What should I say? Should I tell him about the mild obsessing I’d been doing?
‘Let’s sit down a minute.’ We crossed the vast marble floor to a couch. I parked myself in a corner and Josh also sat, keeping a big distance between us.
When a waiter showed up with a tray, Josh said, ‘No thanks, mate.’ And only when the man had entirely gone did he focus on me and say, ‘So? What’s going on?’
‘I … ah … look.’ The only decent thing was to tell him the truth. ‘I got a … crush on you. That day, the day of Premilla’s interview.’
He looked at me for a long time. ‘You’re married.’
I covered my face with my hands. ‘I know. Please. I know. I love Hugh. I don’t know what I’m at.’
‘What would you have done if I’d said yes just now?’
I groaned again. ‘Probably bottled it before we’d even got as far as the lift.’ Fresh shame washed over me. ‘Maybe I just wanted some attention – I wanted to know what you’d say. Could we pretend this never happened?’ Because now my worry was about how this would impact on me professionally as well as personally. What if Josh Rowan told every journalist in London about it? It would destroy a lot of the respect that I – and Tim and Alastair – had worked so hard to build up. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘It’s way out of character for me. Probably some sort of mid-life thing. Peri-menopause, maybe – apparently it sends people a bit insane.’
‘It’s okay, Amy, pet,’ he said. ‘We’re all only human.’ Oh, that accent.
‘Thanks.’ I breathed out, a long, shuddery exhalation. Then: ‘Would you have said yes?’
His eyes met mine. ‘Yes.’
It was like receiving a jolt of electricity. I swallowed. ‘Right.’
‘It wasn’t an accident that I bumped into you.’ He nodded in the direction of the ballroom. ‘I’ve been counting the days.’
Fuck! It was the sort of thing he said in my fantasies. But now that it was being said in real life, it was scaring me witless.
‘I’ve been stalking you all evening.’
After some mute moments, I managed to say, ‘I’ve literally never played away.’
He smiled. A proper smile, not his usual lopsided, withholding one. ‘It’s sort of obvious.’
‘How about you? Have you …?’
Without speaking, he nodded.
‘A lot?’
‘No … But sometimes.’
I felt sick – offended, jealous, ashamed. I wanted him to be faithful to Marcia. And I wanted him to want me. But he couldn’t do both. ‘Josh. I’m going outside now for a cigarette. Alone.’
‘I could have lied,’ he said.
‘It’s not that.’ Well, it wasn’t just that. It was me as much as him. I couldn’t handle this version of myself. ‘But, really, I need a cigarette.’
‘Okay. But when you get home to your husband,’ he said, ‘make sure he knows what a hot wife he has. Right, I’d better get back inside. I might have won something.’
‘Oh, Christ, sorry!’
‘That was a joke. Unless there’s a prize for most undermined editor in Britain.’
My smile wobbled off my face and he was gone.
Right, where were my smokes? My sparkly clutch bag was ridiculously tinchy, but my little nicotine sticks were proving elusive … As I rummaged, something made me look up. It was Tim, he’d emerged from the ballroom and was standing with his back to the door, watching me.
My heart banged. How long had he been there? Long enough, if the hard stare he gave Josh as he scooted by was any indication.
All thoughts of cigarettes vanished, and my heels clattered on the marble as I hurried across to Tim.
‘What was that about?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’
He looked sceptical.
‘Really, honestly, nothing.’ I was choosing to trust that Josh would keep a lid on this.
‘That was Josh Rowan from the Herald, right?’
‘Right. But there’s nothing going on.’
He still looked suspicious but there was no way I was telling Tim: we didn’t have that sort of relationship. Also he might be furious with me for potentially damaging Hatch’s reputation. What an omnishambles …
38
Friday, 30 September, day eighteen
Once again it’s Friday. Hugh has been gone over two weeks now and this last week has felt like an assault course: laundry, cooking, supervising homework, airport, London, meetings, airport, staggering in exhausted on Wednesday night to find Neeve and Kiara almost incoherent with horror because the Wi-Fi wasn’t working and they thought I – me! – would know how to fix it. That was the point where I thought the week couldn’t get any worse, but then Mum nabbed me for unexpected Pop-sitting on Thursday night.
Professionally, the week hasn’t been a total bust: finally, after sending her on a series of soup runs designed to humble her, Room has decided to take on Tabitha Wilson as their new ambassador and tasked me with grooming her for a big, glitzy press launch in six weeks’ time.
But infusing every single event and encounter with a type of sepia dread is Hugh’s absence. And now Alastair wants to know what delights the weekend holds for me.
‘Oh, you know, going to Tesco’s, doing the finances, cleaning the house, being the prize attraction at the cinema club on Sunday – fun times all the way.’
‘Anything nice at all? What about Derry?’
‘Busy. Riding. She’s got a new man.’
‘Has she? It won’t last, though, it never does. She and I are very similar …’
‘No, you totally aren’t. You’re never without a girl.’
‘I’ve none at the moment, if you don’t mind. I’m holding out for someone special. My therapist says –’
I snigger. Then, ‘Sorry, Alastair.’
‘What’s wrong with having a therapist? I’m committed to changing for the better!’
‘I am sorry. I don’t know why it made me laugh. It’s not as funny as the time you had your colours done. I’m not myself, Al. Please forgive me.’
‘Okay.’ Never holds a grudge, Alastair, you can say that about him. ‘So how about Posh Petra? Or Steevie? Could you do something nice with them?’
It’s a while before I answer. ‘You know, Alastair, things are weird with Steevie.’ There, I’ve said it. My oldest friend, our connection has survived decades and I don’t know what exactly it is, but we’re not on the same page right now. ‘When I’m with her I get the fear.’
‘What? Why?’
‘She’s so angry with Hugh, she says these terrible things. But it’s actually not about Hugh at all.’
‘About the husband who left her?’
‘Yeah. She wants to go for lunch tomorrow, but I have to, really have to, sit down with my finances. I’d rather look my out-of-control spending in the face than see her. That’s bad, isn’t it?’
‘It is what it is. So what’ll you do tomorrow night?’
‘If Mum doesn’t try and nab me for some impromptu Pop-sitting –’
‘What’s the story there? Is she going out a lot more than she used to, or does it just seem that way?’
‘No, yeah, you’re right, she is. Not that I blame her. Except I wish she’d ask one of the others instead of me. So anyway! Assuming I’m not Pop-sitting, I’ll bunker down with a load of savoury snacks and watch whatever foreign yoke is on BBC4, then hopefully I’ll sleep. I can’t sleep, Alastair. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.’
He looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I know what you need.’
‘Why does this fill me with dread?’
‘It’s a – a thing … You go and have a story read to you. Not for kids, adults, we’re adults, but a man with a deep voice, his name is Grigori, reads a fable. In the Kingsley Hotel in town. There are beanbags and hot chocolate and dim lights. Lots of people go. Every Saturday night. It’s … comforting. It’ll help you sleep. It costs a tenner.’
‘And who goes? What sort of people?’
‘All ages. Some come alone, some with mates. The vibe is friendly, the way yoga classes are friendly.’
Yoga classes are not friendly. Yoga classes – in my admittedly limited experience – are peopled with snooty body-Fascists who live on green powder.
‘Friendly, but not sleazy, is that what you mean? Would I be too old?’
‘All ages,’ he says firmly. ‘Saturday nights, nine o’clock. Very good for the central nervous system.’
‘What would I have to do?’