The Next Best Thing (11 page)

‘Bloody hot in here,’ he said, his sandy hair dishevelled and flattened over his pink face that had got pinker with the heat and the Bloody Marys he’d ordered to soften the
effect of last night’s dinner party. ‘You seem bright as a button,’ he added, ‘considering what time you got to bed.’

One of last night’s guests had been a food critic, so Lydia had taken care to spend as much money as possible on the ingredients, notching up £13 for a loaf of bread from the bread
shop on Walton Street, £48 for a fruit tart and an impressive £76 on a piece of organic beef. There had only been one sticky moment, when the food critic had wandered out to the kitchen
to help her and found her taking the meat out of the oven while wearing a shower cap to keep the smell out of her hair. He had shared his mirth with the other guests, and Lydia had felt foolish,
swearing never again to stage a party without the help of the sexy Brazilian butler who was listed in this month’s magazine as the ‘must-have dinner party accessory’.

Rupert had not enjoyed the evening. He had felt like the stooge, the spectre at the feast. Lydia had once told him that the ideal proportions at a dinner were two shouters to five listeners, but
last night had thrown up six shouters and just one listener, in the form of solid Rupert, the banker, who had singularly failed to sing for his supper, though at least he was paying for it. Bored
by the conversation, he had sloped off to bed as early as possible to watch the end of
Parkinson.
From down the corridor he could hear the squealing laughter of what sounded like Lydia
multiplied by six. Or rather, six times the worst part of Lydia, which didn’t take into account her many redeeming qualities.

And now, the morning after, Rupert looked across the table of the Bluebird Café for evidence of those redeeming qualities. He was partially reassured. Lydia looked terrific, and he was
not a high-minded hypocrite who pretended that looks didn’t matter. Her rich auburn hair was a more intense version of his own reddish blond, and he hoped that any children they had would
inherit it. She had the kind of sex appeal that turned heads. Even now he was aware of that good-looking chap at the next table giving her the eye. He liked that, it made him feel he was getting
better than he deserved, better than the tubby, good-natured wife with a Sloaney moon-face that you might expect him to have by his side.

‘What do you want to do today, Lyd?’ he asked. ‘Shall we go and look at the mummies in the British Museum?’

There was something about Sundays in London that made him restless. You needed to go somewhere, feel you had done something, otherwise they could be strangely unsatisfying. He would rather be
pottering around his country estate, but that was let out. Or else he’d like to be planting some English roses in front of his house in France, but it was too far to go for a weekend.

Lydia rolled her eyes. ‘“There’s many a poor bespectacled sod,”’ she quoted at him, ‘“Prefers the British Museum to God.” Varied couplets. W. H.
Auden.’

And she was well read, too. Mustn’t forget that on the plus side.

‘Shall we do God instead, then,’ he asked with a smile, ‘score a lew churches?’

Lydia made a yawning gesture, patting her hand prettily in front of her mouth. ‘Darling, you surely know by now that I infinitely prefer Mammon, and luckily for me, Sunday is now just
another shopping day.’

She whipped the scarlet notebook out of her handbag and his heart sank, He hadn’t noticed her pick it up on their way out of the flat.

‘I want to take you round a few interiors shops. Get a feel for how you see the refurb.’

Rupert sat back sulkily, and Lydia noticed how he got a heavy jowly look when he didn’t get his way.

‘I’ve told you, Lydia,’ he said, ‘I really don’t mind. I leave it entirely to you, as long as I get to keep the sofa. But please don’t make me join in. Especially not on a Sunday.
Can’t we enjoy ourselves instead?’

‘But we are enjoying ourselves. Making plans. Nestbuilding, showing the world how we see our lives showcased. I don’t need to tell you that interior design is the new sex.’

‘What’s wrong with the old sex?’ asked Rupert. ‘Stood us in good stead for thousands of years, hasn’t it?’

The Italian at the next table looked up again, his nostrils flaring at the mention of sex: he could clearly smell it at five hundred metres.

‘Fine, if you’d like us all to still be sitting around in caves. If we don’t care about how our homes look, we might as well sweep away centuries of civilisation.’

Rupert sighed and called for the bill. ‘All right then, but just for an hour. Then I want to go home and watch the match.’

‘Fair enough. Anyway, I’m off to that school reunion later, so you’ll be able to slob out in front of the telly as much as you want. Now, my theme for this afternoon’s
tour is that Colour is Back. I’m thinking of a move away from post-minimalism. I’m thinking eclectic, creative rejection of global blandness.’

She struck an earnest pose and Rupert laughed in spite of himself.

‘And I am thinking that it all sounds deeply boring,’ he said, pulling out his wallet.

‘Just for one hour,’ she pleaded. ‘How bad can it be?’

As they stood to leave, the Italian watched Lydia’s legs unfold with undisguised lust. Rupert pulled his sweater back on, a sweater better suited to a hearty stroll on the moors than an
afternoon mincing round Designers Guild and William Yeoward. A fine weekend this had been. Saturday night listening to fashionable people talking about how your bag shouldn’t match your shoes
any more as that was too obvious, and Sunday afternoon being patronised by designer shop staff. Then back to the office on Monday to a job he had come to hate, though he couldn’t admit that
to anyone, least of all to Lydia.

It seemed to him that the week ahead held just one ray of hope, and that was the near certainty that he would see Jane again at the Friday afternoon screening of
Au Revoir Les Enfants.
He held that knowledge secretly inside him, like a tiny unseen torch, too fragile to be exposed to risk of extinction.

Later that afternoon Jane was hurriedly clearing away the lunch things while trying to explain to Will about Liberty’s homework.

‘Where is she supposed to write it?’ he said irritably. ‘Where? I can’t see.’

‘It’s not exactly rocket science,’ she said, ‘just there, on the facing page. She knows, anyway, don’t you, Liberty?’

Liberty shrugged. She was offended that Jane was deserting her on a Sunday evening, but not as offended as Will was.

‘I do think you could have done this earlier,’ he said. ‘You’ve had all weekend to do it, but oh no, you have to wait until the eleventh hour so muggins here has to step
into the breach.’

You would have thought she was asking him to write a fifty-page thesis instead of oversee six elementary sums. Pressed for time, Jane decided to resort to flattery.

‘Come on, Will, you know you’re so much better at it than me. liberty takes notice of you when you put your foot down. Don’t you, Liberty?’

The child shrugged again. It seemed they were both determined to stay in a huff.

There goes the doorbell,’ said Jane, relieved to know she’d soon be out of it.

Lydia swept into the kitchen in killer heels and a cloud of perfume. ‘I’m parked at the end of the road,’ she announced, ‘let’s hope no-one nicks my car. You are
so
brave to live round here, it would scare me shitless. Hallo, Will.’ She kissed him on both checks, then stepped back so he could give her the once-over.

He dropped the exercise book on the table; he had to admit she looked pretty damn hot. ‘I hear it’s Chelsea for you these days,’ he said. ‘Fat chance of witnessing a
crime there, unless you count living off a trust fund as a crime against humanity.’

‘I’m not living there yet,’ she said, ‘but let’s just say the wheels are in motion. How are you anyway, good weekend?’

‘Not really,’ he replied. ‘Look at me, left here holding the baby.’

‘I’m not a baby!’ Liberty scowled up at him.

He patted her shoulder. ‘I know, sweetheart, it’s a figure of speech. No, Lydia, it’s been a crap weekend to be honest. We had dinner last night with these vegetarian friends
of Jane’s who served wine with plastic corks and let their four-year-old crawl round our feet all evening, wearing a cloth nappy.’

‘I don’t know, all you young families saving the planet,’ said Lydia. ‘You make me feel so decadent. All I’ve got to worry about is my own pleasure.’

Will scowled at her, remembering when her pleasure used to be his pleasure.

‘We’d better go,’ said Jane.

‘He’s still quite prickly, isn’t he?’ said Lydia as they drove off. ‘I mean that as a good thing. He hasn’t gone all boring and domestic
like most men do once they’ve got a kid. Mind you, he’s been there before.’

‘Yes,’ Jane looked out the window, ‘though I do sometimes wonder, seeing the way he treats Liberty. You feel he’s never spoken to a child before, let alone brought up two
sons.’

Lydia I was surprised to hear Jane admit that Will might be a less than perfect father. She would usually never hear a word against him, always insisting he was an all-round wonderful person.
That was partly why Lydia had decided to seduce him all those years ago, just for the satisfaction of proving her wrong.

‘So what do you think?’ she said. ‘Via the Mile End Road or Islington, what’s the best way to get there? It’s been so long, I really can’t
remember.’

‘Whatever,’ said Jane, holding up her fingers and thumbs in the shape of a W, the way Liberty did, ‘you’re the driver.’

She settled back to enjoy the ride and moved her thoughts away from her family to focus on the night ahead. ‘I’m looking forward to this, in a grotesque way,’ she said.

It was good to break the routine, do something different. She and Lydia ran through all their friends from school, wondering who might be there tonight. They agreed it was bound to be the more
dreary ones who turned up.

‘It is a bit tragic, after all,’ said Jane. ‘I’m only going because you made me. I’d hate anyone to think I really wanted to go.’

‘That’s typical of you,’ said Lydia. ‘You always worry what people will think. I don’t, I just do what I want.’

The lights were glittering on the London Eye as they drove along the Embankment, and a ghostly blue light showed off the new footbridge. London was spectacular these days, like a drab woman who
had put on a party dress. Jane looked across the river at the Festival Hall and the National Film Theatre beside it. Only five more days, she thought, and she’d be off to the cinema again. He
was bound to be there. She folded her arms and thought about him, how little she knew about him. What was he doing now? Was he sitting alone in a darkened room, thinking about her? Out at a pub
with his friends? Or watching television with his children — he could be married, for all she knew. But then again it was none of her business, really.

The school hall looked smaller than Jane recalled, and the walls were still hung with portraits of the great composers. Jane remembered staring at them during morning assembly,
whiling away the tedious minutes, lime dragged endlessly when you were young, you spent hours feeling bored, waiting for something to happen. Then suddenly you were grown up and there weren’t
enough hours in the day.

At the far end of the hall a small group of middle-aged people were standing in front of a trestle table, holding paper cups of wine. Jane’s first instinct was to turn around and walk
straight out.

‘Let’s go now,’ Jane whispered to Lydia, ‘pretend we’ve left something in the car, quick.’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

And Lydia made her entrance, heading for an apologetic-looking man who was passing round a howl of Twiglets.

Jane ducked in behind her.

‘Peter Griggs!’ said Lydia. ‘I’d know you anywhere, you’ve still got the same glasses!’

They exchanged life stories, though Peter’s didn’t take too long. Solicitor, stayed local, two kids. By comparison, Lydia presented hers as a richly embroidered tapestry, albeit with
one or two embellishments that Jane knew were not entirely true.

‘Gosh, you make me sound really boring!’ he said.

‘No!’ said Lydia unconvincingly, looking round For an escape route. ‘You remember Jane, don’t you? Oh my God, there’s Steven May!’

She slipped away to talk to a thick-set man who was still handsome, though grown jowly. Steven May, Jane thought with a jolt, my very first boyfriend. The love of her life, or so she had
thought, until that Christmas party when Lydia had slow-danced with him to
Careless Whisper.
She looked away over Peter’s other shoulder and saw two women who looked familiar, class
swots who had now fulfilled their early promise of dowdiness. In spite of her reservations, it was comforting to be with people you hadn’t seen for twenty years. It was like an old film,
comically rewound to show the figures running backwards to their starting positions.

Peter Criggs seemed delighted by the whole affair. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t seen you at one of these before,’ he said. ‘This is my tenth, it’s always a
marvellous evening.’

Thank goodness I got away, thought Jane. The thought of living round the corner, never missing a reunion, was enough to provoke a panic attack of claustrophobia. Life was a journey, after all,
you had to move on or you’d end up stagnating in the corner of the school hall with the likes of Peter Criggs.

‘You’re not married then?’ he was saying, nodding at her empty ring linger.

‘No, well, I live with someone. Same difference really. What about you?’

‘Fifteen years. We had a weekend to Rome to celebrate, it was wonderful, we got our flights for forty-eight pounds, and stayed in a marvellous hotel . . .’

Jane listened to him detailing the itinerary and thanked her lucky stars for Will. At least she didn’t need to come out to functions like this to brag about her life. Peter was going on
about his children now, how well they were doing. As if I care, thought Jane. Next thing he’d be bringing out their school reports to show her.

‘Will you excuse me?’ she said. ‘I must just go and say hallo to Toni Vincent.’