“I think it would be good for me to notice less and do more.”
“There’s plenty of time. Most people are doing stuff and giving it no thought at all. You’re different, when you decide to start doing something, it will be special.”
We both grin and drink our drinks, totally self-conscious but maybe a little more confident.
? ? ?
When we leave the pub, I walk beside Wilf and point at trees and plants: “What’s that?”
“London plane.”
“What’s that?”
“Beech hedge.”
“And that?”
“Have a guess.”
“Grass.”
He nudges me and grins. And when we part we kiss each other on the cheek.
At the shop Daphne says, “How was your date?” and I tell her I’d appreciate it if she didn’t refer to Wilf in that way. But inside I feel surprised. I start thinking about him stomping about in gardens in Wellington boots, sleeves rolled up, dirt in his fingernails. I want Daphne’s comments about him to stop, and I hope Wilf asks me to lunch again, but I’m confused. The lunch had been wonderful, but I worry that when he gets back to Willesden Estates he’ll remember my lack of social grace, my verbal clumsiness, my vacant life.
? ? ?
At home in the evening, I see I’ve missed a call from Tilda. She hasn’t phoned since our awful meeting at the Albany—or answered my calls for that matter. Feeling suddenly optimistic, I allow myself to imagine that she wants to mend things between us and maybe will suggest the sisterly gathering that I described to Wilf, offering to come to my flat to watch movies, like we used to do.
I listen to her message, which is short and unrevealing, just “Tilda here. Don’t call me back; I’ll phone again.”
Hearing her voice and its severe tone changes my mood, making me worry that I was stupid when talking to Wilf at lunchtime. Tilda always warns me against gossiping, because of the way private information ends up on the internet, twisted and exaggerated. It’s happened to her several times, rumors that she was anorexic or was in a relationship with some famous actor, and I hope I haven’t said anything too revealing. I need to distract myself, so I microwave my supper, a chicken korma and rice, and I sit at my table eating it, looking out at the bindweed in the jungle of a garden (in need of Wilf Baker to sort it out) and thinking that I’ll log on to controllingmen.com. But then my mobile rings, and it’s Tilda. She sounds whispery, like she doesn’t want Felix to hear:
“I thought I’d let you know Felix and I are going away, and I wanted to check that you’re okay. You were so bloody paranoid when we met up for lunch. Neurotic and aggressive—it worries me.”
“I’m fine. There’s no need to worry about me. Where are you going?”
“Martinique. Remember, I told you? It looks divine there, all turquoise seas and white beaches.”
I think, And sharks and snakes and mosquitoes, but I don’t say so. Instead I’m suddenly inspired to tell her that there’s a problem with the water supply in our building. We’ll be without water while the plumbers are in, I say, and it would be great if I could stay a night at the flat in Curzon Street while she’s away.
She comes back quickly, in a harsh voice: “No, Callie, that’s out of the question. Felix has confidential business papers everywhere. Not possible.”
“I’ve nowhere else to go. . . . I’m desperate.”
There’s a pause and I feel dreadful inside because I’m lying. And if Tilda thinks about it, she’ll realize that I could always get a bucket of water in, rather than move out. My argument is so obviously flawed that I find myself hanging on the line, waiting for her to tell me that I’m being an idiot. But she surprises me, saying that if I really am desperate and it’s an emergency, I can collect a key from the cleaning lady, Eva, and she gives me a phone number.
“This is against my better judgment, Callie. Promise me that if you stay you won’t go snooping on Felix and me. I know what you’re like . . . especially in this batshit crazy mood you’re in. And there must be no sign of you when we return. Nothing! No forgotten bras or knickers. Not even a crumb or a hair. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“But, really, don’t come here to the flat. Not unless it’s life-and-death.”
I promise, thinking maybe it is life-and-death. My voice sounds thin and strained, maybe because I’m worried about Tilda going so far away, out of my sphere of influence—I need to check where Martinique actually is. Before she hangs up she says, “Chip, chip,” like Mum used to, and after she’s gone I try to concentrate on the positives, like the fantastic fact-finding opportunity that has opened up.
12
Online later, all the talk is of Chloey Percival, the girl who was attacked in Debenhams. She’s still in a critical condition in York hospital, and most of the people chatting in the Controlling Men forum think she’ll die. Some say we should be praying for her. Belle, as usual, is online and discussing the new photos of Chloey that have been posted by her family—of her first day at school, and as a chubby teenage gymnast in a leotard, holding up a silver cup. Belle writes that Chloey was an innocent angel. I tell her to drop the angel and remind her that people are hardly going to point out shortcomings at a time like this. Then Belle says, let’s go to the Zone.
She has big news. Her friend Lavender will leave her abusive husband in two weeks’ time, so the secrecy and planning is intense. Belle and Lavender are busy with practical things—making lists of what to take and what to leave behind. They’re discussing the emotional side too, like how to explain the situation to the children. Belle says that on the big day Lavender will pretend to take them to school, then return home once X has left for work. Belle will arrive with a hired Renault Espace and they’ll load it up and drive to Lavender’s mother’s house five miles away. X will figure out what’s happened and turn up demanding 2 b let in, probably violent, Belle writes. So L will call police. She pauses, then adds:
Back to Chloey—Did u c there will be a CANDLELIT vigil for her in York? Its near me and I might go. Would u like to come? We could ACTUALLY MEET UP!
From nowhere, Scarlet pops up:
No, meeting up NOT a good idea. We shouldn’t be seen together. Don’t do it.
Scarlet always assumes she’s the boss, telling us what we can and can’t do. On an impulse, I send an email addressed only to Belle:
Let’s meet without telling Scarlet. I don’t know why she thinks we should follow her orders—it’s starting to irritate me. Also, I’d like to see York, and I could come by train on Friday, because I don’t work then. What do you think?
I think DEFNATELY YES!!! I dont have 2 work Friday either—so I can litrally meet you at the station. AND we can still Keep our identities secret—like Scarlet says.