinder date who’d ghosted me.

Then I heard the click of heels on the pavement behind me and whirled around. Zara was hurrying towards me, her black trench coat shiny with rain, her glossy hair reflecting the street lamps.

‘There you are, Naomi. I’m so sorry, I should have warned you – this place is an absolute fucker to find. You’re in the right place, they just deliberately make it all mysterious.’

And she’d chosen it knowing that – knowing I’d feel out of place and foolish, my defences down before I’d even seen her.

Well, I wasn’t going to let my defences down, not if I could help it.

I forced a casual laugh. ‘If you know, you know, right?’

‘Exactly! And thanks to me, you didn’t know. What an idiot I am. Come on.’

She pressed the middle bell, said her name, and within seconds a buzz sounded and she pushed open the door. We stepped into a warm, brightly lit hallway, an Oriental rug on the wooden floor, gilt-framed paintings lining the walls. A handsome young man in a white dinner jacket stepped out of a doorway to meet us and Zara gave her name again.

‘Ladies. Good evening, and welcome to Bar Chloe. May I take your coats and show you to your table?’

Zara shrugged off her coat, scattering raindrops on the carpet, and handed it over. Humbly, I removed my shabby parka and relinquished it too. I glanced at her wine-red cashmere mini dress and over-the-knee suede boots and felt dowdy and out of place in my scarlet Primark tunic and leggings, which were similar on the surface to her outfit and yet as different as night and day.

I imagined her getting ready to meet me, turning and smiling in front of the mirror in that elegant apartment, knowing full well that she looked chic and put-together and I wouldn’t.

But I didn’t have time for in-depth style analysis.

The waiter said, ‘Come this way, please,’ and Zara and I followed him into a spacious, dimly lit room with a high ceiling and sage-green walls, hung with more pictures. Low, copper-topped tables were dotted around, velvet chairs in jewel colours surrounding them. There was a grand piano in one corner and lush potted plants in the corners. Soft music was playing and I could hear the muted hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. It was the sort of place I might have come to with Patch before the children were born, if we had something special to celebrate like an anniversary or a birthday – the sort of place I hadn’t been to for years and had never felt truly comfortable in.

And Zara must have known that too.

‘Your table, madam,’ the guy said to Zara, and we sat down.

‘Isn’t this fab?’ she said, smiling happily and crossing her legs. ‘My favourite place in London. Nothing bad ever happens here.’

There’s a first time for everything , I thought, picking up the printed menu card and studying it. The cocktails, which were called things like ‘Limerence’ and had descriptions like ‘Monkey 47, Amontillado, Clarified Yuzu’, were priced at north of twenty quid a go.

I realised she was looking at me expectantly, as if seeking approval.

‘It’s very glamorous,’ I said, in the same tone I used when I told one of the children that their nursery scribbles had all the promise of an early Picasso.

‘There are just so few places where you can have a good drink and a conversation, and sit in a comfy chair.’ Zara smiled confidingly at me – Look at us two old birds on our night out. ‘I can’t be doing with standing around slopping a shit cocktail down my front and being hit on by men who work in insurance any more.’

I couldn’t think how to respond to this other than with overt snarkiness – Better a man who works in insurance than no man at all, surely? – but I was saved by a waitress bringing water in short-sided glasses so thin and clean they looked like they weren’t there at all, and a bowl of olives.

‘I’ll have the Bellmont Number Five, please,’ Zara requested, smiling.

‘Um… a Limerence for me.’

‘Good choice.’ Zara smiled again, as if she was enjoying some private joke and leaning over the table towards me, although we could hear each other perfectly well if we sat back in our chairs. ‘Anyway. How’ve you been?’

I took a sip of water, carefully weighing up my response to this seemingly innocent enquiry. I didn’t want to reveal how much the landscape of my life seemed to have shifted since Andy’s funeral, but at the same time I didn’t want to reveal just how mundane it had been before – and still was, outwardly.

‘You know. Same as usual. Pretty busy,’ I said guardedly.

‘Been seeing a lot of the girls?’

‘Not as much as usual,’ I admitted. ‘You know, we meet up regularly, but I missed last time because I wasn’t well, and I guess everyone else is pretty busy too.’

Tell me , I urged silently. Tell me you were there, and why, and what happened.

The waitress brought our drinks. Zara’s was purple, with crystals that might have been salt, sugar or something entirely different crusting the rim of the glass. Mine was pale orange, like overdiluted squash, with a brighter orange sphere of something resting atop the huge cube of ice in it.

She took a sip and sighed with pleasure. ‘Here, try this. It’s glorious.’

I hesitated before accepting her glass and tasting the drink – What could she have done, bribed them to poison it? If they had, she’d drop dead too – then passed mine over for her to taste as well. The exchange felt uncomfortably intimate as if we were the very best of friends who swapped sips of our drinks all the time.

Then Zara said, ‘I hope you don’t mind that I gatecrashed the last Girlfriends’ Club. I asked if I could go along, you know, for old times’ sake. And Kate agreed to have me. I didn’t realise you weren’t going to be there, or I’d have said something to you first. They all told me you wouldn’t mind, but I know how it must have looked. Anyway, I’m sorry.’

Her apology was clearly intended to disarm me, and I didn’t want to let it. Still, what could I say? If I’d known you were going to be there, I’d have turned up and puked all over you ? Not really. And I certainly wasn’t going let her know how her unexpected presence that night had brought all my old insecurities to the surface. Naomi won’t mind – as if, once again, she was part of the inner circle and I was outside it, an irrelevance being talked about dismissively by the others.

‘It’s okay,’ I said.

Smiling, she went on, ‘I’d forgotten how much fun those evenings were. I’d forgotten, I suppose, what it feels like to have friends.’

‘You must have loads of friends,’ I protested involuntarily.

‘Not really. I’ve been moving around a lot, you see, and it makes it almost impossible to form proper connections with people. You meet someone you like, you go for a coffee or whatever, or you work together for a bit, and then you move on and you promise to stay in touch but you never do. There’s Gabrielle, who I used to share a flat with, but she’s married with kids now, same as you. And that makes you grow apart from people. You of all people must know that.’

I laughed. If she thought I was going to empathise with that, she was wrong. ‘Actually, me having the kids hasn’t made any difference. I see the girls just as much as I did before. They were amazing when the twins were little – they really rallied round. And now they’re older, I can leave them with Bridget sometimes, or get a babysitter. We have our monthly meetings, same as always.’

At least, they were the same as always until you showed up.

Zara sighed. ‘They were such good times. I think about those Wednesdays often. Remember when Rowan brought Clara along? She was only tiny and breastfeeding and the bar tried to kick us out because they had a no-under-18s policy.’

The memory made me smile in spite of myself. ‘And Kate demanded to see the manager so she could explain the Equality Act to him and give him a lecture about reputational risk.’

‘Except then the waiter realised he was going to get to look at Ro’s tits all night, and changed his mind,’ Zara finished, with a throaty laugh.

I took a swallow of water. My cocktail was almost finished and I could feel my defences slipping. I must not allow that to happen.

I didn’t join in Zara’s laughter and after a couple of seconds her face became serious again.

‘You know, I do regret how things turned out.’ She licked a few grains of purple salt off the rim of her glass, her tongue precise as a cat’s. ‘It was partly my own fault, I know. I have trust issues. And of course when you and Patch got together… well, that was hard for me. I never saw it coming.’

Even though you were shagging around for months , I thought.

But I hadn’t come here to have a confrontation with Zara or to score points in a competition that, by any reckoning, I’d already won. I’d come here to hear her out, try and establish what her intentions were, let her know I wasn’t going to be manipulated or walked over.

I said deliberately, ‘Zara, I’m genuinely sorry you were hurt. That was never my intention, and I would never have chosen to damage our friendship like that. But I’d have hoped we would all have moved on from it by now.’

Zara waved a hand as if to dismiss my apology, but our waiter misread her signal and hurried over. Against my will, I found myself ordering a second complicated, expensive cocktail.

‘You’re right, I suppose,’ she carried on once he’d gone, ‘it’s all water under the bridge now. Life carries on and changes. Apart from the Girlfriends’ Club. I’ve always thought of the Girlfriends’ Club as a kind of constant in the world, one of those things that’ll never change. Like Quality Street selection boxes at Christmas.’

‘They change those all the time,’ I pointed out. ‘And whenever they do, there’s practically a riot about it.’

Zara laughed. ‘You’re so funny, Naomi. You always were. I do hope you’re right. And I hope we can – maybe not be friends again, but at least let bygones be bygones. Can we?’

Our next round of drinks arrived, and she extended her glass to me. I raised mine too, but withdrew it before it could touch hers.

‘Zara,’ I said. ‘There are a few things you need to know. One I’ve already told you – I’m truly sorry you were hurt and I regret my part in that. Two, the promise I made to you – I’ve never broken it and I never will. And three, my friendship with the Girlfriends’ Club is the most important thing in the world to me, apart from Patch and our children. And I won’t put it at risk for anything or anyone.’

She looked at me appraisingly and then nodded. ‘I understand.’

Slightly mollified, I went on, ‘But of course I can let bygones be bygones. I don’t want to hold grudges.’

She smiled. ‘That’s good to know. To friendship, then.’

Reluctantly, I extended my drink again. This time, I heard the faint, musical clink as the glasses connected.

‘Cheers,’ I said. I felt there was nothing else I could say.

‘Excuse me’ – Zara got to her feet – ‘I have to use the loo.’

Taking advantage of her absence, I signalled the waiter for our bill and when she still hadn’t returned by the time he brought it, I paid.

It was only after we’d said a brief, coolly civil goodbye in the rainy street that I realised two things – or more like two parts of the same thing.

Zara had led me into revealing my weak points: my family and my friends. And she’d engineered the situation so I’d paid a hundred-pound bar bill I could ill afford.

She’d manipulated me, just the way she used to, despite my determination not to let her. Come what may, I wasn’t going to let her do it again.