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LADY MO: Why not ask him outright if he’s shagging the teen porn queen?
DARRELL: Because the answer is almost certainly ‘yes’.
LADY MO: There is logic in that approach. Twisted in-denial logic of the ‘no news is good news’ kind, but still. Speaking of which — have you womanned up and called your publisher?
DARRELL: Publisher and I have had contact, yes.
LADY MO: Detect weaselness in that answer! Messages left on answerphones do not count as contact!
DARRELL: Can we change the subject?
LADY MO: To what? Would you prefer to discuss the odds of your non-boyfriend hooking up with the nubile pubescent shag-ee?
DARRELL: . . .
LADY MO: Sigh. I suppose your latest romance-writing attempt is also off the table?
DARRELL: I’m stuck. Storyline is not forming properly. The ending is remaining blurry and indistinct.
LADY MO: Ending = happy ever after, surely? Same as always?
DARRELL: Has lost its lustre. Is no longer the end point to dash to with winged heels. Feet are dragging.
LADY MO: No great shock that, though, wouldn’t you say?
DARRELL: Why wouldn’t you?
LADY MO: Well — rose-tinted view of romance is not really possible when one is attached to an absent rake?
DARRELL: Has it occurred to you that you are an insensitive cow?
LADY MO: Cannot read tone of voice on screen — was that said lightly and with affection or with white knuckles and lemony lips?
DARRELL: Has it occurred to you not to rub it in?
LADY MO: Rub what? Knuckles?
DARRELL: The fact that my life sucks and yours is effing perfect!
LADY MO: Cannot help how the cards have fallen.
DARRELL: Can help patronising smugness though!
LADY MO: Has it occurred to you that we don’t really have much in common anymore?
DARRELL: It has, yes! I cannot contribute to discussion on potty training, apple porridge preparation or pregnant sex positions. I’d sooner pluck out eyeballs than watch Dr Phil! And I wonder if Chad is really that perfect or you just see what you want to see!
LADY MO: Have a nice life, Darrell. I certainly will. Lady Mo signing off . . .
‘You got a job or something?’
Tyso handed me a cup of tea. His boss was nowhere to be seen. I took the tea, even though I did not want it; I was grateful that he’d thought to make me one.
‘A job?’
‘You’ve been out whole time we’ve been here this week. Thought you might be going to work.’
I had been out all day, that was true. But no one was paying me a wage. I’d been to the British Museum and the V&A. I’d been to the Tate Modern and the Tower. I’d even trooped around HMS Belfast. I’d sat on a lot of benches and stared at a lot of nothing.
‘No job,’ I told Tyso. ‘I’ve been out doing — research. For my writing.’
And now I intended to change the subject. ‘Where’s your boss?’ I asked.
Tyso made a face. ‘Psyching himself up, probably.’
‘Psyching for what?’
‘Tonight.’
Really, I could get information faster and more lucidly by draining my cup and reading the tea leaves.
‘And what’s happening tonight?’
Tyso glanced over his shoulder into the courtyard, just to make sure Anselo hadn’t beamed himself in during the last thirty seconds.
‘I dunno, exactly,’ he said. ‘But I’ve overheard phone calls, haven’t I? Between him and that cow.’
‘The girlfriend cow? Or a whole new cow?’
‘No, just her.’ Tyso’s face darkened. ‘He said he had something important to say to her. Can only be one thing, can’t it?’
Personally, I felt that all depended on your definition of important. For example, ‘I forgive you’ from a friend might seem like the only thing worth hearing right now. Much, much more important, in fact, than ‘I love you’ from even the most desirable man.
But we weren’t talking about me. ‘One thing?’
Tyso looked at me as if I was backward. ‘He’s going to pop the question.’
You know, that made a lot of sense. And it was probably me who’d been the spur. At the wedding. I’d questioned why he hadn’t brought her, which I think made him question his commitment. So now he’d come to a decision.
‘If it’s any consolation,’ I told Tyso, ‘you won’t have to work with her. I don’t think she’s the steel-capped boot type.’
My cup was still full of tea and there was a skin forming on the top. I reached past Tyso and poured it down the sink.
‘Was it crap?’ Tyso asked me. ‘I make it too strong sometimes. Sorry.’
He was so sweet. A truly nice boy. One day he’d make some lucky girl a wonderful husband.
‘I have to go.’ I put on a bright smile. ‘I’ll be back after you’ve gone, so enjoy the weekend.’
‘OK . . .’
Tyso was frowning. I did not intend to wait and see if he was about to ask me if I was all right.
Outside, I was relieved to see that Anselo’s van was parked down the street in the opposite direction to the way I was headed. I would congratulate him. I really would. But later. Not today.
Marcus had texted me tell me the name of the new place in the West End. It was already super-fashionable, a place to be seen. Gus had scored a booking through some contact she had in the art world. I knew that I should have looked for something to wear during the week, but I hadn’t. By the time Friday came, all I had in my wardrobe was my red halter-neck. It wasn’t as fresh as it should be — I hadn’t got round to taking it to the dry-cleaners. But I had no choice.
I took a taxi and when I arrived, I was horrified. There was a queue of people, waiting for tables to become free, or waiting to be permitted entrance — I didn’t know which. I made the driver go past and drop me further down the street; I had no wish to announce my arrival to all those people. I stood outside a closed-up antique dealer’s shop and tried to work out what I should do.
I had purposefully arrived fifteen minutes late, but that did not mean Marcus would already be there. I did not know whether to wait outside for him, or whether to jump the queue and persuade the doorman I was legit. But Marcus had not said whose name the booking was under, and after seeing the people in the queue I’d lost all confidence. They were so beautiful. So skinny. So cool. Their clothes were the height of smart fashion. My red dress was out of date and ridiculous. My hair was all wrong. I was too big, too unfashionable, too much of a nobody.
And then I saw them. They were getting out of a cab right outside, laughing at some shared joke. They had not seen me.
I ducked back, into the shadowy doorway of the antique shop. Gus took Marcus’ arm and they walked straight inside, without even a passing glance at the waiting queue. Their poise and beauty shrieked privilege. They were so alike, twinned in elitist cool.
I knew then that I would never make it into that restaurant. I also knew that I had just seen Marcus for the very last time. And the loss struck me so hard that I could not breathe.
‘Darrell—?’
I didn’t recognise him right away. He was in a suit that made him look like a million dollars. He’d have no trouble fitting in to the queue.
He touched me lightly on the arm. ‘You all right?’
I became aware there was someone with him. Anselo stepped a little to one side and said, ‘Darrell, this is Vivienne.’
Tyso was right. Vivienne looked just like Grace Kelly, with a touch of Ingrid Bergman around the mouth. She was wearing a black dress that was immensely stylish and very short. Her legs were amazing. I thought what a beautiful couple they made. I only hoped Anselo had not bought her a ring he couldn’t afford.
‘Are you not well?’ Vivienne asked me. Her face was kind, concerned. She was a nice person. ‘You’re very pale.’
I was finding it hard to speak. ‘Just — migraine . . .’
‘Oh God, they can be appalling,’ she said. ‘We should get a cab to take you home. Anselo, can you—?’
Anselo stood out into the street and hailed the next cab. He helped me in and said, ‘Will you be OK?’
I nodded. I could not look him in the eye.
The cab driver wanted to get going. Anselo held the door open a bit longer, frowning at me. But all he said was, ‘Take care.’ And then he shut the door, and the cab grumbled off.
I don’t remember paying the driver, although I must have. I don’t remember opening my front door. I do remember not having the strength to go upstairs. I made it as far as the sofa and, still in my red dress, curled up tight. It wasn’t cold inside, but I wrapped my arms around myself and shook for ages, until I fell into something black that passed for sleep.