I was always more about romance than irresistible sexual passion, although sometimes the two overlapped, like with Richie Aldin.
In the post-Richie years, before I met Hugh, I had a paltry two flings. The thing was, there was no time for men: every second of every exhausting day had been earmarked for something more important, like feeding my child or doing my job.
When Neeve was three, there was a divorced dad with a little boy in her crèche whom I bumped into at drop-offs and pick-ups. For about a year we exchanged smiles, and this evolved into a reciprocal arrangement where we’d occasionally pick up the other’s kid. Around the time I decided I really liked him, he asked me out. ‘Out-out?’ I remember asking.
‘Out-out,’ he confirmed.
But it never fully ignited and didn’t last longer than a month. He was nice but a teeny bit dull, and the ending was as low-key as the entire relationship – one morning he’d smiled a little sadly and said, ‘No?’
My strongest emotion was regret that it no longer felt appropriate to ask him to pick up Neeve if I was running late.
My other pre-Hugh thing was entirely different. Max Nicholson was a hugely successful publicist in the big London firm I left Leeds for. Famous as he was for his work, he was more famous for his epic womanizing. He was textbook sexy, fun and flirty, and when he turned the force of his charisma on you, it was irresistible. He slept with whomever he chose and you could always pinpoint his current woman because she practically crackled with flashes of blue electricity. When he began to tire of her – and he always tired of her – you could see her power draining away, like a battery running out of energy.
At least two of his discarded women left the company, to find jobs elsewhere, and another poor girl disappeared overnight because she’d had a full-on breakdown.
Then he decided to notice me. One morning he tore by my work-station and was already several feet past when he came to a dramatically sudden halt, swivelled a graceful 180 and stared at me, stared hard. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’
‘Hello, gorgeous, yourself.’ I’d wanted to laugh, because he was so over-the-top.
‘Irish,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘English.’ I mimicked his tone and kept on looking.
That was the start and he did it all. The flowers. The invitations on lavish dates. (‘Dinner tonight? In Lisbon?’) A pair of Manolo Blahniks in my size arriving by courier.
Daily, Max leant over my desk and murmured, ‘You do know you’re driving me insane?’ Or ‘When are you going to sleep with me and put me out of my misery?’
It was fun. Unlike every other poor woman who came under the dazzling spotlight of his attention, I knew exactly what I was getting into – and I. Did. Not. Care. It was like deciding to eat an entire toffee cheesecake – an exercise in self-destruction, but you’d enjoy yourself along the way.
Not even my lack of sexual experience intimidated me, because even if I’d had an actual degree in exotic bedroom techniques, he’d still dump me in the end. It was just a question of when.
Except I ended things with him.
One morning, in bed he, very deliberately, traced his finger along a silvery line on my stomach. ‘Stretch mark?’
There was so much in those two words: criticism, contempt and a silent exhortation to make more of an effort. Another woman caught in his web would have rushed straight out and bought a gallon of Bio-Oil but I remember thinking, Here we go. This is the start of the curdling.
There was no way back from that: he’d already put me into turn-around and all that would follow from there on in would be subtle undermining that became more and more overt.
I rolled from the bed and located my underwear. ‘This has been fun, Max.’
‘Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.’
‘Nuh-uh.’
He frowned.
‘That was the last time.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You knew, Max, this was only …’ My lines seemed to be coming straight from a Danielle Steele mini-series.
‘Only what?’
‘Fun?’ I’d been going to say ‘fucking’ but I lost my nerve.
‘Fun? But –’
‘We’re both grown-ups and you’re a great guy.’ My voice petered away. ‘Actually, Max, you’re not.’
He went white.
‘You’re a terrible, terrible guy. You play games with human beings. You are astonishingly cruel.’
Even his lips had gone white. ‘Are you quite all right?’
‘I’m fine. But you, Max? I’d worry about you.’
Such a merciless judgement wasn’t like me but, looking back, it was clearly some sort of revenge for Richie’s caper: one womanizer was being punished for the behaviour of another.
In hindsight, my heart was hard, clenched tight as a fist, and I trusted no one. So it was miraculous that Hugh had managed to nudge me into unfurling, like a tight, bitter bud opening and blossoming.
22
Wednesday, 14 September, day two
At 4.37 a.m., I jerk awake and find myself in Druzie’s spare room. I sit up in bed and turn on the light. I know how the dawn horrors work – while I’m awake the artificial chatter of a busy life keeps the terrors tamped down. But in sleep all the layers of meaningless shite gradually lift up and float away until nothing is left but the truth, in its full horror.
Loss, shame, fear of the future – Shit, this is awful. Worst of all, the sorrow. I’m suddenly certain I can’t survive this. Hugh had loved me, I had loved him. We were each other’s happy ending.
I wish I knew how to self-soothe. I should have learnt mindfulness, and it’s too late now because it’s no good learning it when you’re already in crisis: you have to start when things are good. But only the very, very oddest would think, Hey, my life is perfect. I know! I’ll sit and waste twenty minutes Observing My Thoughts without Judgement.
I smoke my e-cig and scroll through Facebook – there they all are, with their perfect lives. I’ve now got ninety-three unread private messages and I can tell without ever opening them that they’re just bursting with gossipy hunger. It’s horrible being the person in the eye of a scandal, and I’ll tell you, it’ll make me think twice in the future about jumping on details of another person’s drama. Ask not for whom the ‘U OK Hun?’ tolls. It tolls for thee.
I take a quick look at Hugh’s feed. Even though he’d sworn to stay off it, I no longer trust him to keep his promises. There’s nothing new: the last thing was three days ago when he was still at home, and he shared one of Kiara’s posts about refugees.
I swap to Instagram, hoping for vintage dresses, but it’s awash with motivational platitudes. ‘Dare To Be Remarkable’, ‘You Are Stronger Than You Can Ever Imagine.’
Obviously I’m following the wrong people because I’ve no time for any of that nonsense. Maybe I should start. Maybe I should rethink these six months alone and regard them as an opportunity – to use Kiara’s phrase – to self-actualize.
Suddenly, on Instagram, one platitude catches my eye: ‘A journey of a thousand miles begins with one foolish decision.’ And I laugh, literally out loud – usually I never make noise when I’m alone, not even if, say, I bang my baby toe on the side of the bath. What’s the point of saying, ‘Christ! My effing TOE!’ if no one will come and commiserate with me?
Immediately I heart the Instagram post. I’d treble-heart it if I could. Then I see who’s posted it – Josh Rowan – and, abruptly, my laughter stops.
23
Seventeen months ago
So, on a freakishly hot day the April before last, I was in my London ‘office’, working my way through emails when my phone rang.
It was a client, Premilla Routh, an actor, who’d struggled with an addiction to prescription medication – and a national paper had a recording of her buying drugs on the street.
‘The dealer set me up.’ She was so overwrought she could hardly speak. ‘Amy, please help me. I’ll lose my job if this gets out. And I’ll probably lose my kids.’ She’d already lost her marriage.
‘Who contacted you?’ I asked.