It Could Have Been Her(24)

I know I’m not a great catch. Nearly forty, living in a squat, with a low-level drinking problem, a paunch, and a swiftly encroaching thin patch at the back of my head (which my nephews took great delight in pointing out to me numerous times over the Christmas break). I haven’t done any exercise since I was a teenager and I’m kind of hopeless. But people like me. Women like me. People feel safe around me. So, yeah, that can go a long way, making people feel safe. Especially with women who’ve had more than their fair share of men making them feel scared.

“Thanks.” I say. “Shucks.”

“But don’t you ever get lonely?”

“Nope. Do you?”

“I’m lonely all the time.”

“But you have your kid. Your mum.”

She shakes her head emphatically, reaching down again for her wineglass. “No,” she says firmly. “No. A mother is not a substitute for a partner. And neither is a kid. A partner”—she squeezes her eyes shut and sets her jaw hard—“is everything. A completion. An answer.” The wine is suddenly gone, tipped down her throat in one fell swig.

“When did you start drinking?” I ask.

She throws me a look. “About an hour ago,” she says.

I laugh roughly. “No. I mean, habitually. When did it start?”

She narrows her eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”

I sigh and reach across the bed, cup her kneecaps with my hands, softly. “Come on,” I say gently. “You know. Don’t make me say it.”

She shudders and pulls her legs away from my hands. “You know, they’ll be back soon. It’s probably…”

I sigh heavily and lean back into her pillows. “Ah. Yeah. I’d better get out of here.” I start to pull the duvet away from my body.

She says, “No.”

I look at her questioningly.

“Don’t go. Stay. I mean, stay here.” She gestures at the bed. “You haven’t got anywhere to sleep tonight, have you? So sleep here. But… my daughter, my mother. You’ll have to stay low. For now. My little secret.”

Jesus Christ, I should have said no.

I SHOULD HAVE SAID NO.

But she was right. I had nowhere to sleep. And her house was warm. Her bed was soft. Her body was perfect. So I said, “Are you sure?” and she said, “Of course I am.”

And I said, “Thank you. I promise you I’ll be quiet.”





chapter twenty


Jane feels restless in Tony’s house that evening. Beyond the walls of his peaceful pied-à-terre, the city is tremulous, alive with the energy of people enjoying a night out. She peers through the window down onto the pavement and sighs at the sight of young people, the bright evening sun shining off their smooth faces, lighting up their eyes. She sees the shimmer of movement behind restaurant windows, imagines cold wine in dewy glasses, complicated cocktails with smoke and twisted rinds, seared steaks, yogurty, garlicky sauces, shrimps and squids and unctuous ribbons of homemade noodles, and she wants to be out there, in the world, eating it and drinking it and smelling it. She can pretend this world doesn’t exist when she’s at Rosebery Hall, a mile and a half from the nearest pub. But here, so close… she aches for it.



* * *



An hour later Jane is sitting at a table for one in a beautiful French restaurant lit with flickering candles, sipping a spicy margarita and researching every cast member of the 2006 low-budget movie called The Bedsitter. She is being beautifully looked after by a young waitress who is giving her, Jane is sure, extra-careful service. Jane has always rejected the idea that women become invisible after a certain age, believes that if you exude enough bright energy into the world, everyone will see the shine and you will always get the attention of people, be found attractive, regardless of your age. Jane is rarely ignored and mostly favored by good service, flirtatious encounters, and kind interactions. Invisibility is, she theorizes, a choice. And it is a choice she has never wanted to make.

Few of the actors or contributors to The Bedsitter appear to have gone on to work in any other capacity in the world of film and TV, and Jane can only assume that it must have been some kind of amateur production, a one-off project. And then, just as she has chased the last piquant drops of her margarita from the bottom of the glass and started to contemplate a second drink, her phone vibrates, and she sees that she has a notification from Instagram. It is from Natasha de Large.

OMG! the message begins:

Jane! How are you? I am still doing the dog thing, as you can see, life goes on, kids growing up, all good. Lovely to see a photo of your doggoes. They look great! And yes, that was me in THE BEDSITTER! Crazily enough I studied costume design at Central. I know, you wouldn’t think it. And there was this guy. He was someone’s boyfriend, I think? And he made this little movie with me and some of my mates from Central, and he was a total knob, nothing ever happened with it, but I did meet my hubby on set, so there was that! The rest is history! How about you? How’s your hunky American husband? What was his name? I always thought he might be a mafioso, I don’t know why! Happy to chat on the phone or in person if there was anything else you wanted to know! Lots of love! Nat xxx



Jane smiles wryly at the mention of the hunky American husband. She never really thought of Tony as hunky. Not compared to the Viscount. But maybe he was? She sighs a little at the thought of Tony and the madness of their ten-year marriage. What a time that had been: the jet-setting, the arguing, the sex, the laughing, the skiing, the yachting, the drinking, the kids, the glorious kids. God, she misses her stepkids. She must, she thinks, organize a get-together while she’s here in London. It’s an impossible task to drag everyone down to her stupid house in the middle of nowhere; it’s not like the movies where crowds of amenable people turn up to order for country weekends; her stepkids are always busy, away, babies, jobs, clashing schedules. And she knows, of course she does, that they make excuses because getting to her place is a nightmare and once you’re there there’s nowhere comfortable to sleep and Jane is a terrible cook and everything is covered in dog hair and dried mud, and no, she gets it, she really does. But a gathering in Central London is simple. Ubers, babysitters, nice hotel rooms, easy peasy lemon squeezy.