How could she be so harsh? I shook my head at her. ‘That’s because you don’t know him. You’ve only just met him; you’ve hardly given him a chance. You know, I actually thought you’d be happy for me,’ I snapped. It was important for me to have Sam’s affirmation. But if she was going to be selfish, make me choose between them, I wouldn’t appreciate being backed into a corner. ‘He’s such a confident guy, maybe this makes you feel, I don’t know, uneasy?’ She did always seem a little uncomfortable around him, when I thought about it.
‘No, Eve, it’s nothing to do with that. Do you even know me? I can speak to anyone. I used to work in cold-calling, for God’s sake. It’s really not that…’ She reached for her jacket thrown over the sofa.
‘Well, you’re wrong. Look, you may as well leave. I’m pretty tired anyway. It’s not as if you have anything nice to say – what’s the point in you staying? We’ll talk about it another time, or not.’
‘Eve, you asked me for my honest opinion. You should have said if you wanted me to lie! If you want the absolute truth – I don’t trust him. Okay, that’s what it is. I don’t think… I don’t think you can be happy with him. What you see, maybe…’
‘Just go, Sam, please.’ I turned away to the sound of Sam’s under-breath mutterings then a slammed door. I threw away the Chinese remnants, sat up, waiting for you to return home.
It was just before midnight when you found me asleep on the sofa. ‘You’re better off without friends like her,’ you whispered. Where had you been? You were only supposed to be meeting a colleague for an hour after work.
I would like to say they reconciled their differences after a while, but they didn’t. On the surface they had a relationship built on a mutual respect for each other’s position in my life. But it was cold being in the same room as them. I had to accept they didn’t and probably never would see eye to eye. You told me Sam was a bad influence; it made me giggle. You said you couldn’t trust me when I was with her. Strange. Sam claimed I couldn’t trust you. It was simpler not to be with either of you. I didn’t grasp this was exactly what would happen anyway. Sam went first; then you later on.
She’d let me down. She wasn’t going to come and rescue me from the toilets.
Lost in thought, I found myself slumped in a 1980s rejected pastel armchair, in the corner of the ladies’ room. The alternative being Noddy and co or a drunken you. I’d have left, but I knew you wouldn’t call a taxi; you’d still drive home despite the alcohol. A previous bone of contention between us. I made myself as relaxed as possible, my bag and coat scrunched on my lap in a defensive manner. I must have dozed off, as I was woken by the persistent voice of a concerned toilet visitor. She obviously thought I’d fallen into a drunken stupor, despite my huge bump; she was speaking to me in a loud, exaggerated voice. The same voice people used when speaking to someone of a foreign tongue.
‘Are. You. Okay?’ A crinkly finger belonging to an orange face prodded my arm. ‘Do. You. Need. Me. To. Fetch. Someone. For. You?’
I quickly sat myself up. ‘No, I’m fine. Thank you, though, for asking.’ I answered her as eloquently as I could, stuffed in the toilet chair. The last thing I needed was more attention. However, she was insistent on there being a problem, continuing in the same tone.
‘Oh. Are. You. Here. With. Someone?’
I was tempted to reply, ‘No, I’m not. I often find myself asleep, alone in golf-club toilets. Do you think it’s unusual? Doesn’t this happen to you, then?’ But I gave her what she needed to carry on with her own business so I could continue with my evening, in the toilet. When I thought about this, it was becoming a bit of a habit.
My watch assured me it was 1.10 a.m. Thank God, surely it was time to leave. I needed to be up at 6.00 a.m. for work, just a few hours. Odd, you hadn’t attempted to find me? Maybe you’d texted me and I’d not heard my phone. I really hoped not; it would infuriate you. I checked. Strange. Nothing from you, no excuses from Sam either, yet I had full signal. I dragged myself out of the surprisingly comfortable chair, checked my reflection in the mirror, before leaving to find you. Again the feeling of sickness crept over me. Surely at seven months pregnant I should have been tucked up cosy in bed. I placed my hand on my stomach; in response to the floaty, fluttering sensation. Normal? Or was it butterflies?
Leaving the safety of my den, I was sorry to see the party still in full swing. The ice-cream brigade noticeably louder, even more animated. Odd though, as I made my way to the bar area, there was no sign of you. I crept and stumbled around the drunken bodies with matching puerile behaviours, nothing worse when you were stone-cold sober, until I exhausted every possible dark corner. You were definitely missing. I felt a momentary feeling of relief. Shouldn’t I have been worried if you were okay? Did I need to be concerned? I’d be in trouble again, if you thought I’d abandoned you. My stomach churned, though my head questioned the audacity of you. I decided to leave alone. Holding on tight to the impetuous feeling, knowing it could surreptitiously slip away by the morning, turning to trepidation.
After a slow, thoughtful drive home, I pulled through the black iron gates onto the stone driveway. I was surprised to see we had company. The house was not in darkness, as I’d anticipated. Two unrecognisable cars sat outside. Should I be worried? What if they were intruders? I was about to waltz in with no concern. I hesitantly dragged myself from the car, my heart all the time picking up pace. Should I retreat, go to Sam’s? Try your mobile again first? What if it wasn’t you inside the house?
I stood for a while hovering from foot to foot at the front door, wondering what to do. It must be 2.00 a.m. Who on earth could be inside? Wasn’t this the most common time for burglars? Then through the glass side panels, I noticed lights from the study at the opposite end of the reception hall. I peered further in, maintaining a reasonable distance. My heart moving up into my mouth, mingling with the sickly feeling. I could see dark silhouettes of masculine figures with their backs to me; I couldn’t quite work them out. I didn’t instantly recognise them. On the other hand, they were not exactly ransacking the house. So, unlikely to be burglars. Then, I saw you. You were there. Gesturing and articulating. Relief flooded through me, followed by annoyance. What about me, your pregnant wife? Thanks for giving a damn!
For one stupid moment, I considered stomping through the party, making a scene; demanding you explain yourself. Would you still feel so clever and powerful in front of your disciples? Then I thought better of it. I ever so quietly opened the door and stepped into the hallway, softly closing the door behind me. Holding my breath, I slipped off my shoes so as to tiptoe across the hall towards the sweeping stairway. At least I could go to bed, pull the duvet over my head. But then, halfway up the stairs, I stopped in my tracks. Something gripped my throat, choking me. Who were those men in my house? Because I know I didn’t imagine it – one of them just mentioned a gun. I stiffened, unable to remove my hand from the rail, though I couldn’t hear anything over my heart. A gun?