Precocious Read online

  And with that, she’s gone.

  You’re back at school. I’m back at work, and already the summer seems like a distant idyll and the blot on it that was the court case is receding. ‘Forget it ever happened’ is your mantra, the only thing you ever say about the case, and it’s as though everyone has. The world kept turning, after all.

  We’ve settled into a sort of domestic routine, albeit one still flavoured with romance. We leave each other notes. I can’t remember which of us started it; it just seems something that is right for us to do. On the days I leave the house before you, I put one in your coffee mug, or in your trouser pocket. I lean into the steam of the kettle, for warmth, chewing the end of my pen, thinking. You leave them in my make-up bag, or sometimes under the windscreen wiper of my car.

  I leave kisses; you write ‘BOO!’ in big letters or sometimes just ‘Good morning’. Sometimes you might write a line from a song, illustrated in your painter’s hand with carefully coloured-in quavers and clefs.

  Already we look back at the summer weeks in the same way we look back on all our past times together; they’ve become pages written about somebody else. Funny how when recalling those times you always encourage me to go to the good parts. Your memory’s terrible, or so you say. As the autumn gloom and chills encroach on our evenings, we curl up and you murmur, ‘tell me again about the time we …’ and ‘remember when …’

  You sow happy thoughts in my brain, making way, pushing out the bad, the sad.

  You assume, of course, that I kept a diary all those years, ‘prolific little scribe that you were’.

  ‘On and off,’ I shrug. ‘It’s not very organised. Scraps of paper, here and there. Notebooks. And I don’t know how much of it to believe myself, to be honest. Can there be a more unreliable narrator than a teenage girl?’

  As soon as I’ve said it I regret it, as a shadow passes over your face, but you quickly laugh.

  ‘Good to see you haven’t forgotten everything I taught you. When reading any text, always consider the context it was written in.’ You pause. ‘I’d love to see them.’

  ‘I thought you said the past was the past.’ I feel suddenly protective towards my teenage self, her thoughts (and pretensions) etched onto paper, part deep truth, part self-imposed censorship.

  ‘Yes, but I enjoy anything you write.’

  ‘You’re never seeing them.’ I try to end this with a laugh but it comes out cold. You frown.

  ‘What, are you worried I’d try to destroy the evidence?’

  This strikes me as an odd thing to say; we stare at each other for a few moments. Eventually I’m the one to break the silence.

  ‘Perhaps you were right before and we should leave the past where it is. I sometimes wonder …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well … perhaps we should be talking about the future. Why don’t we?’

  ‘Because, sunshine, at my age there’s not as much material. I’m afraid the future is a narrow field of interest for me.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say irritably, ‘you’re forty-three, not ninety-three.’

  ‘Okay, so let me ask you – why do you want to? Isn’t it amazing enough that we’ve got here? Can’t we just enjoy what we have?’

  I shrug. We’ve got here as a result of my decisions, not yours – you haven’t changed anything, you haven’t left anyone, you’re still in your home. And although I left mine, I haven’t fully, not really, not in a committed way.

  ‘What is it you want?’ you tease, filling up my glass. ‘Your name above the letterbox?’

  You joke but I still have my post redirected, not here, but to Mari’s, from where she in turn redirects it here, in bundles every few days. In fact my only contact with her since our conversation just after the court case has been her handwriting on the letters that drop onto the mat. ‘Please redirect to:’, all her letter ‘E’s written like capitals, and a cross through my old identity, and your address, underlined. We haven’t spoken, or met, in weeks. How many weeks? I count them on my fingers.

  I still have things, stuff, as well, at home. Home? Dave’s house? What should I be calling it now? I still have a key, still feel the door is open. I know I could walk back in. So have I actually made any decision? Is it so amazing that we’re here?

  ‘I just feel in limbo,’ I sigh, and what I really want to say is: ‘we’re still just two people having an affair’. Like millions of people, holding a secret the same as millions of secrets.

  I wonder why I’ve only told Mari about you; no one else. Well, I know why I told her at the start; I thought she would understand (which she did), and I thought she might even find it amusing (which she didn’t, not really) and therefore convince me it wasn’t a big deal, it wasn’t serious.

  I told her because I knew she wouldn’t judge me, so I wouldn’t have to judge myself.

  Some friends, while they’d never judge you, act as a sort of mirror, reflecting the truth back at you. Is this why I haven’t told Laura? Or is it because secrecy keeps a thing special?

  ‘Don’t tell anyone’ is a powerful phrase. On this friendships are forged, wars won, lives saved. It binds. It says: no one else would understand. It’s this I haven’t been able to let go of. I regret even telling Mari, which is why, looking at her handwriting on my bills, counting time on my fingers, I suddenly realise why I haven’t seen her.

  Maybe it’s time. Time to make it real. Time to hold up the mirror.

  I’ll call Laura.

  My phone starts to ring while I’m rummaging in my bag for it, and when I see Laura’s home number flashing on my phone, I pick up with a smile.

  ‘You must be psychic. I was just about to call you.’ But I’m surprised to hear Matt. His words, and his voice, are broken.

  ‘It’s Laura. And. The baby. Hospital. Please come.’

  Hospitals make me feel queasy. It’s the colours: the pale green walls, not mint or apple or lime, just a very pale green, a poorly colour. The white sheets: boiled, starched, regulation. Egg white. The sand-coloured floor tiles.

  Laura looks small in her bed, overpowered by flowers. Lilies, her favourite, and roses and gerbera. I add my own bunch, busying myself making the leaves symmetrical in their vase, waiting for her to wake up.

  When she does, it’s with a smile and a ‘hey’.

  ‘How are you?’ A useless question, but she tilts her head as though really thinking about it, as though it’s something she hasn’t been asked before. Finally she says, in a matter-of-fact voice, ‘Empty.’

  I look at the red rim of her eyes, the remnant of tears only for the lost baby, or something else as well?

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ she says. ‘When I fell. He wasn’t there.’

  ‘Where was …?’ but I don’t have to finish, because suddenly I get it.

  ‘Oh, he told me where he was. Racked with guilt, I suppose. And he didn’t stop there. He told me everything.’

  She’s said this sort of thing before. Since she first told me she knew about Matt’s infidelities she’s referred to them countless times but always in an oblique sort of way, as though to a vague phenomenon she thinks might be happening but is detached from and has no interest in proving or disproving.

  But something in her voice is different this time. Although she looks small propped up on her pillows, she sounds stronger. Sure.

  ‘What will you do?’ I ask. I move to stroke her hand but think better of it; she doesn’t look as though she needs hand holding.

  ‘Do?’ She looks puzzled. ‘Carry on, I suppose.’

  I find Matt outside chewing on a vended plastic cup, long since drained of coffee. I raise a ‘What the?’ eyebrow.

  ‘Too right I’ve told her everything,’ he says. ‘Time for a clean slate.’

  ‘Jesus, Matt,’ I say, ‘she’s in hospital. What are you trying to do to her?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘I know it sounds bad, it just … it just seemed like the right thing to do
. I couldn’t bear the thought that if I lost her, she would … she would be gone and I’d never have told her the truth.’

  ‘And how was she?’

  ‘Surprisingly strong.’

  I nod. That figures, I think. That’s Laura in a nutshell: surprisingly strong. She’s practical. She’s always had the ability to weigh things up logically. She’ll be hurt, now, but she can measure the hurt; she can process it. The unknown hurt of being without him; this is what will terrify her. Perhaps losing the baby, and going through this new pain with Matt, will even bring them closer together. It was a risky move, though, I think, looking at him, remembering the story you told me once: the heartbroken wife in the lake.

  ‘You told her about the other women, everything?’

  ‘I think she already knew, on some level.’

  ‘Matt,’ I say, ‘we all already knew. On every level.’ I sigh. ‘At least it shows some sort of respect for her that you admitted it.’

  ‘There’s one thing I didn’t tell her,’ he says, and I immediately know what he’s going to say. ‘I didn’t tell her about the time that we … you and I. You know.’

  ‘Well, nothing happened,’ I say, suddenly unable to look him in the eye.

  ‘I know, that’s maybe why I don’t feel so bad not telling her. And you’re her best friend.’

  ‘You know, over the years, I’ve wondered if I imagined it. If I misread the signals.’

  He laughs. ‘You didn’t misread it, Fee. And even with all the things I’ve done, to be honest that’s one thing I’m not ashamed of.’

  ‘You ought to be, for Christ’s sake. It was your engagement party! And as you say, I’m her best friend.’

  ‘I know. It’s just … there was always something about you.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  ‘No, no, that’s it. The old Matt, done and dusted. I’m a reformed character. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I won’t even flirt with you anymore.’ I swear his eyelid flickers as though he’s trying to suppress an unconscious wink. I smile ruefully. ‘And that’s not all. I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘You do realise that announcement isn’t so dramatic when you’ve been engaged for five years?’

  ‘Yep. And I don’t care. I don’t care about drama. Sometimes you realise what’s important in life, Fee. As horrible as all this is,’ he waves his hand down the corridor and then around his head as though trying to bat away a fly, ‘it’s been the wake-up call that I needed.’

  I go back into the ward to say goodbye and Laura has the glazed look of someone just about to doze off. The half-closed eyes that make those around them tread softly and lower their voices.

  ‘Congratulations,’ I whisper, ‘I hear you’re getting married.’

  Laura smiles.

  ‘Yeah, I heard that too. Thanks.’ She stares at me. ‘I feel sort of guilty, like I can’t be happy about it. I don’t really know how I’m supposed to cope … with this.’ She motions listlessly towards her stomach. ‘This wasn’t in the plan, you know?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, maybe there’s a different plan. You just can’t see it yet.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Sorry, that was a pretty useless thing to say. I know nothing can make this better.’

  ‘It’s just good that you’re here.’

  Her eyes start to close and this time I do grasp her hand, and she gives it a squeeze in return. Just when I think she’s fallen asleep, she whispers, ‘You know what it’s like, don’t you? This, I mean.’

  I hesitate, ‘Well, not really.’

  ‘To lose a … you know.’

  ‘Well, that was a bit different.’ I shift in my seat.

  ‘You never really …’ she draws a slow and painful-sounding breath, ‘you never really told me.’

  ‘Ssh. Try to rest now.’

  ‘I feel like I’ll never rest again.’

  But in spite of herself she yawns, and her eyes stay closed, and I watch the rise and fall of her chest slowing down as eventually sleep comes over her.

  I nudge her gently awake as visiting hours come to a close and the light gets lower.

  ‘You’ll be okay, won’t you? You and Matt, I mean.’

  ‘We will.’ She narrows her eyes even more until they’re almost closed. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Well, Dave and I—’

  ‘I’m not talking about Dave. I mean the other one.’

  I look at her.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I just know you.’

  I laugh; that’s true. I haven’t given her enough credit.

  ‘Ask me again when you’re home, and better.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel better. Not really.’ That matter-of-fact tone to her voice again. She takes my hand. ‘But, you promise you’ll tell me?’

  I hesitate. I can’t escape the feeling that the reason I haven’t told anyone else about you is because I know. I know what they’ll say, and I know they’ll be right.

  ‘I promise.’

  You’re working hard, these days, and late, some nights. You did warn me this would happen. More management-type stuff, you said. Kind of a promotion.

  ‘I’ll have to put the hours in,’ you say, ‘especially now.’

  ‘I thought you said everything was the same, nothing has changed.’ I sound whiny but I can’t help it; without you here, I feel completely lost in this house. And for the second or third time in as many weeks, you’re telling me you’ll be late home. As usual you tell me casually, while cooking dinner, while not looking at me.

  ‘Nothing’s changed for us, is what I meant,’ you frown, ‘I mean, we’re okay, aren’t we? At least, I hope you wouldn’t let that stupid … well, you wouldn’t let all of that get to us, would you?’

  I give the only answer that question can accept: ‘of course not’.

  ‘But at school, obviously it’s different … all I’m saying is I’m grateful for how they’ve supported me, so I might have to do a bit extra here and there. Not have to, in fact – want to. It’s the least I can do, don’t you think?’

  Again I have to agree. I know I’m being too sensitive; I try to make light of it. Sliding my arms around your waist from behind and leaning into your back, I murmur, ‘Just come back to me as early as you can, okay?’

  The phone wakes me in the dark. Your phone. I blink at the clock: 2 a.m. We both scramble for it, me rolling on top of you, almost entirely over you, but it’s on your side so you reach it first, reject the call, switch it off. You turn back into the pillow, wordlessly, as though to go back to sleep.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ I ask.

  ‘Wrong number.’

  ‘How do you know, when you didn’t pick up?’

  ‘Go to sleep, Fiona.’

  Fiona, not Fee. That means: end of conversation. With a loud ‘humph’ noise I get out of bed, pull a cardigan from the chair around my shoulders and stalk out of the room.

  In the morning, you whistle as you make your coffee. Take it into the bathroom with you.

  Your phone, on the kitchen worktop, sitting there like a clue to an unsolved crime.

  I pick it up, hands trembling, and start to scroll. Missed calls, received calls. Nothing. All call history erased.

  I visit Laura as soon as she is home and, keeping my promise, I try to contain you in a few sentences.

  It’s weird, because I was at school with Laura so she has a certain view of you, different to that of, say, Mari or someone who hadn’t met you. I tell her about then, about now; I tell her everything as quickly as I can.

  She looks at me with wide eyes.

  ‘I always thought … it was Todd. I thought you were going out with him. Everything that you said happened … I thought it was him.’

  ‘Todd was my cover, I suppose,’ I sigh, ‘we were never boyfriend and girlfriend.’

  ‘Mr Morgan,’ she’s shaking her head. ‘I’m not totally surprised, I have to say.’

  ‘Don’t
tell me,’ I say, ‘he had an affair with you, too, right?’ It’s a weary joke but a tiny beaten part of me is afraid she will turn to me and say yes.

  ‘No, but … I heard there was a girl. Years before … years ago. And … Helen Platt. I remember her. That was taken as fact, right? You. This girl, Alice.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I frown.

  ‘I’m saying, who knows how many, since … and now.’

  ‘So girls threw themselves at him. That doesn’t prove anything. And who hasn’t got a past, especially when you get to your thirties and forties?’

  Gently, she puts her hands on my knees and says, ‘We’re not talking about someone who’s just got “a past”, Fee. Or someone who’s had or is even still having lots of partners. God knows,’ she smiles ruefully, ‘I know enough to write a book about that. We’re talking about a man, Fee – and children.’

  In a small voice I say, ‘But he’s with me now. I’ll … I can help him. I can … save him.’

  The words recall a note in my make-up bag that I’d forgotten, even though it’s only weeks old; a page from an exercise book, your handwriting saying ‘Save me?’, the question mark, everything.

  A plea I’ve never answered.

  A note I’d forgotten. I guess we pick and choose the messages we receive.

  ‘He’s my template, you see,’ I tell her, ‘he was the first … and the last. Everything in between just feels like it was a pretence. A waste, even. Nothing was ever going to live up to him. It didn’t matter, doesn’t matter, what he’s done, what he’s like. He’s what I measure by. He’s all I know.’

  ‘You should’ve talked to me before,’ she says quietly, studying my face. ‘You’ve been lonely.’

  To my own surprise, I find myself saying, ‘Yes.’

  I’m reminded of the last phone call from Mari, a few weeks ago now. It’s lonely when no one knows what’s going on in your life. Her plea for company. The times I’ve let her calls ring out since then. I suddenly realise: maybe it wasn’t about me. I look at Laura, her sadness, her surprising wisdom. People’s lives are going on, I think. What if I hadn’t answered the phone to Matt, what if all this had happened and I hadn’t known about it? With a final, gentle hug, I start to gather my things together.