Isla
Isla
Isla turned onto her side, the crisp white duvet tucked beneath her bare arm. Sunlight bled through a gap in the curtains, and she lifted her head, looked at the alarm clock by the side of the bed: just gone half past six. She thought about where she’d usually be at this time on a Thursday evening: in the pool for a training session, a session she had missed for ten consecutive Thursdays now. For the past ten weeks, she had instead boarded the train to Waterloo and walked the short distance to a large, corporate hotel. She’d given a false name at the front desk, been issued with a key card, and made her way up in the lift and along the carpeted corridor. Ten weeks of walking into an empty hotel room feeling both unfeasibly grown-up and yet out of her depth at the same time. Ten weeks of putting her redundant swimming bag by the wardrobe, sitting in the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the main road, and waiting for Andrew to arrive.
Next to her in bed, Andrew snuffled quietly. In a few minutes, he’d awake with a start, look down at his Garmin, seem surprised by the time. He’d lift his arm so she could lay her head on his chest, run his fingers through her hair before heading into the bathroom for a shower. It seemed both strange and wondrous to Isla that she already knew what he would do, that they already knew so much about each other’s habits. Sometimes, looking at Andrew’s face while he slept, Isla felt as though she were finding the answer to a question she hadn’t known she’d been asking.
We understand each other, you and I. There’s a connection that goes beyond words, beyond the age gap, beyond rational explanation. I knew it the first time I gave you a lift. It just felt so easy. Everything with you is easy. It just feels right.
Isla recalled Andrew’s short speech to her just over two months ago, when they’d been sitting in the pub that had, by then, become their regular Thursday evening haunt. They’d been nestled in their usual quiet corner – Andrew with a glass of red wine, Isla with a lime and soda – when he had taken hold of her hand, delivered that speech. Four weeks after their initial kiss, it had been the first time he told her he loved her. That night, she had known, unequivocally, that Andrew would be the first man she would sleep with. It was the evening she’d agreed to meet him in a hotel room in Waterloo the following Thursday, knowing full well what would happen.
Only now did she realise the real reason she’d never slept with Callum: not because she’d wanted to hold on to her precious virginity, but simply because he hadn’t been the right person.
Andrew emitted a small, light snore and turned onto his back. Scrolling back through the years she’d known him – all her life, in fact – she thought about all the weekends and holidays she had spent in his company: Christmas Eve at Andrew and Nicole’s, New Year’s Eve attending the same parties, summer barbecues in each other’s gardens. The bank holiday weekends spent on her dad’s boat, the half-term holidays they’d all decamped to coastal cottages, the joint family skiing trips in the Alps. Looking at Andrew now, she couldn’t understand how it had taken her until a few months ago to realise how handsome he was.
Through the seventh-storey window came the purr of traffic from the street below.
Isla thought back to the afternoon in Andrew’s car when he’d brushed his fingers along her bare neck. How flustered she’d been, how confused. How uncertain she had felt when his first texts arrived, convincing herself he was simply taking a paternalistic interest in her given the absence of her dad. A part of her feeling foolish for imagining a flirtatious undertone. And yet, within days, she had become aware that she was anticipating messages from him, that she was excited when one arrived and disappointed when she did not hear from him for a few hours.
Now, when she looked back on those early days of their relationship, she felt embarrassed that she’d been so anxious: so unsure of herself and of her response to Andrew’s attentions. So unsettled by the idea that he might be attracted to her. Just months since their first kiss, and already it felt like a different version of herself: a childish, unsophisticated version she was pleased to have left behind, like discarded clothes she had once loved but now found gawkish.
Outside, a police siren wailed, and Isla waited for Andrew to stir. But his breathing did not alter, his body deep in slumber.
This relationship was so different to her one with Callum. She thought back to the evening she’d broken up with him, the day after her first kiss with Andrew, too much confusion and guilt for her to continue as if everything were normal. Callum had begged her to change her mind, asked her again and again what he’d done wrong. He’d thought they were happy, that she loved him. There had been moments during that conversation when Isla had felt she was making a terrible mistake, that she would come to regret it. That she was being rash, ending a five-month relationship because of one evening – one kiss – with another man. Her guilt at hurting Callum had been overwhelming. But as she’d looked at him, she’d known something had shifted between them, something profound and irrevocable. She could not turn back the clock, could not pretend she didn’t know what it felt like to be desired by an older man. She could not change what had happened between her and Andrew, or how she was beginning to feel about him.
With Callum, she had felt like a teenager. Their relationship had been firmly rooted in the hermetically sealed world of school. But with Andrew she felt more adult; cleverer, wiser, more knowledgeable. He listened to what she said, encouraged her in her opinions, made her feel as though maturity was not a distant place she’d reach after university but somewhere she was already inhabiting. She felt safe with him and yet, at the same time, exhilarated. He had already taught her so much.
It was strange, how much she’d changed in the months she’d been with Andrew: as though she were no longer the person she used to be but was not yet sure who it was she was becoming.
Her eyes caught the small, square purple box by the side of the bed. Andrew had given it to her as soon as he’d arrived, half an hour later than planned having been delayed on a work call. Isla had got used to him being late, had become accustomed to opening a textbook, fitting in some study before he arrived. Today when he’d walked in – smiling apologetically, cupping her face in his hands, kissing her tenderly on the lips and asking whether she could forgive him for being so monstrously late – he’d pulled the small purple box from his pocket and handed it to her. A pair of delicately crafted silver earrings to join the three pairs he’d already bought her, the two necklaces, the Montblanc fountain pen, the Mulberry crossbody bag. The trunk at the end of her bed at home was now layered with well-concealed objects that she couldn’t wear or use without arousing suspicion. But she knew that at some point in the not-too-distant future, once she was at university – at Oxford, hopefully – she would be able to wear the jewellery when Andrew came to visit.
By the side of the bed, the screen on Andrew’s silenced phone lit up, and Isla lifted her head to look at it.
A WhatsApp from Nicole, the short message visible on the home screen.
Hi darling. Just checking if you know what time you’ll be back. x
Guilt snagged in Isla’s throat at the thought of all the different versions of Nicole she had known over the past seventeen years. Nicole who had wiped Isla’s childhood tears, bathed her grazed knee or held her hand as they crossed the road on the way to school. Nicole who had cooked so many of Isla’s favourite childhood dinners during playdates with Nathaniel – lasagne, spaghetti bolognese, meatballs – always looking after her as if she were part of their family. Nicole who had supported them all with unwavering care and compassion since Isla’s dad died. Nicole who had, so often, sat at the kitchen table, sharing a glass of wine with Isla’s mum, making her laugh on days when Isla thought it was an impossibility in the face of her grief. So many years during which Nicole had shown Isla unfaltering love and kindness: the most trusted adult in her life, after her mum. And yet, here Isla was, committing the most terrible betrayal.
Squeezing shut her eyes, Isla tried to stem the rising tide of panic. Consciously silencing her guilt, she replayed everything Andrew had told her about his marriage: the complacent companionship he and Nicole had slipped into over the past few years, the lack of passion, the separate emotional lives. The enormous amount of respect and love he had for Nicole alongside the deep-seated awareness that they were together mainly for the sake of Nathaniel and Jack. The tacit agreement that they would go their separate ways once Jack went to university, if not before.
‘You’re not asleep, are you?’
Isla opened her eyes, found Andrew awake, looking at her. She shook her head. ‘Just thinking.’ Pushing thoughts of Nicole out of her mind, Isla slipped under Andrew’s arm, rested her head on his chest.
She watched Andrew reach across for his phone, sensed him reading Nicole’s message, waited to see what he would do.
‘Do you need to go?’ She tried to keep her voice neutral.
Andrew ran the tips of his fingers through her hair. ‘Not yet. I want to make the most of every second we have together.’ He paused. ‘What do you think about us going away together for a few days?’
Isla shifted from beneath Andrew’s arm, leaned up on her elbow. ‘Really? Do you think we could?’
‘Why not? As long as you can come up with a viable excuse. I can say I’ll be away for work.’ He nuzzled his face against her neck, his stubble rough against her skin. ‘Wouldn’t it be great, a couple of days away, just the two of us, not having to watch the clock? There’s a hotel just outside Oxford I think you’d love.’ He smiled at her. ‘What do you think? Are there any friends you could say you were staying with? Or some swim thing you could say you were going to?’
Isla breathed deeply, told herself to stop feeling nervous, that this was what adults in grown-up relationships did. ‘Definitely. I’ll think of something.’
Stroking her face with his fingers, he gazed at her intently. ‘Our time together is the highlight of my week, you know that, don’t you?’ Leaning forward, he kissed her gently on the mouth. Reciprocating, Isla instructed herself not to think about Nicole or Nathaniel, about her mum or Clio, about Callum or school or the weeks of missed swimming sessions that she knew, at some point in the autumn season, she may come to regret.
‘You sure you’ll be okay from here?’
Isla nodded. ‘I’ll be fine.’ The quiet residential street where Andrew sometimes dropped her was only a ten-minute walk from home.
Andrew glanced down at his watch. ‘Sorry, I should get going. There are some documents I need to review this evening.’
He kissed her, and Isla tried not to think about the message from Nicole she’d seen on his phone; tried not to speculate that he was, in fact, going home to spend time with his wife.
‘I’ll message you later. And you’re okay for next Thursday?’
Isla nodded, grabbing her bags from the footwell. Kissing Andrew one last time – wishing she didn’t have to leave him, wishing they could spend the whole night together – she got out of the car, gave a small wave and watched him drive away.
‘What are you doing?’
Isla spun around, felt as though her heart had dropped into the pit of her stomach.
‘What’s going on?’
Isla stared at Callum, panic disorienting her for a few seconds. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘ That’s your response? I see you getting out of Andrew Forrester’s car after he’s been mauling you for the past five minutes and all you can ask is what I’m doing here?’
‘It’s not what you think—’
‘I’m not an idiot . I know what I saw.’ Callum shook his head, incredulous. ‘Seriously, Isla. Andrew Forrester? He’s Nathaniel’s dad , for fuck’s sake. It’s... it’s weird, you know that, right?’
Isla winced, her fist tightening around the strap of her bag.
‘How long’s it been going on?’
She looked down at the ground, could not find the words she needed to defend herself.
‘Shit. Is that why you broke up with me? Because of him ?’
Colour rushed to fill Isla’s cheeks, and she couldn’t look up, did not want Callum to see the guilt written on her face.
‘It is, isn’t it? Jesus, Isla, this is fucked up. He’s taking advantage of you, you know that, don’t you? He’s a fucking creep.’
Isla forced herself to look directly at Callum. ‘It’s not like that—’
‘Not like what ? He’s practically fifty, Isla. You’re seventeen. What part of that is not fucked up?’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘Oh, don’t give me that. What did he tell you? That his marriage was shit and he’s only staying with his wife for the sake of the kids?’
A fresh rush of blood bloomed on Isla’s neck.
‘For fuck’s sake. It’s such a cliché. You’re smart. How did you fall for that bullshit?’
Something snapped inside Isla: a need to exonerate herself, to validate her relationship, to counter the false narrative Callum was constructing. ‘It’s not bullshit. He loves me.’
Callum groaned, but Isla pressed on.
‘I’m sorry. I know you’re still upset about what happened with us. I never meant to hurt you, you must know that.’
Callum watched her through narrowed eyes. ‘I presume you’re sleeping with him?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘It’s obvious. Jesus. How can you be so gullible?’
‘I’m not—’
‘What do you think’s going to happen? You think he’s going to leave Nathaniel’s mum? That you’re going to move in together? Ditch university to play Happy Families with a bloke old enough to be your dad? A bloke who used to be friends with your dad, for fuck’s sake. How can you not see how screwed up it is? He’s using you, Isla. How can you not see that?’
Tears pricked Isla’s eyes, and she blinked them away. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t have to listen to this.’ She turned around, began to walk away, felt a hand on her arm.
‘Stop, please. I’m worried about you. I’m worried what you’ve got yourself into.’
Isla pulled her arm free. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine.’
Callum looked at her, a frown pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘Seriously. Just think about what you’re doing. And if you ever need to talk...’
His softened voice trailed off, and suddenly fresh anxiety plucked at Isla’s fears. ‘You won’t tell anyone, will you?’
For a few seconds, Callum stared at her, a flurry of emotions crossing his face, too fast for Isla to read. ‘You need to end it. You know you do. Just stop it now, before anyone else gets hurt.’
Without waiting for a response, Callum turned and walked away.
Hugging her bag to her chest, Isla watched him go, cursing herself for having been so foolish, for having forgotten that the place Andrew sometimes dropped her was close to Callum’s athletics club.
But mostly, she thought about Callum’s expression: the shock, the disgust, the disappointment writ large. And as much as she tried to reassure herself that Callum wasn’t vindictive, that he’d keep it to himself in spite of the pain she had caused him, dread churned in her stomach. Because now Callum knew. And Isla had no way of predicting what he might do with the information.
As soon as Isla stepped through the front door, she heard voices coming from the kitchen, felt a lurch of apprehension.
Slipping quietly out of her trainers, she began to creep up the stairs, hoping to avoid a conversation. But her rucksack knocked against a picture on the wall, sent it rattling in its frame.
‘Isla, is that you?’ Her mum’s voice called through the closed kitchen door.
Silently cursing her clumsiness, Isla tried to inject some brightness into her voice. ‘Yep. Just going to take a shower.’
‘Come in and say hello first.’
Heading back down the stairs, Isla walked along the chequerboard floor of the hallway, stretched her lips into a pronounced smile before pushing open the kitchen door.
Sitting at the table with a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé between them were her mother and Nicole.
‘How was swimming?’
‘Good thanks.’ Isla swallowed the lie, her attention darting round the room, trying not to lock eyes with Nicole.
‘School okay?’
‘Yep, fine.’
‘Did Nathaniel seem alright? He was a bit off-colour this morning and I haven’t seen him since.’
Nicole’s question was directed at Isla, and she couldn’t avoid her any longer. Turning to look at her, she implored her guilt to keep itself hidden. ‘He seemed fine in maths this morning.’
‘Good. It’s a relief school’s broken up today. You all need a holiday.’ Nicole’s smile was wide, trusting, affectionate.
‘Nicole just popped over for a glass of wine.’ Her mum’s cheeks were flushed, and Isla suspected they’d had more than a glass.
‘Andrew’s still at work, so I thought I’d come over and keep your mum company.’ Nicole clocked the time on her watch. ‘Actually, I ought to make a move. His text said he’d be home by half eight and I promised we’d eat together.’
Isla’s cheeks ached with the effort of smiling. A voice in one ear told her not to worry, that of course Andrew would need to have dinner with his wife sometimes, that it was no indication of his true feelings. But another voice whispered that he had not been entirely honest with her, that he’d told her he was going home to work when all along he was planning to have dinner with Nicole.
Drinking the last of her wine, Nicole stood up from the table. ‘See you at Pilates in the morning?’
Abby nodded. ‘Absolutely. I’ll see you out.’
As her mum and Nicole walked into the hallway, chatting about school PTA events they were planning for the next academic year, Isla’s phone pinged, and she pulled it from her pocket, opened the message.
Hi beautiful. Thanks for this afternoon. I wish you could know how much I love our time together. Connections like ours don’t come along very often. I miss you so much when we’re not together. I can’t wait for us to have a couple of days alone. I’ll look at my diary and let you know dates. I love you. x
Isla read the message, butterflies dancing in her stomach, and tapped out a reply.
I’m so excited about going away together. It’ll be perfect. I love you too. X
As she heard the click of the front door, she exited WhatsApp, slipped her phone into her pocket, and willed the guilt to erase itself from her face.
It had been a week since Callum spotted Isla getting out of Andrew’s car. Seven days during which Isla had waited – breath bated – to see if he would do anything, tell anyone. Seven days of Isla trying to prepare herself for the worst. But nothing had happened. School had broken up and she had not seen Callum since: he was away for a few days at a summer school. He’d sent her some messages, asking if she was okay, and she’d replied with anodyne emojis; she didn’t want to ignore him for fear of provoking him, but equally had no desire to continue their last conversation.
The evening sun veined the sky as she stepped through the train doors and onto the station platform. She thought about Andrew, back in his office by now after their truncated evening together. He’d been full of apologies that he couldn’t stay, had told her the US stock market was behaving erratically and that he needed to get back to work, however much he wished he could stay longer. But he’d shown her the hotel he’d booked for their mini-break later in the summer: a Cotswold country house with beautifully landscaped gardens and a Michelin-starred restaurant. All Isla had to do was concoct an alibi for her mum, the one part of the plan she wasn’t looking forward to; she’d never lied to her mum before her relationship with Andrew – never had cause to – and the current layers of subterfuge in her life were beginning to weigh on her like strata of rock.
‘Hey Isla.’
Isla whipped her head around, startled by the sight of Nathaniel standing on the platform inches behind her – too close for comfort – his unfeasibly long arms dangling at his sides, his spindly legs and bony knees protruding ridiculously from a pair of shorts miles too large for him.
Isla tried to gather her thoughts, but her mind was replete with anxiety.
Nathaniel had just got off the same train as her. The train from Waterloo that Isla had travelled on having spent two hours in a hotel room with Nathaniel’s dad.
‘Hey. How are you?’ Her voice was unexpectedly steady, but she looked away as Nathaniel fell into step beside her, through the automatic ticket barrier and out onto the street.
‘Good thanks. What have you been up to?’
It was an innocuous enough question but to Isla it felt loaded, accusatory.
‘Just in Wimbledon seeing a friend.’
‘Anyone I know?’
Isla tried to breathe slowly, steadily. ‘No, just someone I used to train with.’ Above the sound of commuters hurrying past and traffic on the main road, Isla was sure Nathaniel must be able to hear the false note in her voice.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be at training tonight?’
Thoughts stumbled in Isla’s head. The lies she was telling. The spontaneous excuses she was having to conjure, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat. ‘Honestly? I just needed an evening off.’
She could feel Nathaniel’s eyes drilling into the side of her face, tried to avoid the intensity of it, focused instead on the collection of acne spots dotting his forehead.
‘That’s weird. I got on at Wimbledon and I didn’t see you on the platform.’
For a moment, Isla was blindsided. She felt under interrogation, as though anything she said risked incriminating her further. ‘I almost missed it. Had to jump on at the last minute.’ The lie blazed in her cheeks: hot, unsettling. ‘Don’t say anything to anyone about seeing me here, will you? My mum’ll be annoyed I didn’t go to training. But I just really needed a night off.’
Nathaniel nodded. ‘Course.’ A smile curled at one corner of his lips as though they were now bound together by the secret she had asked him to keep.
A bus trundled past, diesel fumes acrid in the back of Isla’s throat. As they turned off the main road and towards both their homes, Nathaniel stopped suddenly, put a hand on Isla’s arm, his fingers clammy against her skin.
‘Listen, I don’t know whether I should tell you this or not.’ He paused, like a judge on a television talent show. ‘I don’t want to stir things up, but I think there might be something going on between Callum and Yasmin.’
Isla felt herself frown. ‘Why?’
‘I saw them in the park together at the weekend. Callum’s arm was round Yasmin’s shoulders. They looked... close, you know?’
Jealousy contorted beneath Isla’s ribs. It was hypocritical, she knew. She was the one who had ended the relationship. She was the one who had betrayed Callum: who had kissed another man while they were still dating. And yet the thought of him in a relationship with someone else – with one of her friends – was too painful to contemplate. ‘They’re mates. Why wouldn’t they hang out?’ She could hear the defensiveness in her voice.
‘They weren’t just hanging out, though. It was obvious from the way they were together that something’s going on.’
The muscles tightened in Isla’s throat. ‘When was this?’
‘Sunday.’
The timeline mocked her. Three days after Callum had seen her with Andrew.
Nathaniel squeezed Isla’s arm, and she felt herself flinch from his touch. For years, she and Nathaniel had hugged without a second thought. Now, every instance of physical contact between them was charged with one-sided desire that made her flesh crawl.
‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything. I just thought you’d want to know. You’re way prettier than Yasmin anyway.’
Nathaniel tried to hold her gaze, but it was fervent, uncomfortable, and Isla looked away.
‘No worries.’ She pulled her lips into a determined smile, swerved the conversation onto a different subject. ‘What were you doing in Wimbledon, anyway?’
Nathaniel paused, and Isla sensed his disappointment that she wouldn’t gossip about Callum and Yasmin. ‘I had to take my bike to the repair shop. Brakes kept squeaking. Was driving me nuts.’
Finally, they reached the interchange that bisected their routes home, and Isla said goodbye, felt relieved to be free of Nathaniel’s cloying presence.
And yet, his words echoed in her ears: It was obvious from the way they were together that something’s going on . She tried to tell herself that Callum wasn’t malicious, that he wouldn’t go out with one of her close friends just to wreak revenge. But the timing was indisputable, too suspicious to be a coincidence: just days after he found out about her relationship with Andrew.
However much Isla tried to view Callum’s actions through a generous prism, they kept refracting in the same distorted way: with the fear that if Callum was resentful enough to start dating one of her best friends, perhaps it was foolish of her to trust that he would keep her relationship with Andrew a secret.