Bed of Roses. Daisy Waugh
It seems so stupid, but Louis, I recognised his voice,’ she says, puffing away on her cigarette, slugging back the whisky mac. ‘I knew it was him. I knew it was. He sounded so damn familiar…I hung up on him.’
‘Has he called back?’
She hesitates. ‘Not yet, no.’
‘It probably wasn’t him, Fan. It would be a pretty damn weird coincidence. But this kind of crap is going to go on and on – in your head at least – until you deal with it. I keep telling you. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the police. Talk to someone.’
But she won’t do that. She’ll never agree to do that. She always says the same thing: she doesn’t want to stir things up again.
‘Until you find out where the sucker is, if he’s still alive, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Of course he’s still alive. Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Whatever. Fine. But if you believe it was him on the phone—’
‘But what if it wasn’t?’
He stifles a sigh. He’s said it all so often before; virtually every time they meet. ‘Fanny, it probably wasn’t. Either way. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the goddam police.’
‘No.’
‘You could clear this whole thing up.’ He snaps a finger. ‘Gone. Like that.’
‘No.’
‘Well – I don’t know what else to say, Fan. Anyhow, I guess this publicity idea isn’t helping. I mean, if he is out there, which he isn’t, then broadcasting your fabulous successes over the airwaves could probably be rated as “stirring things up”. Don’t you think?’
As he speaks they both remember the series of camera flashes which had followed her in her shirtless streak across the hall.
‘Oh, Christ,’ says Fanny, sinking her head into her hands. She lets out a low moan. ‘Oh, Christ.’
Louis pulls her into a hug. He holds her tight, tighter than he needs to, and breathes in the sweet smell of her. And she breathes in the sweet smell of him.
They stay like that for a while, the two best mates, until one of them says something, makes some sort of brittle joke, and they both pretend to find it funny and slowly pull apart.
It’s as they’re awkwardly, reluctantly disentangling, that Grey McShane sweeps in. He stops at their table, towers above it. ‘There you are,’ he says, noticing her bloodshot eyes but showing no sign of being affected by them. ‘You’re not giving up on us already, are you?’
‘What? No. No, of course not.’
‘Well, you’d better get back there. They all think you’ve done a runner.’
She looks at him, confused.
‘We’ve got the children talking about you like you’re the bloody Messiah, Fanny.’
‘Really?’
‘We’ve got my stepdaughter, little Chloe, coming home every day, singing your praises. We don’t want to lose you just because some fat cow doesn’t like the look of you in your scanties.’
Louis snorts with laughter. Fanny turns to glare at him, finds it quite difficult to focus, and turns back to Grey.
‘He’s kind of right, though,’ Louis says. ‘You can’t let the fat lady push you around.’
Fanny nods, takes another slug from her drink. ‘Is she still in there? I don’t think I can face it if she’s still there.’
Grey shakes his head. ‘They left pretty much straight after you.’
‘Right then.’ Slowly, and with obvious regret, she pulls herself up from her chair. ‘Let’s—I’d better get on with it then.’ She pauses, sways backwards suddenly, steadies herself, and then with a scowl of concentration, ‘Actually,’ she adds, ‘it turns out I’m quite – very – pissed.’
‘Just don’t try to say too much,’ Grey says.
‘And I think,’ she tries to focus on Louis, ‘I should probably do this on my own, Louis, don’t you? If I just go back with Grey, it might maybe unruffle a few more feathers. I mean ruffle. Less. Fewer. Unruffle fewer feathers.’ She frowns. ‘It might go down better if I leave you behind.’
Louis is not especially disappointed. Fiddleford’s great limbo cotillion did not strike him as much of a party. Besides which it’s a nice evening. He thinks, instead, that he might roll himself a J and take a walk through the village. ‘I’ll meet you back here in an hour,’ he says. ‘OK? Good luck.’ He grins at her. ‘Don’t get any more pissed. Less. Fewer less pissed. Don’t drink any more if you can help it…’
Geraldine Adams looks rich. She is in her early forties and her hair, short and brown, with tasteful russet lowlights, is exceptionally well cut. She and her husband Clive used to be as important as Geraldine’s haircut still implies but in actual fact, eighteen months ago, the Adams family joined that annoying group of former yuppies which newspapers call the ‘downsizers’.
They’ve even been the subject of a newspaper feature themselves. (They have it framed in their downstairs lavatory.) There was a massive colour photograph of Clive and Geraldine and the son, Oliver, leaning smugly against a fivebar gate, with the village of Fiddleford nestling behind them. In the article Clive and Geraldine swear that they have never felt happier, and that their ten-year-old son Oliver is so happy with the new rural life that he’s taken to voluntarily switching off the television.
‘Ollie’s got to the stage now where he can’t stand processed food,’ Geraldine told the journalist, called Richard. ‘He simply won’t eat it, Richard! Fortunately for us there’s a marvellous commercial vegetable garden here in Fiddleford, so every morning before school, off Ollie and I trog to Messy McShane’s Organic Kitchen Garden. You know who Messy McShane is, of course, don’t you? Absolutely! Wife of. Quite right! The notorious Grey. He’s charming, actually. A sweetie. But for heaven’s sake don’t get me on to that. Where was I? Yes, Ollie and my little trips to the Garden – which allow him to play an active role in the choices about what he eats, and of course choice is what it’s all about, isn’t it, Richard? Messy talks Ollie through the vegetables that are in season, and then Ollie says, “Ooh, Mummy, I could murder a beetroot today,” and so off she trogs, and picks it! Or whatever…You know what I mean. Picks it up. Picks it…away from the beetroot’s…growing place. So to speak. Anyway, Messy’s happy. I’m happy. Ollie’s happy. And Ollie’s eating beetroot! Who ever heard of a ten-year-old boy eating beetroot in this day and age! Ha!…No. No, I can honestly say to you, Richard, my only regret is that we didn’t make the move sooner!’
Clive and Geraldine used to be partners in a firm of City solicitors. They used to live in Hampstead. Between them they used to earn not far off £1 million a year, if you included bonuses. They used to work twelve hours a day and pay their Australian nanny £600 a week. They used to do all that, and then rush off to the gym, and then have dinner with clients, where they would talk coyly and knowingly about the son they so rarely had time to see – and in truth they used to enjoy it that way. The life suited them perfectly. It probably suited Oliver, too. Because the £600-a-week nanny was usually too busy reading Heat magazine to forcefeed him any disgusting vegetables and, except when she could actually hear Geraldine at the front door, would absolutely never have been so cruel as to stop him watching television.
But Clive and Geraldine couldn’t help worrying that they were somehow living life