Prime Time (28 page)

Late afternoon, I made a heroic effort to do what Charlotte would have done and cooked them all a roast dinner, under the questionable supervision of Becky, who provided tuition on how to use the Aga.

The chicken seemed to cook in a flash but by the time I came to do the potatoes the oven didn't seem hot enough and they took forever to brown. Meanwhile the chipolatas (Joe had begged for more sausages) were wizened. It was all two hours later than planned but it tasted all right and the kids shoved it down happily enough.

By the time I'd got Joe into bed, prised Becky away from Facebook, surgically removed the PlayStation from Stanley's sweaty grasp and sent Benson to his basket for the night, I had the sense of having almost completed a survival course.

Once all the kids had been safely despatched or delivered to school the next morning, I heaved a sigh of relief that echoed round Charlotte's eerily quiet kitchen.

Benson and I walked to the corner shop and bought some fresh milk to leave in the fridge and I did the last bit of washing-up. Roger and Charlotte would be back in time to pick Joe up and be home for when Becky got in.

I picked up a piece of paper to write a note. What should I say
?

Hope all OK?

Hope the Bunny Boiler didn't phone?

Trust Roger has explained all, and the divorce has been shelved?

In the end I decided it was a matter of least said, and simply wrote
Welcome Home.

Then I called Benson in from the garden, checked his water was topped up, gave him a biscuit, and patted him on the head.

‘Thank you for being a good dog and not chewing anything this time,' I said, carefully shutting the kitchen door so he couldn't have a relapse the moment I left. He jumped up at me eagerly – clearly thinking we were going for another walk.

I pushed him down. ‘Not now. One of them will take you out when they get back.'

I put on my coat and gathered up my overnight bag and Stanley's, suddenly feeling that strange blend of homesickness and nostalgia and regret you can feel when you are leaving a place where you've been happy and now realise you will never go back to.

‘I'll see you soon,' I said firmly to Benson, to dispel this depressing thought. ‘Oh, and Benson,' I added, catching sight of the huge pot Charlotte used when she was making curry for the masses. ‘Watch your back.'

Chapter Thirty-one

I was going to have to watch mine too. Mike was on the warpath, wanting to know how quickly I could get the script I was working on, back to him. It was for a sales video designed to extol the virtues of the Home Water Coolers range to various gatherings of supermarket and department store buyers. As suspected, it was so thoroughly turgid and dire that “give it a polish” basically meant starting again.

Meanwhile, Mike was jumping from foot to foot because the recording studio had been booked for the voice-over and they couldn't finish the final edit until they'd got the soundtrack.

‘Time's money, Laura,' he said for the 16th time.

‘I know, and I'm doing my best,' I snapped back. ‘If you could just leave me in peace I might be able to get a decent run at it.'

I could almost hear him twitching at the end of the phone. ‘End of the day?'

‘End of the day.'

Which at this rate might have to be defined as midnight, I thought, as I made yet another cup of coffee and girded my mental loins. I hadn't heard from Charlotte since she'd got back yesterday except for a brief text saying thanks. So I was pretty much of a twitch myself, waiting to find out if she had sorted it all out with Roger and I was now finally and irrevocably, in the clear.

The doorbell rang at midday. Charlotte was carrying a large bag and had a suit on, which meant she was at least back at work, but her face was serious.

‘Hello you,' she said.

I stepped forward and hugged her. She hugged me back half-heartedly – her arms stiff. I swallowed as she followed me down the hall to the kitchen. I'd known Charlotte for 30-odd years and I'd never felt awkward with her like this.

‘Good time?' I asked, glad to see she was at least sitting down this time.

‘Terrific,' she said flatly. There was a silence.

‘Are you OK?' I tried, as I re-filled the kettle.

Behind me, Charlotte sighed. ‘I don't know, really. I'm pretty disappointed, I guess. Roger's told me all about it. About Hannah and your efforts to warn him of the error of his ways. I'm obviously sorry I doubted you. I know that was madness – I do know you wouldn't do anything with Roger. But for God's sake, Lu,' she burst out, suddenly emotional, ‘why the hell didn't you tell me?'

I sat down opposite her. ‘I'm really sorry,' I said, taking my bracelets off and turning them round in my hands. ‘I didn't know what to do. I could see she might be trouble but Roger hadn't actually done anything wrong –'

I looked at Charlotte, wondering exactly how much detail Roger had gone into but she just looked steadily back so I went on. ‘And I didn't want to make trouble. I didn't know if Roger … I would have told you if he hadn't managed to get rid of her.'

‘Well, he didn't manage to, did he?' said Charlotte, exasperated. ‘You should have told me right away. Roger said she phoned our house.'

‘Yes, she did.'

‘And you sat there and said nothing!'

I hooked one open-ended bangle around another. ‘I wasn't sure if it was anything to worry about. It might have been a wrong number. I wanted to find out from Roger first, rather than upset you for nothing.'

Charlotte gave a hiss of annoyance. ‘But if you'd told me – that very evening – I'd have interrogated him, forced the truth out of him there and then, and put a stop to it. We would have been saved all this.'

‘I'm sorry, I said again, miserably. ‘I was shocked. I was trying to do the right thing.'

‘It was utterly the wrong thing,' Charlotte said crossly.

I got up and opened the coffee cupboard. ‘Look, Charlotte,' I said, trying to be reasonable. ‘If you'd found out about Daniel and The Twig before I did – would you have told me straight away? Wouldn't you have checked you were right first?'

‘No. Well, yes. Maybe. I may have spoken to him first, got him by the balls, and demanded to know what was going on but then '

‘That's what I tried to do.'

‘Well, you didn't do it hard enough.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said again. ‘I don't know what else to say.'

‘So am I,' she said wearily, but she wasn't looking at me. ‘I've um got a present here for Stanley.' She rummaged in the bag and produced a parcel and card. ‘Give him a hug from us, eh?'

I stared at her, stricken. Usually she'd come round for tea on Stanley's birthday – they all would. I nodded silently, afraid I would cry.

Charlotte looked uncomfortable. ‘Listen, Lu – thanks for looking after the kids. At least I got a weekend in Paris. But I'm feeling a bit let down by both of you, to be honest. It's bad enough Roger doing that to me. Bloody hell, it's like Benson getting up and biting me.' She suddenly looked upset. ‘I don't know what they got up to, he said they never actually … But who knows?'

‘I'm sure they didn't,' I put in hastily. ‘He told me nothing had happened – it was all in her mind. Just her warped fantasy.'

Charlotte's expression had hardened. ‘Yes, and what's that all about?
You
telling
me
about my marriage! He shouldn't be telling you these things. I should have known. If he had some mad shrew after his body, he should have come to
me
. But no, he didn't come to me, I went after him. I asked him what was going on and he denied there was anything wrong.'

‘I know, he told me,' I said tactlessly, before I could stop myself. Charlotte glared.

‘The thing is,' she went on. ‘I'm upset with Roger, I feel hurt by Roger, I'm bloody furious with him. I feel he's made a fool of me. You know – we used to sit and watch those TV dramas where some bloke has an affair and it all blows up in his face and Roger would say, “What an idiot.” Well, who's the bloody idiot now?'

I tried to speak calmly although my heart was beating hard. ‘I don't think he meant to, it was her playing on his sympathy–'

Charlotte shook her head despairingly. ‘Yes, well, I have to believe that, even though you and I both know it always takes two, because that's the only way I can deal with it. But what I was trying to say is that however angry with him I am, I tell myself Roger's a bloke – we know they're stupid, only half-formed at times. But
you
' She stopped and took a deep breath. ‘You're supposed to be my best friend. You should have told me. I hate the thought of you two discussing this whole bloody business, shutting me out. Putting me through all that pain when I thought it was
you
after my husband. Do you know how that felt?'

‘I can imagine,' I said quietly. ‘But Charlotte, you should have known I wouldn't …'

‘That's easy to say now, but at the time …' She shook her head again. ‘Look at it from where I was standing. You're behaving strangely, he's behaving strangely. I ask both of you about the other and neither of you can look me in the eye.' She slapped her hand hard down on the table. ‘What the hell was I supposed to think?'

She picked up her bag. ‘You let me down, love. And I'm pretty pissed off about it.'

I put out a hand and touched her arm. ‘I'm so sorry, Charlotte. You know I love you and appreciate you. I'd never do anything to hurt you and I'm sorry I got it wrong but I didn't know if I was overreacting. I mean, in the beginning he was just trying to help her – it wasn't his fault she turned out to be a bunny boiler – and I didn't know what to do. I meant well – I did, really …' I was in tears now.

‘I know,' she said briskly. ‘I know that and I'll get over it. Look, I'll see you soon but right now I need to get my head round it all. Just give me a bit of time, OK?'

I nodded blindly.

‘When's the rest of the filming?'

‘Saturday.'

‘I hope it goes well, and when's the programme?' She was talking to me in the polite tones she'd use to someone she didn't know very well.

‘Um, the following weekend. I think it's 9 p.m. on Saturday – I can't remember if it's BBC 3 or 4 …'

‘OK – well, we'll be watching it, of course.'

‘OK.'

‘And I hope Stanley has a lovely birthday. I'll phone him.'

I stood staring at Stanley's parcel, feeling wretched. I'd never had a row with Charlotte before. We'd got impatient maybe, snapped at each other a bit if our PMT coincided, but nothing like this.

I went upstairs and looked at my computer screen, totally overwhelmed by the task in hand. I couldn't think of a single sentence to describe water coolers that I hadn't used a dozen times already. I looked at the pile of bills and bank statements on the corner of the desk and realised I should have paid my credit card by now.

I wandered along the landing and looked into Stanley's room with its usual medley of discarded clothes and gadget magazines and CDs and empty crisp packets and trainers and I felt that familiar feeling of tension and despair rise up in me – everywhere I looked there were things to do.

Boris, winding himself round my legs, loudly reminded me we were down to the last tin of cat food again. A look in the fridge revealed a total lack of sandwich fillings for Stanley, while the ironing pile made me want to burst into tears.

I made a cup of coffee and did some deep breathing, thinking how odd it was that I wasn't diving into the chocolate biscuits. I just felt sick.

I had a look in my diary. Day 20. Usually I'd be halfway down a packet of HobNobs by now. Perhaps there was something in all this protein and hot water and heaps of exercise malarkey after all.

Unable to make any sort of decision about what to do next at home, I decided to get some fresh air and go to the supermarket, hoping that the exercise of at least crossing the car park and striding up the aisles would calm me down. If I was back by two, I'd have three hours to get the rest of the script done before I went to collect Stanley from homework club – I could email it to Mike at five, just before I left.

Then, I thought, as I put tomatoes and garlic and mushrooms in my trolley, I'd cook Spaghetti Bolognese – all that stirring and chopping would be soothing – and do the ironing in front of
EastEnders
. Once Stanley was in bed I'd spend a calm hour sorting all the bills and post and rubbish on my desk and at the weekend Stanley and I could tidy his bedroom together …

‘Do you need bags?' The dull-eyed young man at the check-out looked bored.

‘Er – yes, please.' I had about 35 Bags for Life stuffed into the bottom of my kitchen cupboard at the last count – if ever I remembered to bring them back to the supermarket, I could keep the whole queue and their grandchildren going.

He dumped a small pile of carriers into the packing area and started the conveyor belt, not waiting for me to finish unpacking the trolley.

By the time I'd hastily off-loaded all my goods – including things I didn't even remember picking up, I'd been in such a trance – my shopping was piling up at the other end. I shoved the trolley down there and tried to open one of the bags.

A large can of beans had squashed itself into the tomatoes. Bread was flattened under cat food. I felt myself grow hot and flustered as five kilos of potatoes piled on top of that. I pulled the tomatoes away and put them to one side with the eggs, still struggling to separate the thin, slippery plastic.

The conveyer belt came relentlessly on toward me. Down came a large bottle of olive oil which careered into a ripe avocado. The jam doughnuts I'd lovingly selected for Stanley, were being slowly pulverised by a large jar of mayonnaise and I still couldn't get the bags open.

Still the shopping came. I could see Stanley's birthday cake heading my way, followed by a large bag of onions. I pulled furiously at the top of the bag in my hands. It split in my fingers. My nerve ends jangled.

‘Can you stop!' I shrieked. The youth looked at me uncomprehendingly, lower lip jutting.

‘Sorry,' he mumbled eventually as the conveyer belt ground to a halt. He frowned at my shopping.

‘I can't open these fucking bags,' I snarled. I heard loud tutting from the queue behind me as my bottles of wine rolled down and dented the broccoli quiche. The youth picked up one of the bags and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger – it opened instantly.

‘Thank you,' I said furiously, feeling like punching him in the throat.

Then someone chuckled and I heard a familiar voice behind me. ‘Would you like some help with your packing, madam?'

‘Do you live in here?' I asked ungraciously, when my shopping was safely stowed in my trolley and I was composing myself on the bench beside the taxi phone. At the check-out, the old lady who'd been tutting glared at me as she paid for her cheese scones.

‘I think this is the second time we've met like this,' Andrew said mildly beside me. ‘I do have to eat.'

‘Shouldn't you be at school?'

‘It's the lunch hour – even teachers are allowed out sometimes. Do I gather you are having a bad day?'

I put my head in my hands. ‘Sorry. That seems to be my word of the day.' I told him the latest about Charlotte, trying very hard not to cry so that he didn't think me an even bigger flake than he must do already.

He patted my arm. ‘She'll come round. She's stinging from it all now but from what you've told me about your friendship, it'll work out. Give her a day or two.'

I nodded, still upset.

‘Are you going to be OK?'

I blew my nose. ‘Yep. As you said, just having a bad day. Another one,' I added, before he could think it. ‘How come you always pop up and help me?'

He laughed. ‘I just happened to be doing the shopping. Trying to be a new man – my wife's not keen on the old one!'

I felt myself instantly stiffen again. What was it with these bloody blokes bleating about on their marriages? Did he think I was going to start being sympathetic after we'd had this whole conversation about Roger and Hannah and the way taking confidantes wrecks relationships?