41
‘Never seen the appeal of hot tubs. Glorified paddling pools for swingers,’ Lorna said. ‘A bubbling cauldron of suburban pervs. You always ponder what percentage of that tepid water is covert wees. You’d never get into a bath with your neighbours, would you? Brrrr.’
Harriet laughed, in a broken way.
After fleeing the park massacre, they’d got a cab to The Dive earlier than planned and installed themselves in a discreet corner. Harriet knew unfettered access to a liquor cabinet was going to make them lordly, revoltingly drunk, and she said: bring it on.
They’d made light work of some red wine and moved on to Lorna-shaken cocktails. Harriet was feeling blurry, and both heavy and light at the same time.
‘The girl in the backless dress,’ Lorna hissed, chin tucked into the side of her neck, as the last customers clattered past to the exit. ‘Big earrings. She’s the one who was in with your housemate. Cal?’
‘Oh!’ Harriet suppressed the potent churn she felt watching the graceful thirty-something-year-old, with long ombre hair gathered clear of her swan neck in a loose knot, disappear into the night. She was giggling and chattering and being casually fabulous, in a way that Harriet could never hope to be. Yes, she was Cal-equivalent.
‘Given how I feel about this turn of events with Roxy, I can’t imagine how you feel,’ Lorna said, as Harriet turned back. ‘Explains where all the hard-ass She Brought It On Herself stuff came from over Scott, though, eh? Jon was probably in the fucking room.’
Quite. Harriet recognised that for Roxy to make the transition to Jon’s girlfriend, Harriet had to be Othered, distanced, recast as a serial destroyer of men’s minds. You have to admit, you didn’t treat him the best. Pillow talk with Jon, pulling Harriet to pieces, Roxanne trading on her insider knowledge. Harriet imagined this was akin to how you’d feel working for British intelligence and discovering your desk mate was a Russian spy; a disorientating instability, and a review of every exchange you’d had with them over the pertinent period.
‘I didn’t want to say anything at the time, as I hoped I was wrong and I didn’t want to add to your worries, but for what it’s worth …’ Lorna said.
‘Oh no, what?’
Lorna bit her lip. ‘Handing your address over to Jon. She played it off as ditzy Roxy, but I didn’t buy it. It would’ve been the work of seconds to sense check it with you, I would have, the timing didn’t even make sense. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was sitting next to you at the cinema that night, texting him back. She was … disrupting, to see where it led.’
‘She was eyeing Jon’s potential as soon as we split?’
‘Yeah, I reckon. Sorry. Obviously, had I thought for a second she was capable of this back then, I’d have spoken up. I assumed it was idle stirring.’
‘I guess she’s scheming being supported through the next phase of her career too,’ Harriet said, glumly.
When the thunderbolt of this receded, Harriet knew she’d simply be very, very sad. The times they’d shared, for what? To end like this. A friend she’d cried her mascara off with, in laughter and tears, would drive hundreds of miles for in the middle of the night (and had done). Roxy had held her other hand, the night her grandma died.
‘Oh, it all comes down to money,’ Lorna said. ‘Rox is approaching a crunch point, wants her own company, wants a family. She was on the hunt for a man who can bankroll it, and if we’re the price, she’ll pay it.’
Harriet shook her head.
‘There are wealthy men out there who aren’t my ex. It’s not every night you discover a friend you’ve had for almost half your life doesn’t care about you versus presents in blue bags.’
‘Money is a drug, it’s toxic. Quincy Jones says of creativity: “God walks out of the room when you’re thinking about money”,’ Lorna said, picking at a salvaged picnic empanada.
‘I hope for God’s sake He leaves rooms with Jon and Roxy,’ Harriet said. She covered her eyes, fresh hell hitting her. ‘Oh no. They’re having sex. I don’t know how to compute this. I know what fifty per cent of it looks like!’
‘I refuse to imagine any per cent of it. Fair play to Jon; if you’d asked me which man would blow us apart, I’d never have picked him. How are we going to live down our Yoko being Les Dennis?’
‘Think she’ll regret it? He’s doing this to hurt me. Tons of men would like Roxy for herself, not use her as a pawn.’
‘Hmmm,’ Lorna chewed contemplatively. ‘I don’t think Rox was ever looking for lurve, she’s not made that way. As we can see, cos she doesn’t love us. I don’t think the depth of Jon’s feelings will matter to her. But yes, I think she might miss us, in the future. She’s never understood the value of things that can’t be bought.’
The Tiffany bangle that had been Roxy’s undoing – while Roxanne would have been incapable of refusing such a bribe, Jon must’ve known that her suddenly dripping in jewellery that cost a month’s whole salary could have alerted her friends that something was up.
It was a risk he was happy to take on her behalf, he was using her as an advertising hoarding. The manipulation made Harriet seasick. It was a paler shade of Scott.
There was a knock on the misted glass of the door and Lorna shouted: ‘We’re closed,’ and then: ‘Bollocks, it’s Gethin, sorry dear.’ She laughed.
He’d ascended to dear. They were really real.
Harriet considered what a lie it was that frivolous behaviour led to romantic ruin. She had been the timid serial monogamist, Lorna had only ever, unapologetically, pursued fun. She had carved her way through Tinder like a Mongol warlord annexing feudal kingdoms. Yet Lorna had found love, or love had found her – and Harriet hadn’t.
‘Hi, I hope I’m not interrupting anything …?’
Gethin was in a suit, clasping a box of flowers, a profusion of green and pink-tinged hydrangeas.
‘You’re not, but actually, I was about to go,’ Harriet said. ‘No offence to you, Gethin. I’m swimming in booze and it’s been a day. I’ll let your girlfriend explain. Happy birthday Lorna!’
As Harriet’s taxi pulled away, she saw them embracing in the moodily lit window of the deserted restaurant, looking like a Jack Vettriano painting.
Harriet stumbled back through the front door, stood in the hallway and announced: ‘Blurgh,’ to no one in particular. She assumed her landlord would be in bed.
Cal emerged from the sitting room. He was gleaming, as per, like a Cadillac, to Harriet’s eyes – fantastically attractive, at least in part due to being refreshingly sober. He was the human equivalent of a bed of crisp white linen on a day of sweaty toil and wheel grease.
‘Nice night?’
She got the faintest sense he’d been waiting up for her, but dismissed it with a wave of the hand that encompassed the whole day.
‘No. I found out Jon is sleeping with one of my best friends, Roxanne. As revenge. Well, ex-best friend.’
‘God, really?’ he boggled.
‘Yes. Gross,’ Harriet said, except it came out ‘Grosh.’
‘You need sleep,’ Cal said, making a swift assessment as Harriet swayed, gently. He went to the kitchen, returned with a pint of water. He put his hand in Harriet’s to lead her upstairs.
She was aware of a huge tidal wall of wine between her and experiencing this moment properly, but Drunk Brain sent a message to Future Brain, saying: this is very pleasant.
‘Have you got your phone?’ Cal said, in the bedroom, and Harriet handed it to him as she sat down on her bed.
‘Here it is, I’m going to put it in the charger. No contacting anyone until tomorrow when you feel clearer. Drink that water, take the aspirin next to it, get some rest.’
Harriet was trying and struggling with reduced motor skills to remove her shoes. Cal knelt down and unlaced them for her, helped pull them off. She gazed at the top of his head and inhaled the sea-salty aftershave he wore. Ugh, he was so hot. She might not be able to afford him, but she wouldn’t mind a borrow. A designer hire.
‘Are you going to help me with the rest, too?’ she grinned. Somewhere, in a room beyond a thick door in her Drunk Brain, a voice screamed, dooooon’t say that! Harriet laughed at it, and herself.
‘That feels like something the inebriate should do for herself. Sleep well.’
‘Calvin?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a lovely face,’ Harriet said, as he opened the door and she flopped backwards onto the bed. Cal grinned.
‘Thank you.’
‘You could even be the Deceased Perfect Husband in the montage at the start of a film.’ Harriet’s speech had untethered from her mind’s checks and balances entirely, and was running its own show.
‘… You what?’
‘You know in a film when there’s a scene with the Tragically Deceased Wife dancing on the beach, laughing, in a home movie. Or Deceased Hot Husband at Christmas, with a dog. Their only job is to look like the nicest, most picture-perfect spouse ever. They show why your main character is so sad as the story starts.’
‘So they’re conventionally attractive but ultimately irrelevant?’ Cal said, hand on the door handle.
Harriet whooped. ‘Yeah. It’s a non-speaking role. But you get the whole plot going.’
Cal laughed and shook his head.
‘That’s the most cunning putdown I’ve ever received.’
Harriet gurgled with laughter, a few units beyond expressing that it really wasn’t a putdown.