Separate Lives (7 page)

We met at St. Germain, a few doors down from the shop, which I love—it manages to be both local and glamorous, and we ordered a bottle of champagne straight away. Lisa showed me the ring, a simple, but simply enormous diamond in a chunky platinum setting, and told me how Guy had proposed over dinner at Ca l'Isidre, which would've been too showy and public for me, but a round of applause from the other diners (and some vintage fizz on the house) is totally Guy and Lisa, and that's fine. And Lisa was glowing so much I thought she might be pregnant again too, so I asked her, after the second glass, but she said, “Do you think I'd have ordered a bottle if I was, like, pregnant?” and I said, “Well, yes, probably.” And we laughed and it was . . . a lovely afternoon. And of course we got a bit pissed.

And that's when I told her. That's when I said: “I met your soon-to-be-sort-of-sister-in-law in the shop—Susie.”

“Yeah, Marta said she'd come in and bought that great dress. She's probably going to wear it to Mr. and Mrs. Fox's golden wedding party this weekend.”

“Yes,” I said, “but she might wear it before that I think.” And Lisa gave me a questioning look, so I said, “Lisa. She's having an affair.”

Lisa's jaw literally dropped and she said: “Hang on—she told you this?”

And I said, “No, no, of course not, but I overheard a phone conversation.” And I told Lisa about Susie saying she could hook up for an hour at—and I think I got this right—the Landmark Hotel on the way home, but had to be back by seven or she'd be in trouble with you-know-who. And how that made sense of Alex's quietness the other week. And probably also why he hadn't even mentioned her name.

And Lisa said, “Hang on, Pip. You were flirting with him. And he was flirting with you.”

And I was a bit surprised by this because I really hadn't been flirting—had I? And other than the “yummy” comment, I don't think Alex had been flirting with me, and I wanted to make this clear, so I said, “No, Lisa, you know me, I don't do flirting. I do
empathetic
. And if a man mistakes it for flirting, that's not my fault, is it?”

Lisa conceded that this was true. And she sat silently for a few moments, twisting her engagement ring around her finger, and then she said, thoughtfully, “That's probably why Alex turned up in the first place, to talk to Guy? But of course we were in dinner party mode, so they never had that conversation. Omigod, poor Alex . . .”

And I said, “But don't tell Guy. You mustn't tell Guy. Leave it to Alex to do that . . . if and when.”

“Yes, of course. Of course I won't tell him.”

And straight away I knew she would.

I can't remember too much about the rest of lunch, but the mood had changed—and Mum, I'd changed it. I felt guilty about that, but also oddly relieved. I'd passed on something I'd learned to a person . . . (well, given I was now pretty certain Lisa would tell Guy, make that people . . .) I could trust. And more than just being people I could trust, they were the right sort of people, they were part of Alex's family so they would do right by him, because that's what families do, isn't it? And frankly it felt good to have unburdened myself because ultimately it really wasn't my problem, was it?

By the following Friday, I had four more sixty-minute sessions at the gym under my belt plus two evenings of Ashtanga, my weekly flower-delivering visit to the hospice . . . the usual busy-doing-anything routine my life has become. Oh, and Hal had got a place at College Hall, which had necessitated a Thursday night celebration supper at Carluccio's with Hal and a quick call to David, who was delighted, of course, and said that he'd be passing through London next week and would take Hal out for his own celebration. And I couldn't resist asking David if he'd bought off the school with a new IT wing. And he had the good grace to laugh and said, “No, but maybe next year, eh?” And then he said, “Actually I wasn't going to tell you this just yet, because we haven't had the twelve-week scan, but . . .”

So, Mrs. Ashford was pregnant and “Hal will get a sibling after all.” And my good mood was, unsurprisingly, instantaneously not only broken, but totally crushed. But through gritted teeth I managed a “congratulations.”

Maybe if that hadn't happened on Thursday evening, I would have handled the Friday phone call differently. Who knows—it's a total “whatever.” Either way, when my mobile rang at about 11 a.m., after the gym, and the caller ID revealed a number I didn't recognize, instead of being put off I was mildly intrigued, so I answered.

“Hi.”

“Hello? Is that Pippa?”

“That's me, yes.”

“Hi, Pippa. Um, it's Alex Fox here. We met the other week, at, er . . .”

“Yes, Alex. At Lisa and Guy's.”

“Yeah. Look, I know this is totally out of the blue, so I'll cut to the chase: I got your number from Guy and he said that, well . . . er, look, I wondered if you were free for a quick drink later? I'm at the office till five thirtyish, maybe six . . . but, if you were free?”

“Sure. Yes. Um, look, I think I know why you might be calling.”

“Well, maybe. Maybe not, but . . .” And he named a bar in Soho, near his office. And it was with some irony I realized it was the same bar where I'd seen Gary being groped by the hot cameraman, and that felt right, somehow. In fact suddenly everything felt a lot more right than it did wrong. And I really can't explain why that is.

I spent the rest of the afternoon deciding what to wear. It needed quite a bit of thought because obviously this wasn't a date. Or at least not any kind of a date I'd ever been on, so there was no point in looking all Friday-night-up-west. I rejected loads of things—too casual, too smart, too sexy, not sexy enough . . . before I eventually hit on a combination that I felt sent out the right sort of signals: quietly confident and a
little bit sexy without being remotely in your face. Black skinnies, a gray silk DVF blouse with a bit of a plunge, and my latest pair of black suede Georgina Goodman boots—mid-height heel, not too vampy, comfortable for walking, if walking happened to be on the agenda, and a lovely double-breasted Jaeger camel coat. It was very après-office—if I worked in a pretty glamorous office—so I looked like a woman of substance, but more shaggable than scary. Not that I was thinking “shaggable,” obviously, but I didn't want to look un-shaggable, either.

I got there too early, of course, so I walked around the block a few times until I was fairly sure Alex would have arrived. And when I did finally walk through the door I spotted him straight away, at the bar, fiddling with his phone, and he glanced up and smiled. Not a big beaming, teeth-baring sort of smile but quite a tight-lipped smile, and I leaned in to kiss him on the cheek and he seemed, I don't know . . . reticent, slightly surprised, but he asked what I wanted to drink and blah-di-blah, and I hopped on to the stool and he just leaned against the bar and looked a bit distracted . . . and I really didn't want to say, “So, why am I here?,” but he did it for me.

“Um, Pippa, you're probably wondering why you're here. Or at least why I asked you to be here.”

“Well, I'm sure everything will be revealed.” I wanted to sound bright and chipper but definitely not too pushy.

“Yeah. Look, Pippa, there's some stuff going on in my life. It seems to have gone from being averagely complicated—work, family, kids, the usual—to much more complicated, virtually overnight.” He sighed and stopped. I desperately wanted to fill in the gaps because he looked so . . . adrift.

“Yes, that can happen. Things happen just like that. As Tommy Cooper would have said.” And I regretted
that
as soon as it came out of my mouth.

“Ha. Well, I've lost my job. Today. Just like that. And apparently my missus—we're not actually married but we may as well be, should be by now, I suppose—is, according to my brother, having an affair. It was Guy who encouraged me to call you, actually. We met up last night and he told me that you'd overheard Susie arranging to meet someone. And, in his words, he said, ‘You should talk to Pippa about it.' And actually I wasn't going to call you because I really wanted to sort stuff out with Susie first, or at least have a conversation about it, but I came in to work this morning and . . . look, you don't want to hear all this, do you?”

“Oh but I do. Please. I owe you one anyway for talking nonstop at Guy and Lisa's, so please use me as a sounding-board.”

“Well, I was going to ask you about the Susie thing, but suddenly that seems like, well . . . literally yesterday's news. Not that it isn't important—it is, wildly important. It's just that it's been temporarily eclipsed after the meeting this morning in which our new owners . . .” and Alex went on to explain how his publishing house had recently been taken over by a big German company, and though there were rumors of pretty dramatic re-structuring, Alex had felt safe because his magazines were doing well—at least, one of them was—but this morning the newly installed German CEO had called him in for what he'd thought would be a strategy chat; instead he'd basically left with his P45. And now he was looking for a great employment lawyer, but he'd also wanted to chat to me, because he didn't feel he could talk to Susie about this . . . yet, while he was still in shock about it, and especially not if she was “having an affair! I mean, fuck! It never fucking rains but it pours. And now I'm talking in clichés.”

“Shall I get him to pour you another?” I asked, gesturing at the barman.

“Yeah. Fuck it. Let's get pissed and put the world to rights and then I shall head home to the mother of my children and break it to her gently that I know she's shagging someone else but, hey, I've lost my job and would she mind very much putting on a brave face for the sake of my parents' golden wedding anniversary tomorrow? Yeah, that's A Plan.”

And that was indeed a plan. And indeed that's exactly what happened. And by ten o'clock we were pissed, and when Alex texted Susie (he showed me the text) it said,
i'm going to be even later than I already am. sometimes a man's gotta do . . . it's a work thing. tell you later
.

And back came her reply (he showed me):
save it. do what you have to do, i'm getting an early night cos 2morrow will be a late one, remember?

And by eleven thirty we were in a cab heading back to mine, which was fine, because Hal was having a sleepover at Dom's . . . and we were suddenly frantic, kissing like teenagers in the back of the cab, just insane with lust. And, Mum, believe me, just writing the words “insane with lust” makes me blush because it sounds like one of those pulpy fifties novels with a lairy cover, but it's true, that's what we were. And we got to mine, and Alex said: “Nice work—at least you got a great house off the hedge-fund tosser,” and it wasn't the moment to explain about the house, really, so I just said, “Yeah. Coffee?” and he laughed and I fiddled around for ages trying to find the keys and then we were inside and I was turning on the lights . . . and, literally with the flick of a switch, the moment just shifted and suddenly, through a blur of Grey Goose-and-tonic (but not much tonic) I saw Alex blink and I just knew . . . I knew I'd lost him. I knew he was going to go. And I really didn't want him to go.

“Pippa. Oh God. Look. I know this is totally crap of me, but . . . I don't think I can do this. Not now. Maybe not ever. Christ, what am I doing? It wouldn't be fair. Not to you, not to Susie. It would be fabulous, I know that—but it wouldn't be fair. Not now. Maybe . . . Look, I've got to go. I'm so sorry.”

And it really was as quick as that. One minute he had had his tongue down my throat and his hand up my blouse, the next he was talking like somebody out of a bad film. What did “fair” have to do with it? I didn't at that moment give a monkey's about notions of “fair” or “unfair”; I just wanted him. But I kind of slumped back against the wall, DVF un-tucked, Paloma Picasso's Mon Rouge lipstick smeared, and sighed. And I recognized that if I wanted Alex as much as I thought I did—knew I did—I would have to play the long game and embrace delayed gratification. I would also have to be cleverer than I'd probably ever been, at least when it came to men.

“You're right. You're as good as married; you have kids; you've just lost your job; it's your parents' golden wedding tomorrow. This is not the time. This would just be running away from the cold reality of the here and now.” (I could do bad movie scenes, too, apparently.) “So go. It's fine. I won't hold it against you. Much as I might like to.” And at this moment I actually (look away now, Mum) leaned over and ran my hand over Alex's crotch. Which, I discovered, was not on the same page of the script as his brain. And he groaned.

“I'm going, Pippa. I'm going now. I'm sorry.” And then he removed my hand from his crotch and he went.

I walked into the kitchen like a Stepford Dumpee, boiled the kettle, made chamomile tea and walked upstairs and into the bathroom. I made my looking-in-the-mirror face, which was slightly blurry, and I removed my makeup slowly,
with intense fastidiousness, and applied moisturizer, cleaned my teeth and even flossed, and then I got undressed and put on my bathrobe. I walked into the bedroom with the tea and got into the gorgeous Frette bed linen with the stupidly high thread count—a wedding present I was still intensely happy to have custody of—and then I picked up my phone, wrote a text and sent it.

In the morning I woke up with a thundering headache and all the details of the previous night—the good, the bad, the crotch-strokingly ugly—flooded back, and I reached for my phone and there it was:
Start living a different kind of life . . . P :-) xxx

And I didn't even quite know what I meant by that, but I knew it was the start of something.