Thursday, 3 November, day fifty-two
‘I’ve booked us a cubicle,’ Matthew said.
‘Okay.’ I was breathless.
‘In Marks & Spencer. You go there first. Pretend to be trying on bras. I’ll see you in fifteen minutes. For fifteen minutes. That’s all I’ve got, then I’m on the telly, shaming politicians.’
‘Fifteen minutes is fine.’
Next thing I was in M&S. I’d picked up three bras and gone to a changing room. Just as I was wondering how Matthew would know which one I was in, the door barged open and he rushed in and was kissing me frantically. His glasses went skew-whiff and he took them off and flung them over the top of the cubicle door, and I said, ‘Won’t you need them?’
And he said, ‘Wardrobe can get me another pair.’
‘Did anyone see you come in?’
‘Maybe.’
‘No, but that’s bad, Matthew, we might get caught.’
‘That makes it even better. The chance of being found out. But we’d better be quick.’
He unbuttoned his trousers, took my hand and slid it inside – his erection was huge.
‘Nice and fat,’ he said.
‘Like your tie knot!’ I said.
‘Nice and fat.’ He laughed, and I thought, He’s very different from the way I thought he was. Much more laddish.
I began pulling his trousers down and he protested, ‘No, no, we can’t take them all off. This is just a cheeky little shag.’
Somehow my knickers and tights were gone and he had his hands on my breasts because my dress wasn’t a dress any longer but a convenient top and skirt. He was standing up, I had my legs around his waist, he was inside me without any drama and it was all a lot easier than I’d anticipated.
He pounded himself in and out of me and we were looking at ourselves in the mirrors – we could see things from all angles.
‘They’re excellent,’ he said. ‘Aren’t they?’
‘The Marks & Spencer’s mirrors? Yes, excellent.’
‘You can see everything. You’ve a nice body,’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t worry.’
I looked at myself and he was right: I had.
‘I’m going to come now,’ he said, ‘because I’m late for make-up. So if you want to come, you’d better do it now.’
‘Okay.’ So I did. Then he did, and his face in the mirror reminded me of Richie’s when I’d caught him with that girl all those years ago.
Next thing he was zipping himself back up. ‘I’m leaving with Greta now,’ he said. ‘In five minutes you come out. Act natural.’
‘Do I buy a bra?’
‘Yes. I think I broke the one you’ve got on. And have you got the thing, the tag, with the number of items you took in?’
And then I woke up.
Jesus, that was quite a dream. I hadn’t looked too bad in it … Then I realize that the body that had had sex with Matthew Carlisle was the one from twenty-five years ago.
I’m a little disturbed by it all – Matthew had been quite … dislikeable. Laddish, wolfish, even. And this morning I feel less compassionate and less protective of him than I had yesterday. Which is very unfair – it’s hardly real-Matthew’s fault how dream-Matthew behaves.
But something had happened yesterday in his little glass cubicle. A tiny moment so strange that I’d forced myself to file it away for consideration on some other occasion: when he was tucking his shirt into his trousers, it seemed like his hand, which was moving fast, slowed down infinitesimally when he reached his bulge. It seemed to pause for the briefest moment, cupping it – and while he was holding it, he had looked straight at me.
For way, way less than a second. This wasn’t some lengthy, meaningful silent exchange, but something that was over as soon as it began. But our eyes had definitely met.
In fairness, though, was that even his doing? After all, the office was tiny and there was almost no place for his gaze to land. And, of course, it might have been an accident. Or perhaps he was touching himself as if his mickey was a talisman – I think lots of men do … to check that it’s still there?
Then there was always the possibility that it was a look of apology: I’m sorry you have to sit here and watch me partially undress myself.
And maybe I’d just imagined the entire thing.
61
Friday, 4 November, day fifty-three
Mum has new hair! It’s a blonde, bouffant bob, really glam. ‘I got extensions!’ she cries. ‘Neeve organized it, got it done for free!’
‘In exchange for a vlog, Granny. Nothing is ever free.’
‘But that’s no bother to me,’ Mum says. ‘I’m a natural at the vlogging, everyone says.’
Derry and I exchange a smirk.
‘Well, you look amazing,’ I say.
‘I know! I’ll tell you something, girls, all of those years when I was sick, I had no life, but it’s never too late! I’m getting the two-week manicure on Monday, isn’t that right, Neeve?’
‘That’s right, Granny.’
‘And I’m thinking about an inking,’ Mum says.
‘Over my dead body!’ Maura shouts from another room.
‘In that case,’ Joe says to Mum, ‘please get it.’
To stop open warfare breaking out between Maura and Joe, Derry interrupts, ‘I dumped my boyfriend.’
‘Good for you,’ Mum says. ‘What would you want to be settling down for and you only forty-five? Play the field, love, play the field!’
I hoick Derry away for a private chat. ‘What the actual? Is she on tablets or something?’
‘You mean, anti-depressants? I don’t think so. But it’s all extremely fucking peculiar.’
‘So what happened with your new man?’
‘Nothing. His socks. They were the worst. Yeah, look, I know, I’m a commitment-phobe. We all have our thing.’
I’m just getting ready for bed when Neeve appears at my bedroom door. ‘Mum?’ The expression on her face worries me.
‘What is it, sweetie? Come in.’
She sits on my bed but doesn’t meet my eye.
‘Tell me.’ It’s not like her to be reticent and my anxiety is growing.
Focusing on her hands, she says, ‘Look, I don’t know, I’m not sure …’
What’s she done? Libelled someone in her vlog? Totalled Hugh’s car? ‘It can’t be that bad.’ Finally, she looks at me. ‘Mum, I’m sorry. I wasn’t spying, just like keeping an eye. On Hugh. On Facebook. And –’
Like a blow, I realize that whatever has gone wrong, it isn’t about her. ‘He’s posted stuff?’ It’s a couple of days since I’ve checked.
‘No. But he’s tagged in someone’s pic and –’
Automatically I’m reaching for my iPad. ‘Mum, Mum, wait, wait a moment. Seriously, stop!’
So I stop.
She takes a breath. ‘Mum, you need to prepare.’
That makes everything worse. My heart is racing, my mouth is dry. I need to see whatever it is and I need to see it now.
‘It’s okay.’ My voice is high and unconvincing. ‘I knew he’d be meeting other …’ My fumbling fingers have opened Facebook. ‘We agreed, it’s all agreed –’ Oh, shit.
It’s Hugh. With a woman. Or a girl, really. Young. Pretty. Cute. Dark hair, shortish and tucked behind her ears, doe-like eyes, pointy chin. And Hugh, big and beardy, with a slightly ruddy tan. He’s wearing his white linen shirt … and he’s taken off his wedding ring. Well, of course he has. Why should that come as such a terrible shock?
They’re on opposite sides of a rough, dark-wood table in what looks like a beach-bar at night – two identical bottles of sweating Thai beer stand on the wooden slats and a storm lantern flickers. Their heads are tilted towards each other – I mean, they would do for the photo – but everything fairly pulses with intimacy. Both of them, their far arms are stretched along the table, in two parallel arcs, almost but not quite touching.
I stare and stare while blood roars in my ears. The tips of my fingers are tingling and I feel as if I’m awake in a bad dream. I knew this would happen, knew it was happening, but to see it …
‘Mum?’ Neeve says, from far away.