One Minute to Midnight (35 page)

‘I’ll go, Dom. I think it’s better if I go and talk to him on my own. Okay?’

It is not okay.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he yells at me. ‘I am so bloody sick of this.’

‘What?’

‘You, running away from me. This isn’t a partnership any more, Nicole, this isn’t a marriage. This is you, in your own little world, running off to see your father, disappearing to god knows where in the middle of the night, snapping shut your laptop the second I walk into the room, having secret telephone conversations …’ He stops, throws his hands up in the air, a gesture of resignation. ‘Do you think I don’t notice the way you’re constantly disappearing, the way you’re always sneaking around? Do you think I don’t care? Did you honestly expect me to believe, for example, that you were just “walking around” last night until two-thirty in the morning?’

I did, actually.

‘Where were you? Go on, just tell the truth. Just for once. Give it a try – see how it feels.’ His voice drips venom. ‘Were you with Aidan?’

There’s an awning up ahead, a red plastic awning which affords a half yard or so’s protection from the snow. I shelter underneath it, waiting for Dom to join me, but he doesn’t move, he just stands there, his question hanging in the air.

‘I went to see Alex,’ I say. ‘We talked for a while, then we went out for a drink at a bar near where she lives. Then I came back.’ His shoulders slump a little, I can sense his relief, which makes what’s coming a hundred times worse. ‘But I have seen Aidan. I was with him today. I bumped into him outside his office …’

‘You bumped into him?’ Dom asks, incredulous. ‘How fucking stupid do you think I am, Nicole? You
bumped into him
…’ he laughs mirthlessly.

‘It’s the truth, I swear, I was shopping near where he works, I saw him in the street …’

‘And then what? Then what? You were with him all afternoon? Did you go to bed with him?’

‘No! Jesus, Dom, of course not. I would never do that. Believe me, please, we just walked around …’

‘You know what?’ he interrupts me. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m really not interested in listening to your excuses. I’ve had enough of this. It has to stop. You have to make a choice between life with me and life with … them. All the others. Aidan, Alex, Julian’s ghost … the life you had before. I’m going back to the hotel now, I’m going to get on the first flight that I can and I’m going back to London. If you’re at all interested in saving this marriage, you can come with me. If not, well … There’s nothing more I can do, Nicole.’

I stand there for a bit, under my sad little red plastic awning, wishing I had a cigarette. Wishing I hadn’t told Dom that I’d seen Aidan, wishing I hadn’t overreacted to Karl’s wedding announcement, wishing I could go back in time, to this morning, to sex and breakfast in bed.

I have a choice to make: I can run after Dominic and beg him not to leave, beg him to let us stay here for a couple more days, beg him to go to the party like we planned, to go ice skating at the Rockefeller Center and have cocktails at the Met, or I can go and find Karl and apologise for running out on him.

I choose Karl. I go back to Macao, but our table is empty. I search the bar for five or ten minutes, but it’s obvious that he’s gone. Back upstairs on the pavement, I call him from my mobile.

‘Nicole?’

‘I’m so sorry, Karl, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s okay …’

‘It’s not okay, I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Are you at your hotel?’

‘No, I’m outside the bar.’

‘Come to my place. It’s very close by. You just walk one block east and two blocks south, and you’ll find me. Warren Street, number thirty-five. Apartment seven. Okay?’

‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

Ten minutes later I am standing outside Karl’s apartment, feeling like an idiot. I press the buzzer and take the lift to the fourth floor, where he greets me as I step through the doors, embracing me as though I hadn’t seen him for years, let alone run out on him twenty minutes earlier.

‘I’m sorry, Karl, you took me by surprise …’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘It does, I feel so stupid.’

‘Don’t feel stupid.’

‘I am stupid. I want you to be happy. I’m happy you’re happy.’

‘I know you are,’ he says. ‘Come on, come inside. I want you to meet Sean.’

‘Oh god, he’s here? Karl …’ I’m mortified, but short of running away again, there’s nothing I can do now.

The apartment is large by New York standards, the front door opening up into an elegant hallway which leads into a living room with floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the street. The walls are covered with large, colourful paintings, some of which I recognise as Karl’s own. On the left, above the open fireplace, is a stark black and white photograph, little boys, dressed in white, playing football in a dusty street. It’s one of Julian’s.

Karl takes my coat. While he’s hanging it up in the hallway closet a slight, grey-haired man wearing jeans, a brightly printed shirt and a pair of heavy-framed specs appears from the kitchen, carrying a bottle of champagne in one hand and four flutes in the other. They were obviously expecting Dom to come with me.

‘Hello,’ he says, giving me a warm smile. ‘Would you like a glass of sparkle?’

‘I’d love one,’ I say. I stand there awkwardly while the man, who has clearly opened many a champagne bottle in his life, silently and expertly removes the cork and pours us each a glass, leaving one empty.

‘It’s nice to meet you, Nicole,’ he says, handing me one of the flutes. ‘I’m Sean, by the way.’

‘I guessed as much,’ I said. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, too. Congratulations.’

‘Oh yes, finally getting him down the aisle,’ he said with a laugh.

‘I’m sure he didn’t need too much persuasion. He always was a sucker for weddings.’

Karl comes back into the living room and picks up a glass.

‘What can I say? I am an old romantic.’ The three of us clink glasses and Sean invites me to sit. He is not what I expected; he has a good ten to fifteen years on Karl, not at all the twenty-something gym-bunny I imagined in my head. Why I imagined that I’ve no idea, but I’m oddly relieved that Karl is with someone older, someone to look after him. I feel like I ought to say something about my earlier behaviour, and I start to explain, but Sean waves away my apologies.

‘Don’t give it a moment’s thought,’ he says. ‘I understand completely.’

‘So,’ I say brightly, sipping my champagne, ‘tell me about your wedding plans. Germany, Karl said?’

Sean pulled a face. ‘I’d rather do it in the States. I’m pushing for Cape Cod. Cape Cod in the spring, don’t you think that would be great? Would you come over if we did it in the spring?’

‘Of course, I would,’ I say. ‘And I’d pick Cape Cod over Germany, too.’

‘What’s wrong with Germany?’ Karl asks. Sean and I exchange a look. I like him already.

‘And how did you guys meet?’

‘Sean’s a sculptor,’ Karl says, beaming at him proudly. ‘A very good one. That’s one of his,’ he says, pointing to a striking bronze figure standing on a low-slung bookcase to my left. It stands next to a large framed photograph of Julian, tanned and happy, laughing at the camera. I love that he’s here in the room with us. ‘Sean had a show at my gallery last year and … well. You know.’ They smile at each other, they’re almost coy. It’s so lovely to see Karl like this again.

‘And what about you?’ Sean asks me. ‘I was expecting to meet your husband.’

‘Oh, well,’ I mumble. I can feel myself colouring. ‘Um … he went back to the hotel. He was a bit pissed off with me about … earlier. I behaved badly at the bar.’

‘Nonsense,’ Karl says.

‘Call him,’ Sean says, refilling my glass, ‘tell him to come over and join us.’

‘Oh, I don’t know … He was in a bit of a bad mood.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ Karl says. You don’t know the half of it, I want to say, not even the quarter, but I fish my phone out of my handbag. Just as I’m about to dial it starts to ring.

‘There you go!’ Sean says with a laugh, ‘serendipity!’

‘Hi, Dom,’ I say, getting to my feet and walking over to the window. This may not be a conversation I want others to hear. ‘I’m at Karl’s. We were just wondering if you wanted to come over?’ I bite my lip, steeling myself for a stream of bitter invective.

‘No, Nic, you need to come back.’

‘Please, Dom. We can talk about that other stuff later …’

‘No, Nicole …’

‘I want to talk about it, I do, we need to talk—’

‘Nicole, forget about that. You need to come back to the hotel, okay?’ His voice sounds odd, he doesn’t sound angry, he sounds worried.

‘Dom, what is it?’

‘Your mum rang.’

‘Oh, Jesus, is she all right? Is Charles all right? What’s wrong?’ My heart is suddenly hammering in my chest.

‘She’s fine, Nic, she and Charles are fine. It’s your dad.’

Chapter Twenty

New Year’s Eve 2009

London

Resolutions:

1. Find a divorce lawyer

2. Return Alex’s letters, gifts etc (except maybe the McQueen heels?)

3. Ring the cameraman who hit on me at the
Wife Swap
shoot

4. Lose half a stone

5. Start flat-hunting – contact agents in Hackney/ Stoke Newington?

I TOLD MUM that I just wanted to stay at home, to pretend that it was just another night. It
was
just another night. What else is New Year’s Eve, really? I know I’ve always imbued it with some great significance, but it isn’t really anything special, it’s just an arbitrary marker of passing time, as annoying as a birthday. But she rang to invite me round anyway.

‘Why don’t you just come round, love? Come and have a glass of champagne and something to eat with me and Charles? He got the new Jamie Oliver from his sister for Christmas, the American one. He’s made the most delicious vanilla cheesecake. Come round and have a slice.’

‘Mum, honestly, I don’t want to go out. I’ve had a drink, anyway, I can’t drive.’ This was a lie, and a stupid one, given Mum’s entirely predictable reaction.

‘Oh Nicole, I can’t bear it, you sitting there drinking on your own. It’s awful. Hop in a taxi. Or I’ll come there. Why don’t I come round there? I’ll bring some ice cream and we can watch a DVD or something.’

I didn’t want to watch a DVD. I didn’t want to have to talk about it, to rehash it all with her. I didn’t want to eat ice cream and watch chick-flicks and live up to the broken-hearted woman stereotype.

‘At the risk of sounding like Greta Garbo, I just want to be alone. Honestly. To be horribly blunt, I don’t want you to come round. I’m sorry, but I’d rather just be here on my own with the dogs. Why don’t we do something tomorrow? We can meet for lunch.’

‘All right then,’ she said, ‘just don’t drink too much.’

Although I’d promised myself I wouldn’t drink alone, all this talk of booze had got me in the mood. I went into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of Laurent Perrier Rosé one of Dom’s grateful clients had sent to him a while back. We’d been saving it for a special occasion. The dogs followed me to the fridge, Mick standing dutifully behind me while Marianne tried to poke her nose into the vegetable drawer.

‘Are you hungry, little girl?’ I asked her. She wagged her tail, looking up at me hopefully. On the middle shelf of the fridge sat a honey roast ham which Dom’s mother Maureen had sent to me, along with a card wishing me a happy Christmas and hoping that I would ‘listen to reason’ regarding the matter of her son’s (understandable, in her mind) behaviour. I took the ham out of the fridge, hacked several large hunks off the bone and shared them out onto two plates. The dogs couldn’t believe their luck.

I opened the champagne and poured myself a large mug. There were no clean glasses left, let alone champagne flutes. The washing up had not been done for days, the house hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. Pizza boxes and foil containers from the Chinese place were piled high on the kitchen counter, a stack of newspapers that reached almost to my waist sat in Dom’s study, unread and un-recycled.

I wandered into the living room with my mug and flicked on the TV, hopped through the channels mindlessly, taking nothing in. I turned it off again and turned on the stereo. I’d been listening to
Sticky Fingers
pretty much on repeat for a month. To the strains of ‘Wild Horses’, I slugged back my champagne and lit a cigarette.

The phone rang. For the ninth time that evening. It was the landline, which has no caller ID so I couldn’t tell who it was. It wouldn’t be my mother again, she’d got wise to the fact that I wouldn’t pick up the phone unless I knew the identity of the caller, so she only rang on the mobile. I couldn’t say for sure who it was, but I could narrow it down to a list of two: Dominic or Alex. Who else would be calling me at ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve?