Saskia and I are sitting in the sun. Or, at least, we’re sitting in the heat. The sun is making only an occasional appearance. The weather has turned heavy and oppressive. People walk around sweating, as if they’ve just got out of the shower. There’s the tiniest of breezes from the river, though, and we’re making the most of it.
She called me while I was at work this morning. She had a day off, she told me (Robert was filming solidly all day. A sequence of scenes in Farmer Giles’ barn, all of the animals conveniently out in the pasture, thus saving the production money. They would dub the odd moo and baaa on later) and she was bored. Did I fancy meeting up?
So I’ve trekked all the way down to Richmond to meet her at one of the cafés near the bridge. That’s the thing about Saskia. She has some kind of Jedi power that means you end up agreeing to spend hours schlepping halfway across London to somewhere that’s two minutes from her home, even though she’s the one who suddenly wants to meet up out of nowhere. She manages to make everything about her.
There’s something on her mind, I can tell. We’ve ordered drinks – Diet Coke for me, sugary version for her – and we’re waiting for them to arrive, sitting silently, looking out at the ducks and the boats. Saskia not talking is unusual enough in itself. But there’s something shifty about her. Something I can’t put my finger on.
‘So, how’s things?’ I say, stuck for anything more interesting.
‘Oh … you know … fine. Still eating for England blah blah.’
‘Josh OK?’
‘Yep.’
She turns back to look at the river. The suspense is killing me. I’m about to try and engage her in conversation again when she looks right at me, a worried expression on her face.
‘Paula, can I? … I have to tell you something.’
I feel my heart start pounding. Is she going to tell me she’s sleeping with my husband?
‘OK …’
‘It’s about Robert. He’s … oh God, please forgive me for telling you …’
Just get on with it, I want to scream. I know anyway.
‘What? Go on.’
‘He’s … he’s having an affair.’
I wait for her to say ‘with me’, but she doesn’t. She just sits there and looks at me, all concern.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m so sorry to be the one to break it to you, but I’ve come to really like you and I just couldn’t live with myself knowing and not telling you …’
Alarms bells are going off in my head. My brain is whirring, trying to take in what she’s saying.
‘Who with?’
This is it. This is where she’ll confess it’s her. She’s just building herself up for it.
She breathes in slowly.
‘Samantha.’
I look at her, clueless.
‘Samantha,’ she repeats. ‘The girl who plays Marilyn.’