It didn’t happen then.
We sat where we were for maybe five minutes. Him crying and holding on to me like his life depended on it. Me stroking his back. I looked over and saw that Ron was still sitting rooted to the spot, as I had told him he should who knew how long ago. He looked confused. Worried that he didn’t recognize this behaviour in two of his favourite people. I patted my knee – the universal sign for ‘come here’ to a dog – and he trotted over, laying his head on my leg in sympathy. It struck me briefly that we must look like some kind of alternative nativity scene, and I almost laughed. Out of nerves more than anything else.
Eventually Patrick sat up and we shuffled apart. I think we were both feeling slightly self-conscious, not sure how we should behave. I don’t think we’d ever been in such close physical proximity before.
‘Sorry,’ he said, a small embarrassed smile appearing on his face.
‘Don’t be. I completely understand. It will all be OK, though. I promise you.’
‘Will you try and talk to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Thanks. And I’m sorry for getting you involved.’
‘Stop apologizing.’
Thankfully, he laughed as he said this and that eased the atmosphere a bit. I stood up. I couldn’t wait to get him out of there, to be honest. Luckily he took the hint.
‘I should go. Mich thinks I’m only going to get a paper.’
‘I’m braving Budgens,’ I said, standing too.
He leaned over and hugged me, patted Ron on the head. ‘Will you call me if … you know, if she says anything …’
‘Of course. And stop worrying.’
‘I feel much better just for having said it out loud.’ He didn’t look it, to be fair. He looked awful.
‘Any time,’ I said, not meaning it in the slightest.
I showed him out. Went back to the living room and slumped on the sofa. I hadn’t got a clue what to do next.
That was last Saturday. Today is Tuesday.
Of course I called Bea straightaway and told her what had just happened and she was abject. I felt guilty for ruining her weekend, but I wanted to hear just how bad the damage really was, whether she had given away more than Patrick had let on. She eventually admitted to having accidentally mentioned Michelle by name, but she insisted that she had covered well and that Patrick couldn’t really have deduced anything concrete from her mistake. So I tried to cling to the hope that the whole thing might be a massive overreaction on his part. That somehow it might all blow over and go away of its own volition.
And, of course there was nothing for me to talk to Michelle about given I already knew all the answers. I did make a show of calling her on Saturday night, though, and asking her if she fancied meeting me for a potter round Spitalfields Market the next day. I was hoping Patrick would think this was a ruse so that I could quiz her about her suspicions, and would decline to come along. Then I could tell him that we’d had ‘the conversation’ and that everything was fine, Michelle had no worries, she thought their marriage was perfect, and ‘Cheryl’ was clearly some kind of psychic mad woman who he should just forget all about. Job done.
He clearly picked up the signals because it was only Michelle waiting for me by the stinky cheese shop, our agreed rendezvous.
‘You on your own?’ I said, trying to keep the hopeful note out of my voice. Maybe Patrick had just popped inside to try some Montgomery Cheddar.
Michelle rolled her eyes in a jokey way. ‘He said much as he loves you he didn’t want to spend his Sunday morning admiring vintage ladies’ clothes. He’s gone for a run.’
‘Good,’ I said, matching her tone. ‘His loss.’
We wandered amiably up and down the rows of stalls, tried on clothes in Collectif – or, at least, I did and Michelle watched – and flopped on sofas we would never be able to afford in One Deko. It didn’t feel like we were quite our usual selves, though – from my point of view at least. I couldn’t shake the picture of Patrick crying from my mind. Or the sense of guilt that I felt about the atmosphere I must have created between them. I struggled to find our usual effortless common ground.
‘Is something up?’ Michelle said eventually, once we had sat down inside Canteen for a sinful brunch. ‘You seem a bit quiet.’
‘No. I’m fine. Just knackered.’ I hoped I sounded even halfway convincing. I was tired actually. I had hardly slept the night before. That’s how much Patrick’s state of mind had unsettled me.
‘You work too hard.’
‘We all do.’
‘Well, yes, there is that. You look a bit down, though, I don’t know.’
‘Honestly I’m fine. Now, my mum’s birthday. You have to help me …’
Michelle took the bait.
‘Oh God, yes. I should get her something, too.’
‘Let’s have another walk round once we’ve eaten, there’s bound to be something.’
Michelle picked out a 1950s tea set that I knew my mum would absolutely love. I kicked myself for not having thought of it first. Although my mum’s the sort of person who, if it came from me, would look it over carefully for about three painful minutes and then say something like, ‘What’s this?’ whereas if Michelle gave it to her she’d declare her love for retro chic in general and fifties china in particular.
At one point we stopped at a stall selling handmade baby outfits that would have reduced Cruella de Vil to a broody mess. Brightly coloured animal appliqués adorned tiny onesies in a variety of dazzling colours. I tried to edge on past them casually. Move along. Nothing to see here. Michelle, however, had other ideas.
‘Oh my God!’ she squealed. ‘Look at these.’
‘Cute,’ I said, and shuffled towards the next stall, which wasn’t as easy as it sounds. It gets busy there on a Sunday.
‘Hold on,’ Michelle said and I turned to see she was holding a babygro in neutral orange with a – I have to admit – stupidly cute giraffe character on the front.
‘Do you think it’s a jinx if I buy it?’
I raised my eyebrow at her in what I hoped was a sceptical fashion. Michelle knows what I think about jinxes and fate and all that other nonsense.
‘OK, so then I’m buying it.’ She held it out to the woman running the stall. And then noticed a sign saying you could get two for ten pounds rather than pay seven pounds just for one.
‘Choose one,’ she said to me, her face lit up with happy anticipation. This was not a woman who would ever suspect her husband was playing around. Or whose husband should ever have worried that she did. I cursed myself for my stupidity again. I poked around among the piles of tiny outfits, found one that was green with a darker green crocodile.
‘This one.’
‘Perfect. I’m dying to get pregnant,’ she said to the woman as she proffered her ten pound note. ‘I just have to convince my husband that it’s the right time.’
I grimaced. ‘Too much information.’
The woman smiled, ignoring my comment. I suppose her business thrives on hopeful parents-to-be. ‘How lovely. Good luck.’
By half past twelve we were both ready to call it a day.
‘I’m going to have to eat lunch now, too,’ Michelle groaned as we got into a taxi, her heading for Highgate, me for Belsize Park. ‘I think Pad’s hoping for a roast at The Angel. I don’t know how I’m going to fit it in.’
She hugged me as the cab pulled up to drop her off. If she thought her husband had been behaving oddly since Friday she certainly didn’t give anything away.
That afternoon I’d arranged to go to the cinema with Anne Marie. We do this about once a month, when there’s something on at The Everyman that we both want to see. We flop in our comfy seats, have a glass of wine, watch the film and then stuff in a pizza across the road at Pizza Express, while putting the world to rights.
I’ve already decided I would like to be Anne Marie when I grow up. She lives on her own – through choice, she has been proposed to many times – but she has a social life to rival Kim Kardashian’s. She’s always seen every film, play, art exhibition worth seeing. She was married once, years ago, but it was miserable and in the end she walked out one night with nothing but a tiny suitcase, and she vowed never again. Now she does exactly what she wants to do whenever she wants to do it. I doubt she’s ever lonely, she doesn’t have the time.
We sat through a slightly worthy new version of an old classic. It’s a book I love and know well, so it didn’t really matter that my mind wouldn’t stay focused.
‘Ashley seems to be settling in nicely,’ Anne Marie said afterwards, as we ordered an American Hot for me and a Fiorentina for her.
I shrugged. I had no opinion. Anne Marie took that as a sign that I didn’t really want to talk about work, so she asked me if I was thinking about going away this summer and we chatted about Italy versus Greece and villas versus hotels for a pleasant twenty minutes or so. I was only half present, though. Conversation by numbers. If she noticed, she was polite enough not to say as much.
Bea arrived on Monday morning bearing muffins from the little bakery round the corner, so I knew she was feeling guilty. I had already decided not to bring it up again. Although it was tempting. She launched into another apology as soon as she walked through the door and shut it behind her, though.
‘I’ve been going over and over it in my mind ever since you called me. I just can’t believe he worked it out. Even though I said her name. God, I am so sorry about that, I was really nervous and it came out before I could stop it …’
She was rambling, something Bea always does when she’s under pressure. The telltale eye twitch was present. I stepped in to put her out of her misery.
‘It’s OK. It’s fine. I just have to convince him that Michelle doesn’t, and hasn’t ever, suspected him of cheating – which shouldn’t be too hard because she doesn’t and she hasn’t – and then hopefully things’ll go back to normal.’
‘At least now you’ve got your answer, I suppose.’
‘I know. And I feel like an absolute idiot. Remind me never to listen to idle gossip again.’
‘And Patrick’ll forget about it soon enough, once he realizes Michelle isn’t behaving any differently towards him.’
‘God, I hope so.’
‘You were looking out for your friend, that was all,’ Bea said. ‘I don’t think anyone could fault you for that. And if I hadn’t …’
I laughed. ‘OK, stop, let’s just agree we both feel bad. Beating ourselves up is not going to help.’
‘What can I do to make it up to you? Coffee to go with the muffin? More muffins? Coffee-flavoured muffin? Muffin-flavoured coffee?’
‘How about some work? I left a stack of crew CVs on your desk. Could you sort through them and send any that look interesting over to the Downsize Divas production office? They need to be Manchester-based.’
‘Done.’
‘And yes, coffee to go with the muffin. Thank you.’
‘And done.’
I had learned a big lesson. I did not always need to be Michelle’s protector. She did not always need to be protected. Sometimes it was better just to leave things well alone.