The Next Best Thing Page 14

  Surely it must be time for a coffee. Jane saved her work and stood up, bulky, in her favourite working cardigan, which used to be a smart knitted jacket until she’d washed it and doubled its size. On her feet she wore a pair of Will’s woollen expedition socks, and her hair was messily piled up on her head, held in place with a clip like a claw. She looked a fright, but who cared. She’d get brushed up tonight for Lydia’s party, she’d have plenty of time since Liberty was staying at her friend Portia’s house. The Barbie overnight bag — on mini-wheels with an extendable handle, the sort that air hostesses pulled behind them as they clip-clopped onto the plane in their ladylike shoes — had been packed and handed over this morning to Portia’s mother, who hadn’t failed to notice Jane’s dishevelled appearance.

  ‘What time do you want to collect her?’ she had asked, a pucker of anxiety forming on her smooth brow as she noticed a dirty mark running down the leg of Jane’s jeans.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll use the tradesmen’s entrance,’ said Jane. ‘Joke,’ she’d added, i t was the car, problem getting it started this morning, and I ended up spilling oil all over myself.’

  Portia’s mum had been wearing jeans too, but hers were put together with stiletto shoes and a Jean-Paul Gaultier jacket. It had been a long time since denim was a byword for tough rebel or beat poet. Now it just said rich bitch, same as everything else.

  The breakfast bowls were still hardening on the table, so Jane took advantage of her coffee break to soak them in the, sink. After their argument, Will had made a point of being helpful round the house. He had done all the washing up for three days until he cut his hand on a glass. Nice while it lasted, but they had now slipped back into their usual roles. It was business as usual, though Jane didn’t mind. She had other concerns.

  She stared at the goldfish swimming around in the tank that she had placed on the counter beside the microwave. They would have to be hidden away in the cellar before Liberty came back, and then hibernate until Christmas, pretend they were in a snow-covered pond. It was perfectly safe, she’d heard of one woman who kept hers in the fridge when she went away for the summer, with no ill effects.

  She made her coffee and padded back to the table, slopping some onto the floor as she went. It didn’t really matter any more, since Will had noticed a discolouration on the rubber flooring. He’d had the architect over yesterday so he could give him a bollocking about it. Just beneath the window the colour had faded and was now much paler than the rest of the room. The architect had said it was due to UV rays of sunlight. Will had said it was a miracle any UV rays could get in, the room was so dark, but it was an even bigger miracle that an architect who was supposed to know his materials should have recommended rubber in the first place. Jane had left the room at this point, and taken refuge in the galleria, which luckily appeared to be UV resistant. Will would go completely bonkers if anything bad happened up there.

  The washing machine whirred up to the hysterical pitch of the spin cycle, and Jane blocked her ears. She really shouldn’t put washing on when she was working, it was too distracting. Fingers still in her ears, she read on into the next chapter. She should be able to get a chunk of it done today, since she didn’t have to do the school run. The day stretched ahead of her, a solid block of time that for once would not be fractured by the demands of childcare. Without Liberty, the raison d’être for her present life had been suspended. The benefits of working at home, choosing your own hours to fit in with your child’s routine, suddenly became redundant. She could dress up and go to an office today if she wanted. Except she didn’t have one. This was her office. Surrounded by zero companions and silent walls. And discoloured rubber flooring and the sound of domestic machinery. Chilly, in the daytime, and pretty damned lonely. Only those fish to look at.

  She should have gone to the cinema, it was stupid to have said she’d be too busy. What was she afraid of? But then, she had next week to look forward to. And looking forward had become a delicious secret.

  That evening, Rupert’s flat was full to bursting and he had been cornered by a director of creativity, whatever that was. She organised ideation sessions for a living but was now talking about her clothes.

  ‘Oh yeah, I do it every season,’ she nodded, ‘I merchandise my wardrobe. Thank you.’ She took a canape from a passing tray and turned her attention back to Rupert. ‘You know, people always say to me, how do you manage to look so fashionable, without looking too fashion victim, and I say to them, I’ll tell you how.’

  ‘Really?’ said Rupert, hoping she wasn’t going to tell him. ‘Yeah. I cut pictures from Harpers magazine of this season’s looks that I know will suit me, and paste them to my closet door. Then I go through all my clothes, identifying everything that will contribute to that look. Then I buy one or two key items to bring the whole thing together . . .’

  ‘I see,’ said Rupert, casting his eyes desperately round his crowded living room in search of redemption. No-one caught his eye, but at least here was a waiter with a bottle of champagne. He held out his glass for a top-up.

  ‘Yeah. And you know what, I’ll let you into a secret.’ She leaned into him confidentially, obliging him to lower his head towards her. ‘I’m going to be fifty next month.’ She stood back and waited for his astonished reaction.

  ‘Is that so?’ Rupert said vaguely, taking a step back and hoping to somehow drift off into the crowd. She sensed he was making a break for it and closed in again.

  ‘And just this week I was given another promotion. Kind of an early birthday present. And that’s on top of the loyalty bonus I received six months ago.’

  What was it with Americans? Were they programmed from birth to talk endlessly about themselves, or was boastfulness part of the school curriculum?

  ‘Lovely, well done,’ said Rupert, looking over her shoulder. Thank God, there was Richard just arrived, he’d have to go and greet him.

  ‘You know, I love this country,’ she went on, ‘but I cannot get over how much you drink. I’ve never been a drinker myself. I used to be the national swimming champion in backstroke.’

  ‘Course you were . . . will you excuse me?’

  And he made a break for it. A bit abruptly, but sometimes rudeness was the only way to deal with rudeness.

  The noise was deafening, eighty people shouting at each other. As he weaved his way across the room, Rupert tried to remember how long ago it was that people had stopped playing music at parties. It must have been around the age of thirty, when people start to think that what they have to say is far more interesting than anything that comes out of the sound system. The noise was still at nuisance level, but without any tunes.

  ‘Richard, there you are, and Caroline . . .’

  Rupert had been working with Richard all day as usual, but it had been a while since he had seen Richard’s wife. She had thickened out and was overdressed in the manner of someone who doesn’t come up to town that often.

  ‘Hallo, Rupert, where’s Lydia?’ she said, pulling her silk stole down over her shoulders and peering around the room. Rupert wasn’t observant about clothes but he did notice that the purple spangles in her headband matched both her evening bag and the brooch pinned to the bosom of her full-length dress. She looked ready to dine on the captain’s table on a cruise liner.

  ‘Over there.’ He pointed to Lydia, who was talking to a man with a shaved head and a girl with emaciated thighs in knee-high boots. Caroline barged her way over, a beacon of Home Counties confidence.

  ‘Caroline looks well,’ said Rupert, then stopped in his tracks.

  Standing some way behind Richard, just in front of the door, was Jane. Her hair was piled loosely on her head and she was wearing an orange lipstick that seemed to bring out her freckles. Her skin was luminous against her black dress. She caught sight of him at the same moment, and mirrored his reactions: surprise, then delight, followed by confusion. He went forward, ready to greet her, but then she frowned at him, just slightly, warning him off. Only then
did he notice the man standing next to her, who must be her boyfriend, though he looked more like a footman in a powdered wig. He was older, but not impossibly old, not as old as Rupert would have wished. A bit of a short-arse, too, which was gratifying. But he was looking round the room with a world-weary nonchalance that made Rupert want to smash him into the ground.

  Richard didn’t seem to notice that Rupert’s attention was wandering. ‘Yes, doesn’t she?’ he said, looking round proudly after his wife. ‘I tell you what, mate, best thing I ever did — apart from setting up shop with you, obviously — was marrying her and moving to the country. You and Lydia should do the same, you don’t want to bring up kids in London.’

  ‘Well, the lease is up on Lamington in five years’ time, so it would be an option,’ said Rupert, still watching Will and Jane as they made their way across the room, ‘though I’m not really sure that Lydia is a country person, and she’s got her job and everything . . .’

  ‘She’d love it! You want to come down and stay with us one weekend, and Caroline will show her what she’s missing.’

  Jane had her back to him now and Rupert could observe the elegant curve of her neck rising out of the dress. He wanted to go over and plant a kiss right there on the back of her neck. What was she doing here? Why hadn’t Lydia told him she was coming? She probably had, but the names had gone in one ear and out the other whenever she’d started talking about the party. It was all coming back to him now, though: Jane from school, or was it from college? They were old friends, that was all he needed to know. What on earth had he got himself into?

  Richard was still going on about the pleasures of country living, and Rupert tried to concentrate on what he was saying. Then he felt a hand on his arm and turned to find that the director of creativity had tracked him down again.

  ‘So, Rupert, are you going to introduce me, or maybe I should just go ahead and introduce myself?’ She turned to Richard and put out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Page Riley. I work in consultancy, hut I’m also over here on a celebrity-author visa. I wrote a bestselling book some years ago about the effects of . . .’

  Rupert backed off and left them to it. He should get across to see Jane now, he had to talk to her, maybe they could go somewhere more private. The room was so crowded though, it was hard to move, and as he began to negotiate a path he became aware of a good-looking man he vaguely recognised who was looking at him in amusement.

  ‘You seem rather distracted,’ said the stranger. ‘I’m Andrew Firth, I live downstairs. So good of you to invite me.’

  It was the gay shrink; Lydia had clearly lost no time in getting in with the most glamorous of the neighbours.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Rupert, ‘you’re the . . . psycho whatsit.’

  He couldn’t remember now whether he was supposed to be a psychiatrist or psychologist, so he just pointed to his own head and made a spinning gesture with his finger to suggest general looniness.

  Dr Firth came to his rescue. ‘Yes, just so, I’m a psychologist. Cognitive behavioural therapy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Rupert said, ‘I always get it mixed up, you must get sick of people doing that.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Dr Firth, taking a sip of champagne, ‘I do it all the time. Memory like a sieve, which can be a disaster when you get your patients muddled up. You know, it’s a bit embarrassing when you have to ask someone, remind me, are you the cot death or the premature ejaculator?’

  Rupert snorted. He’d never thought of shrinks as having a sense of humour.

  ‘Sounds very fruity,’ he said. ‘I wish I could have conversations like that in the course of my working day.’

  ‘Best of all was when I was working in a prison,’ said Dr Firth, lighting a cigarette. ‘You’d hear some great stuff from the lifers: telling you how it felt when they turned the knife in the stomach of their victim. I tell you, if I ever get tired of this game, writing horror stories.’

  ‘Always nice to have a fall-back position,’ Rupert agreed.

  He looked over to where Jane was now in conversation with Lydia. There was no hope of talking to her now, he would need to wait and find a moment later on: she’d understand, of course she would. He saw that Will had floated off and was listening to the girl with the emaciated thighs. Rupert watched him nodding at her, then turning his face upwards while he took a deep drag of his cigar, narrowing his eyes in a macho Clint Eastwood sort of way. Tosser. What was Jane doing wasting her life with someone like that? He switched his gaze back to the girls, to find that Lydia was now looking right at him, pointing him out to Jane, giving him a little wave. That was that then. Jane would now be aware that he was none other than Lydia’s boyfriend. Soon to be her fiance. He gave a small wave back, the wave of a condemned man. Jane looked taken aback, clearly trying to hide the shock. The subject had never come up: he’d only ever met her twice, for God’s sake.

  Rupert’s instinct was to rush over and sweep her up in his arms and walk out of there forever. But by the age of forty you’ve learned to overcome your instincts. You don’t act on the spur of the moment, you take things in a measured and reasonable way. If you want to see somebody, you arrange something in your diary a month in advance, you don’t just go crashing up to them like an uncivilised simpleton. This was his engagement party, after all. And he would see her next Friday at the cinema, that was already arranged. Unless she didn’t turn up. Maybe after tonight she would think it was better not to see him again. The thought of it sent him into a panic.

  ‘Rupert, darling, lovely party.’

  Caroline was beside him now, her mouth full of canapes, and with three more lined up in her upturned hand. ‘You could have done with plates, though, for the food. Mind you, there’s a lot of faddy eaters here tonight. No wheat, no dairy, no this, no that. Don’t know why they don’t just call it a day and lie down and die right now.’

  Rupert smiled at her refreshing good sense. He could see what Richard saw in her. ‘Caroline, this is Andrew Firth. He’s a psychologist, lives downstairs.’

  ‘How very useful,’ she said, ‘though I do hope you don’t keep any sharp knives about the place. You do hear some terrible stories, and you look just the handsome type that could turn a lunatic’s head.’

  Rupert left them to it and turned his attention to the grey suits who were his guests, as opposed to the silly haircuts and bum-revealing trousers that belonged to Lydia’s list.

  ‘We were just saying, Rupert, they’ve definitely softened round our way,’ said one man with glasses and a rather daring bow tie. ‘I think we could be looking at a thirty per cent adjustment.’

  ‘Especially once interest rates go up again,’ added another, popping a mini Thai crispy roll into his mouth.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ said another, ‘the economic situation is very different now to the late Eighties.’

  Rupert sighed. Could one ever look forward to a time when people didn’t talk about how much their houses were worth?

  ‘We live on what we always describe as the coat-tails of The Chase, in Clapham,’ said a plain woman, ‘and we’ve seen prices double over the last few years.’ She lifted a prawn canape off a passing tray, and Rupert was glad to notice a blob of mayonnaise fall onto the scarf that was tied around her scrawny neck.

  ‘Same in Windsor,’ said a former colleague of Rupert’s, ‘luckily we bought at just the right time.’

  ‘Bit of a hike, isn’t it?’ said Rupert, ‘coming in from Windsor every day.’

  ‘No! I drive, takes me fifteen minutes.’

  Fifteen minutes my arse, thought Rupert. It sometimes took him fifteen minutes to drive from Sloane Square to Knightsbridge. Maybe if he travelled by Ferrari at four o’clock in the morning and ignored all traffic lights, it might just be possible.

  A waitress reappeared with a tray of venison mini sausages which the man from Windsor took as a come-on for a bout of flirting.

  ‘You little temptress!’ he said to her, raising a Clark Cable
eyebrow. ‘You’re trying to lead me astray again, aren’t you?’

  The waitress smiled noncommittally. She was earning thirty quid for this evening, not enough to put up with dirty old men.

  ‘Oh go on then, you naughty little minx, have it your own way! I’ll even take two,’ he added, popping them into his month in a lewd manner and washing them down with a generous slug of champagne.

  Jane stood in the middle of the room, silent amid all the cocktail shouting. How come she had never asked him his name? She might have guessed if he’d told her, you didn’t come across too many Ruperts. She’d dished out enough details about her own life. As well as her name and occupation, he knew the name of her partner and what he did for a living, and the fact that she had a daughter. And in exchange, she knew that he liked gardening and had a house in the South of France. He hadn’t bothered to mention that he was going out with someone who just happened to be Jane’s oldest friend.

  ‘Hallo, you look a bit lost.’

  Jane turned to see a woman in a grey suit with too-wide shoulders and a turquoise scarf standing beside her. ‘I’m Jenny. My husband used to work with Rupert.’

  ‘I’m Jane. I’m an old school friend of Lydia’s.’

  ‘And where do you live, Jane?’

  ‘Shepherds Bush.’

  ‘Oh yes, on the coat-tails of Notting Hill.’