A whole night away. This is only the fourth time this has happened. To say it’s a big deal, a milestone, would be an understatement on a par with announcing Kim Kardashian’s back end is a little on the full side.
A whole night means ten times the intimacy. By which I don’t mean sex, I mean teeth brushing and morning breath and waking up with no make-up on. Grown-up stuff. The meat and potatoes of relationships.
It was me who pushed for it. It wasn’t a big romantic gesture on Patrick’s part. I have been feeling a tad insecure since our fight about me wanting a job, I’m not going to lie. It brought it home to me that I am never going to be the number one priority in his life. So I whined a bit. Stamped my foot and said I felt I was being used. For a while I thought I’d pushed him too far and that he was going to decide it was all too much hassle. That what he had with me was meant to be fun, not hard work. So I backed off a bit and the next thing I knew he’d booked a room – an executive suite, no less – at The Langham.
It was a victory. One I could only share with Ali, who I had finally confided in because, despite Patrick’s insistence that no one must ever know, I was desperate to let someone into the secret to make it seem real. I thought she would be disapproving – she has a tendency to lecture on about the way women treat women, but she has a new boyfriend, so she’s mellowed out a bit lately. Until it all goes wrong again, that is. And she actually laughed and said good for me if it was making me happy.
Which it was until Tamsin told me about him and Michelle trying for a baby.
I mean … listen, I’m not thick. I know he has to carry on as if everything is normal and that, I suppose, includes sleeping with his wife every now and again. But there’s a world of difference between that and ‘they’re trying to get pregnant’. Trying to get pregnant means envisioning the future together. It means happy families and let’s be mummy and daddy. It means commitment.
And, according to Tamsin it means they’re at it like a pair of virgins in their first week at university. Now they’ve started they can’t stop. And the thought of that literally makes me feel sick.
So now I’m on my way up to the fourth floor of The Langham, not fizzing with anticipation, not with the rush I usually get as I approach his room that’s a combination of anticipation and fear of being spotted. I’m feeling pissed off, used and taken for granted. I want to know where I stand. I want answers.
‘Hey,’ he says, when he opens the door a couple of millimetres to check it’s really me.
‘Hi.’
He lets me in. I’ve noticed that a few times lately we haven’t spent the whole evening in bed. We’ve talked. I’d put it down to the fact that our relationship was evolving into something more serious. We cared about each other. It wasn’t just the sex, we had a connection. Yeah, right. Or maybe he’s just been so knackered from his marathon sessions with Michelle that he hasn’t got the energy. Perhaps I should suggest we skip the bedroom altogether and just have a nice cup of tea and a catch-up.
It’s as if he picks up on the atmosphere. I’m not surprised, it’s oozing out of me like ectoplasm from a ghost. ‘You good?’ he says, and for the first time it irritates me that he has a tendency to use a kind of cod American way of speaking sometimes. I used to find it sexy. Now it’s grating. Same with the hipster clothes. Suddenly they seem too self-conscious, too studied. I want to shout, ‘You’re not from Brooklyn, you know. You’re an over-privileged English grammar school boy from Epsom.’
‘I’m fine,’ I say, clearly not fine.
He rolls his eyes. He’s got with the programme. We are on the same page. ‘For fuck’s sake, Bea, what’s up now?’
‘Nothing,’ I say huffily, thus giving away that there most definitely is something.
‘Oh no. I am not going to play this game. If you’re upset about something say so, but don’t do the whole “everything’s fine” martyr act.’
He sits down on the edge of the bed. The champagne cork remains unpopped. I’m dying for a drink actually. I think about opening it myself but it doesn’t seem appropriate at the moment. This is not going well. I have two choices: cave in as usual and accept my second-class status, or have it out with him. It’s about time.
‘OK.’ I sit on a chair opposite him. ‘Tamsin told me you and Michelle are trying for a baby.’
I lean back, let him take in the full weight of what I’m saying – which he does pretty quickly, it seems, because he laughs. Not the reaction I was anticipating.
‘That’s it? That’s the reason you’re in such a shit mood?’
‘Well, are you?’
‘What if we are? I’ve told you before she’s always wanted kids.’
‘What do you mean “What if we are?” You’re going home every night for shag-a-thons and I’m supposed to think that’s OK?’
He laughs again and it has a hollow, mean sound.
‘Hardly. And even if I was, she’s my wife. What do you want me to say to her? “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind, but my girlfriend will be upset if I have sex with you?”’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘Do you know what, Bea? I don’t.’
‘You’re really going to have a baby?’
‘Ah, so, are you upset about the fact that you think Michelle and I are at it like rabbits, or are you upset about the fact that we might have a baby? I’m confused.’
I try to ignore the sarcastic tone. I can’t bear it when people try to win arguments on technicalities.
‘If you have a baby, what happens then? For us, I mean.’
‘Nothing happens. We carry on as normal.’
I don’t know how I feel about this. I do know, however, how I feel about the other half of the picture. And even though I know I should probably keep my mouth shut, I can’t.
‘So, is it … I mean … Tamsin basically said Michelle told her you can’t keep your hands off each other …’
‘And Tamsin is so trustworthy.’
‘Why would she make that up, though? Michelle must have said something to her.’
‘I really don’t want to talk about this, funnily enough.’
‘But what if I do? It’s not fair that I’m kept in the dark about everything …’
‘You want me to tell you all about mine and Michelle’s sex life?’
That stings. They don’t just have occasional sex, they have a sex life.
‘No. You know what I mean.’
‘Fine. Yes, Michelle and I are trying for a baby. Yes, it means we need to have intercourse in order to achieve that. Happy?’
‘But why are you trying for a baby? Why now?’
‘Because she has wanted one forever and I’ve run out of reasons why we shouldn’t get on with it and do it. Besides, d’you know what? I’ve decided I want a kid. Sue me.’
This is not the admission of a man who’s thinking he might leave his wife one of these days and set up home with his girlfriend.
‘I thought …’ I stumble, I can’t say it.
‘You thought what? You’ve always known I was never going to leave Michelle. Apart from anything else, her dad is my boss.’
‘So you’re going to stay with a woman who makes you unhappy because it might affect your career prospects if you don’t?’
He looks at me levelly. My stomach turns over. ‘When have I ever said she makes me unhappy?’
He’s right, he hasn’t. I just assumed, what with all the affairs on the side. He hardly acts like a man who values his marriage.
And then I do the thing I always swore I would never do. I get personal.
‘How can she? I mean, look at her. She’s such a … frump.’
I know the minute it’s out of my mouth that I shouldn’t have said it. Lesson number one: never criticize the wife. He gives me a look that could freeze mercury.
‘How do you know what she looks like?’
Ah, yes, there’s that, too. I didn’t tell him about my encounter with Michelle at the office. I worried it might make him panic that things were getting too close to home.
‘She came into work to meet Tamsin.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘Only for a second. Don’t worry, I didn’t give you away.’
‘Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t know. It wasn’t that big a deal.’
If he believes that he’ll believe anything.
‘Michelle is one of the sweetest, nicest people I’ve ever met. Probably the nicest. I would never want her to get hurt, that’s all.’
‘But if I do that’s just collateral damage?’
‘Don’t be stupid. This isn’t about you. I just want to be sure Michelle’s protected. None of this is her fault.’
‘So that’s why you’re fucking me?’ I can’t help myself, it just comes out. In a rather loud, shouty way.
He stays calm. I’d rather he yelled back at me if I’m being honest. It would show passion. Show that he cares.
‘What we have is irrelevant. It’s separate from my marriage.’
‘How convenient. I wonder if Michelle would see it that way.’
‘Don’t. You. Dare.’ He spells it out, emphasizing each word.
‘I’m not … that’s not what I was saying.’
He stands up. ‘You know what, Bea, I don’t really feel like being here now.’
Shit. This wasn’t what I expected to happen. Although what I did expect to happen I don’t really know.
I stand, too.
‘No. I’m sorry … I just … I need to think before I open my mouth.’
‘You can stay here if you want, but I’m going home.’
‘No, Patrick—’
‘Maybe we just need a bit of space, I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry about what I said …’
He’s picking up his jacket. ‘I’ll call you, OK. The champagne’s paid for. You might as well drink it.’
‘No, please don’t …’
Now I’m begging. Very attractive, I’m sure. But I don’t even have time to wonder what happened to the strong independent woman I once was, because I’m using all my energy to try to stop him going out of the door.