There’s only a week to go before my article goes to the printers, and I’m steeling myself for the final meeting with Becky and Lucas. Desperate to minimize contact, I task Ruby with fixing it up. I stare at her while she’s on the phone, wondering why she’s keeping schtum about her bunk‐up scenario with Horst. Although I can think of a million reasons why one wouldn’t own up to regular sex with Stuttgart’s finest export, I can’t bear the idea of him suffering yet another rejection – particularly now he’s found someone worth pining for. Ruby jauntily hangs up, turning to me with a beaming smile. She’s a girl in a happy place.
‘Lucas is on a writer’s retreat apparently, but she’s going to meet you for lunch. She said that she’s got something she needs to ask you.’
‘Did she tell you what?’
‘No, she said she needed to ask you face to face.’
Cold panic spreads through me as I contemplate what that weaselly wanker might’ve said. The whole scenario’s like a perverse game of poker: he must’ve figured that I might tell Harry when he got back, and decided to get in there first. Before I know it, he’ll have rewritten history and turned me into the whore of Harlesden. He’s guessed right: my conversation with Polly has left me determined to open up to Harry, but I haven’t quite plucked up the courage to drop the bomb.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ trills Jocasta, clocking my faraway look. Where does she dredge up her irritating phrases? I wonder if her husband’s as grating and anodyne as she is. The long winter nights must fly by, what with all those discussions about how best to expand their collection of Le Creuset kitchenware and whether or not Puglia really is the new Tuscany.
‘Were you worrying about the panel? It’s such disappointing news about Dr Neil Fox.’
Please God may she never find out that I emailed him direct and told him he was neck and neck with Dave Lee Travis for a place on the panel.
‘I know. But with Harry, Caitlin Somers and our shoe guru we should be fine.’
‘Yes, Anna, but it’s all about accessibility. It’s vital that the event connects with the kind of harassed but fashion conscious mum who reads Casual Chic. Chic but not too chic, that’s the watchword!’ Trust her to bring it back to her people: the mothers. ‘Let’s hope the photos fit the brief. They’re arriving this afternoon, aren’t they?’
Ah, the photos. Almost certainly the only aspect of the whole production that Jocasta and I will see eye to eye on. She’s had to grudgingly fall in with the general consensus that the Becky and Lucas shots are fantastic, so now I just have to hope that the rest of Harry’s work proves as universally popular.
*
Becky’s somehow managing to look every bit as glamorous for a low‐key lunch as she does in Harry’s portraits. I arrive to find her intoning earnestly into her BlackBerry, diamond‐clad hand wrapped tightly round it. She gives me a stressed wave, and I hover uselessly a few metres from the table. If she and Lucas are in meltdown I don’t want to be party to it. She waves me over – a little imperious, a little stressed – and I step forward to accept my fate.
‘Sorry, Anna, curtain rings.’
‘Curtain rings?’
‘Those lovely heavy brass ones are so hard to come by and I’m desperate to lay my hands on some.’
How is it possible to care this much about curtain rings? It suddenly occurs to me that her job might be as silly as mine. Both of them are seemingly artistic, yet entirely lacking in that glorious blaze of creativity inherent in Harry’s photos or Tom’s luscious gardens. I felt slightly unfaithful when I saw Harry’s delight at the glorious enclave Tom had conjured up on the roof. I remembered the semi‐clad moment we shared and meanly described him as ‘that geeky bloke’. Luckily Harry couldn’t even remember who he was.
My insides are coiled up, watchful and expectant, while my perky facade chit‐chats away about nothing. How would a girl as happy‐go‐lucky as Becky approach a situation like this? Is she lulling me into a false sense of security so she can pounce? Or is she as lacking in guile as she appears?
‘So I thought the last bit of the piece would be about the wedding itself.’ I’m faltering a bit now. ‘Um… you know, what your concept for it is and how you’re executing it.’
‘Oh, darling, I feel like I’ve bored you stiff about it already.’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Can I be truthful with you, Anna?’
Oh no, there’s no need for that. I look at her fearfully, a perfidious rabbit caught in very bright headlights.
‘If it was up to me I’d go away and do it on some distant island, just me and Lucas. There aren’t that many people I really care about having there with us. But Ma and Pa would never forgive me.’
‘Oh,’ I say, taken aback. I never imagined that a creature as exotic and prized as her would want to miss her moment in the spotlight.
‘Which brings me to what I wanted to ask you.’
Oh God, this is it.
‘Would you be one of my bridesmaids?’
‘Sorry?’
She repeats the question, smiling expectantly in the face of my blank shock.
‘I’m not big on girlfriends, which made school something of an assault course.’ She giggles hollowly, and I sense there’s a story. It occurs to me what a prison extreme beauty might be – women mistrusting you and men lusting after you in a way that’s almost insultingly undiscerning.
‘Are you sure?’ I say, playing for time. ‘I’m a bit over the hill for an organza frock.’
I remember a teary moment I shared with Susie at the outset of the break‐up when I pointed out that this summer could’ve been the one where she and Polly finally did their duty. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said cheerily, ‘it’ll come, even if we’re the oldest bridesmaids in history.’ It’s shockingly obvious that Becky doesn’t have any cheerleaders to dispense wonky comfort in her hour of need. No wonder she’s ended up picking a dud like Lucas.
‘No, I really want you to do it. You’re completely different from most of the girls I know. Quirky,’ she adds, grinning like it’s a compliment. ‘I know Luke would love it too, and Harry’ll be best man of course.’
Naturally there’s no escape: I reluctantly agree, vowing to myself that I’ll tell Harry the whole truth before the night is out. It’s down to him to decide if there’s any such thing as cruel to be kind. But tonight’s looking fairly action‐packed already. Amy’s mum is having one of those pointless, painful operations which might possibly buy her a little more time, and I’ve offered to have Freddie to stay. The dying always cling on to those last months with such fierce insistence, even if their treatment makes the last splutter of life unbearably painful. I wonder if I’d do it myself? Straining furiously to spin out your dwindling time as far as it can reach must make all those moments one inevitably wastes feel like squandered gold.
In preparation for Freddie’s royal visit I’ve bought a secret tub of Ben and Jerry’s – I’ve decided his infant palate needs educating beyond Magnums – and borrowed The Aristocats from Tabitha in the office. I think I actually wet myself when Karen took me to see it in 1983: let’s hope my bladder control’s improved in the intervening years.
I’m chugging through a mountain of emails when Jocasta announces that the proofs have arrived. I hate the way everything has to go through her these days: now I won’t have a moment to digest them before they’re on show. I rush down to the post room, trying to control the anticipation. ‘Harry’s an artist, Harry’s an artist,’ I mutter compulsively, earning me some strange looks from the mail staff. I don’t want to pore over them in the hallway, but it’s a fatal error. Jocasta’s got Roger down for the grand unveiling, and they’re waiting expectantly in the boardroom. ‘Come with me!’ I hiss to Ruby, forcibly dragging her in.
‘So, the moment of truth,’ says Jocasta, with a nasty smile.
Roger jumps in. ‘Can we just hang fire for a moment?’ I give him a grateful look. ‘Victor should be here any minute.’ Great. We all stand around for what seems like an age before Victor greyly materializes next to me.
‘Anna,’ he says, giving me a strange grimace. The exposure of my lie has turned his already chilly manner down to sub‐zero.
‘So!’ I say brightly, opening the packet with a flourish and spreading the photos out on the table. Oh God: who knew? Arthur’s wearing a tight leather shorts and waistcoat combo and aiming a bubble gun at Hilda. She’s wearing a bizarre metal hat that even the most ardent Hoxtonite would shy away from, and posing as though she’s been shot. The next photos feature Arthur in armour, chasing Hilda with an enormous bow and arrow. This time she’s wearing a peculiar puffball wedding dress that wouldn’t look out of place in a Cindy Lauper video.
‘Goodness me,’ says Jocasta, ‘neither casual nor chic!’ I’m speechless, searching for a response. ‘Harry’s got a unique vision, Jocasta. That’s why people pay him a fortune to shoot for them.’
‘Quite,’ says Victor, looking puce. ‘Shall we investigate the remainder?’
Could Oliver and Steve’s poses actually be worse? He’s put monkey ears and tails on them in the first shots, stripped them down to their underpants and photographed them chasing each other around a grim urban playground. You can hardly pick them out in the second shoot: their blurry forms are bouncing up and down on a garish bouncy castle.
‘Sometimes the road less travelled proves to be the bumpier path,’ says Jocasta, casting me a sorrowful glance.
‘These simply aren’t suitable,’ says Victor, while Roger stares dumbly, mouth flapping like a fish.
‘I agree that they push the envelope,’ I say, red and flustered, ‘but we can always prioritize our third couple over the rest.’ I push Becky and Lucas’s shots forward, encouraging everyone to remember how pleased they were with them.
‘It’s almost like a different person took these,’ says Victor, and for once I agree with him. ‘He’ll have to re‐shoot them. The level of advertising we’ve secured makes the page count critical, not to mention the fact that we’ve sold space on the basis of his involvement.’
‘But we’re going to press in six days. Shoots like this take weeks to set up, and I know for a fact he’s got an editorial for Elle all weekend.’
‘How fortunate that you’ve got a personal relationship. I’m sure you’ll find the perfect way to convince him. Roger, I’ll see you upstairs in fifteen minutes.’
Victor stalks out, radiating vitriol, while Jocasta and Roger wait for my next move.
‘They’re very directional,’ ventures Ruby.
I steel myself, determined to find some of that indomitable grit that my granny has in spades. If I can channel my inner grandmother I know I can turn this around.
‘Yes, they are. They’re imaginative and original, even if they’re not right for Casual Chic. But I know Harry can deliver for us.’
‘Your level of self‐belief has always been one of your most sterling qualities,’ says Jocasta.
‘Thank you, Jocasta, now I need to get on.’
I tear out of the building and flag down a cab. I’m shaking, dreading the confrontation I’m facing with Harry. I’m struck again by how fragile the bond between us is. Adam and I could fight like cat and dog, but I always knew that the bottom line was that we’d do anything to defend the other from life’s traumas. I still feel unreasonably, irrationally protective of him, but I’m not even sure that Harry and I are on the same side. He’s beaming at me as I slam in.
‘So, what did you think? Were they pleased?’
If I’m going to achieve what I need to, I’ve got to take my finger off the nuclear button.
‘Well, we all love the Becky and Lucas shots, but I’m not sure the others are quite what we were aiming for.’
‘What you were aiming for? Isn’t it about what I’m aiming for?’
‘There was a brief, Harry. It is Casual Chic, not Dazed and Confused.’
‘Do they not get it? The old geezers talked about the war, so I wanted to reflect it, all that conflict and jeopardy. And that Oliver guy’s left all his responsibilities behind, he’s decided to play.’
‘Right.’
‘You don’t get it either, do you?’ He gives me a slightly supercilious look. ‘I don’t want to be patronizing, but I do think there’s something very conventional about you sometimes.’
‘Conventional?’ I feel a surge of anger as I think of all those years I spent longing for convention. For parents who didn’t get arrested and clothes that came from actual shops.
‘Yes, there’s a big part of you that likes ordinary.’
‘Oh, spare me the cod psychology, Harry. I knew what we needed, and I thought you did too. You’ll have to re‐shoot them or else I’ll be out of a job this time next week.’
‘No chance. If you don’t appreciate my work then you don’t appreciate me.’
‘Well, maybe I don’t. I begged you to show me what you’d done and all you let me look at were Becky and Lucas’s shots. And surprise, surprise, you chose not to make your best friends look like total fools.’
‘You’re very threatened by our friendship, aren’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Don’t think I didn’t clock how negative you were about the film we made. It’s like you’re intimidated by the kind of risks we take.’
And before I know it I’m telling him what a load of old bollocks I thought it was, and what a talentless arse Lucas is.
‘What’s wrong with you, Anna, why are you being so vicious? Lucas really likes you.’
‘Likes me? That’s one way of putting it.’
I try to calm down. This is too important to tumble out in a stream of rage. I take a deep breath and launch in.
‘When we went away for that weekend, I didn’t run away because of Freddie. It was because of him. He shoved me up against the wall and stuck his tongue down my throat. It was so horrible.’ I’m choked by the relief that confessing instantly brings me. But when I notice Harry’s hard, measuring look the feeling instantly subsides.
‘It doesn’t sound like Lucas to me.’
‘Well, it’s exactly what happened. You need to tell Becky. There’s something very fragile about her, Harry; she might choose to go ahead anyway, but she needs to know what she’s getting in to.’
‘I’m not going to do that to her.’
‘What, you think I’m lying?’
‘No, I just think you might be over‐reacting.’
‘Harry, he mauled me. If I hadn’t fought back I don’t know how far he would’ve gone.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Err, dunno, because he’s sexually incontinent? I hardly know the guy, you tell me.’
‘Well I do, and I know he’s not like that. You’re very insecure, Anna – you’re not trying to make me jealous, are you?’
‘How fucking dare you! Of course I’m not.’
‘OK, I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry’s not good enough, Harry. Polly asked me why I hadn’t told you, and I know now. It’s because you haven’t got the maturity to deal with it, to support me rather than doubt me. It says a lot.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I’m not sure I want to be here any more. I feel like it’s all about you – the photos, Lucas’s hideous behaviour. You’re never going to take care of me, because you’ll be too busy taking care of you.’
‘That’s you all over, isn’t it? Needy.’
‘Maybe I am needy, maybe I don’t sweat self‐confidence like you do. But I would’ve given anything to this if we’d had a real shot. It’s not going to work.’
‘What, you’re dumping me?’
I didn’t know I was until the words were out of my mouth, but now I can’t see an alternative. It’s obviously a professional disaster, but I can’t bear to be with someone who believes themselves to be so invulnerable. It’s not that he’s hiding the chinks in his armour, it’s that he doesn’t even know they exist. When life starts getting messy he’s in for one hell of a shock.
Neither of us speak, we just stand there staring at each other. The silence is broken by the droning cry of the buzzer: Freddie.
‘Look, I’ll take him to my mum and dad’s.’
He presses the intercom. ‘No, don’t.’
Amy’s red‐eyed and tense, desperately trying not to communicate her distress to Freddie.
‘Now you’ll have a lovely time with Anna, so be a good boy.’
I wait for the inevitable howl of protest, but to my amazement he comes and hugs my leg.
‘Hullo, Anna. Can we do the funny singing?’
Funny singing? What a nerve, I’m positively tuneful in comparison to Tom. Nevertheless, I’m oddly moved by his reaction to me – it’s been a very emotional day. Amy leaves, and I ask Harry again if he wants me to go, but he insists he doesn’t. I can see Freddie’s uncertainty at this new environment – he’s been shunted from pillar to post during this whole ordeal – and I’m hugely relieved I don’t have to parcel him off somewhere else. Harry retreats upstairs, and we settle down with The Aristocats. As Freddie giggles away, I turn over what’s just happened. I’ve got a cold, sick feeling running through me but I still think this might be the right decision. The core of truth you need at the centre of any relationship isn’t there for us – that bit of emotional nakedness which allows the other person to know you in a way that no one else can. But is that just a question of time? I’m such a novice after ten years off the horse. I look down to find Freddie’s head in my lap. He’s sucking his thumb, squeaking with pleasure at the cats’ escapades, while I stroke his soft hair. I feel bizarrely content in this moment, despite the chaos that exists outside of it. Harry comes downstairs, casting a searching look in my direction.
‘He’s asleep now, look.’
He’s right; Freddie’s making small snuffling sounds like a piglet. Would it be a disaster if I didn’t wake him to brush his teeth? Will one night’s coating of Ben and Jerry’s leave him with blackened stumps? I decide to risk it, and attempt to carry him through to the spare room.
‘Hey, I’ll do that,’ says Harry, scooping him up and trying to slip him under the covers. He’s clumsy about it though, and Freddie starts to whimper.
‘Shush,’ I say, stroking his sticky face, and making to leave. He grabs hold of me with a vice‐like grip.
‘Sing me the song.’
‘No, Freddie, it’s time to go to sleep.’
He asks again, voice starting to wobble, and I reluctantly pipe up. ‘The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, round and round…’ I give Harry an embarrassed smile.
‘You sing too,’ says Freddie, bossily pointing at him. Freddie’s clapping along delightedly, despite my distinctly dodgy vocal performance. I sneak a look at Harry, who’s silently observing us.
‘OK, darling, that’s enough now.’
I tuck the covers around him, wiping some of the stickiness off his face with the duvet. We sneak out, quietly shutting the door. As soon as we’re out, Harry pushes me against the wall.
‘Don’t do this, Anna. Just don’t.’
‘I’m not sure if we even know each other, not really.’
‘That’s ridiculous, of course we do. I love you.’
And then he’s kissing my neck, and all my resolve’s slipping away. The thought of having to turn my life inside out is so exhausting, admitting defeat all over again, and yet I’m not sure this can ever be right. But suddenly I’m a woman possessed. All the stress and anger comes pouring out of me, and I unleash my inner porn star. Who knew she even existed? I’m magnificent, if I do say so myself. Afterwards we lie next to each other, sweaty and content. ‘I love you too,’ I whisper and fall asleep.
I wake at an unseemly hour, conscious Freddie needs to be roused for school. I sit up, blinking, to find Harry looking over at me.
‘You’re up early. Couldn’t you sleep?’
‘No, Anna, I couldn’t,’ he says soberly. ‘I think you were right last night. It’s not working, is it?’
I look at him in disbelief. I feel ambushed, unable to focus on what he’s saying. Despite everything I said, I can’t bear the idea that he’s going to withdraw from me.
‘We were both really wound up…’
‘I know,’ he says, aggrieved, ‘but you meant the things you said. Not just about us. What you think of Lucas, and the way you feel about all the work I did.’
‘Do you honestly not believe me?’
He’s out of bed now, pulling on his jeans. ‘I don’t want to get into it again. And I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t feel lucky to be with me.’
‘Oh, fuck you, Harry. If you don’t trust me then there’s no point.’
‘No, fuck you, Anna,’ he says, with a nasty smile. Has he really stooped as low as a revenge fuck? I’m trying not to raise my voice, conscious that Freddie’s downstairs.
‘I’d like you to go. It’s better for both of us that we found out now. I won’t let you down on the panel, but I’m not going to re‐shoot my photos. You’re lucky to’ve got them, and you can tell your bosses that from me.’
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, but it doesn’t seem like there’s much left to say. I wake up Freddie and take him to the builders’ café round the corner for a bacon sandwich. Sadly I forget to brush his hair, and there’s no way I’m going back, so he goes to school with an odd sort of Mohican. I keep myself chipper till he’s safely deposited, and then collapse on a nearby bench for a sob. How did I manage to screw up on this many counts: is there anything left for me to lose?