The Woman Who Stole My Life (26 page)

Mannix set up a reunion for Roland and me. As he came into the restaurant, togged out in an outlandishly patterned shirt and hip, thick-framed glasses, I felt a great wave of warm feeling. He already felt like an old, much-loved friend. We hurried towards each other and he swept me into a huge big squashy hug. ‘I’ve so much to thank you for,’ he said. ‘Going to rehab has been the saving of me.’

‘Oh, Roland, I did nothing! You’re the one who went.’

‘You talked me into it.’

‘I didn’t, Roland. You talked yourself into it.’

Then it was time to meet Mannix’s sisters. ‘It’s my nephew’s birthday. Philippe. He’s ten. Just a family thing, Saturday afternoon. If you bring Betsy and Jeffrey, it’ll be a nice, low-key way for them to meet. And to meet Roland too.’

I drove us all there because Mannix was still driving Georgie’s ex-two-seater.

On the journey, Mannix briefed Betsy on the people she was about to meet and she, very sweetly, put the details in her phone, so that she’d remember everyone’s names.

Rosa and Jean-Marc lived in a McMansion in Churchtown, but as we drove through the gateway I saw that a stone lion on the left pillar had had its head knocked off. ‘Philippe and
Claude did that with a cricket bat,’ Mannix said. ‘It always makes me laugh.’

Rosa, a small, neat little creature, hurried down the hall to greet us. I recognized her top; I owned an identical one, and it had cost me eight euro. This was cheering.

‘Hello, Stella, hello! I’m Rosa.’ She welcomed me with a hug.

‘And I’m Hero.’ Another woman appeared behind Rosa and she too gave me a hug.

It was uncanny how similar they were. Rosa had dark hair, Hero had blonde, but their faces and bodies, even the intonation of their voices, were identical.

‘You’re Betsy?’ Rosa asked.

‘Totally!’ Betsy squealed and flung herself first into Rosa’s arms, then Hero’s.

Rosa and Hero seemed all set to move their hugging convoy onto Jeffrey, but one look from him had them backing away and giving Mannix a quick kiss.

‘Come in, come in.’ Then Rosa said, to me, ‘Stella, we feel like we know you already.’

‘Mannix talked about you when you were ill,’ Hero explained.

I felt Mannix tense, then colour flooded Hero’s face.

‘Not by name!’ she said.

‘Not by name, of course,’ Rosa said.

‘Of course, not by name,’ Hero said. ‘Mannix is entirely professional.’

‘
Entirely
professional.’

‘As silent as the grave.’ That made both Rosa and Hero giggle.

‘But he told us about your condition –’

‘– and how courageous you were.’

‘Shut up,’ Mannix said.

‘Let’s get some drinks,’ Rosa said. ‘And we’ll smooth over this faux-pas.’

In the kitchen, there was a big, lopsided cake that said: ‘Hapy Birthday Phiilippe’.

‘Yeah, I know,’ Rosa said. ‘I did it last night. I’d had a few drinks. Wine, Stella? Or would you prefer gin?’

‘… Wine is fine.’

‘Betsy? A glass of wine?’

‘Oh no. I totally don’t drink. OJ for me.’

‘Jeffrey? A beer?’

‘I’m only fifteen.’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

Rosa dissolved into light-hearted laughter and Jeffrey said, very coldly, ‘It’s illegal for me to drink.’

He was going to be sixteen in six weeks’ time
and
he already drank whenever I said he could, so either way it was a technicality. But it was an opportunity for Jeffrey to be rude and he wasn’t going to pass it up.

‘In that case, OJ it is!’

There was a clatter of feet at the back door and a small crowd of boys ran in. ‘Is it Uncle Roland?’

‘Not yet. But it’s Uncle Mannix.’

The boys identified themselves as Mannix’s four nephews: Philippe, Claude, Bruce and Doug. They all hugged Mannix, which I found touching, then Philippe tore open his present – the new season Chelsea kit. ‘Sick!’ he said. ‘You’re the best!’

The four boys had little interest in Betsy or me but they were very focused on Jeffrey. ‘What team do you support?’ Philippe asked him.

‘Team?’ Jeffrey asked. ‘Football?’

‘Or rugby …’ Philippe was losing his nerve.

‘I don’t support any team. Group sports are for idiots.’

I was mortified. ‘Jeffrey, please.’

‘Well, I know I’m only a girl!’ Betsy declared. ‘But I totally love Chelsea! Come on, guys. Let’s go out the back and kick some ball!’

‘Will you come too?’ Philippe humbly asked Jeffrey. ‘So we’ll have even numbers?’

But Jeffrey ignored him.

‘I’ll come,’ Mannix said.

‘Hurray!’

The husbands came in to say hello – Jean-Marc wasn’t as good-looking as his name conjured up and Harry had quite a belly on him, but they were friendly and welcoming.

‘Have some sausage rolls and things.’ Rosa thrust food at me. ‘And we’ll have the birthday cake when Roland arrives.’

A short time later, the nephews set up a clamour. ‘Here’s Roland, here’s Uncle Roland.’

In he came, in an elaborately lapelled jacket and a faceful of smiles. His present to Philippe was the away kit for Chelsea and Philippe nearly combusted with the serendipity of it all. ‘Uncle Mannix gave me the home kit and you’ve given me the away kit! Isn’t that lucky?’

‘Amazing,’ Mannix said gravely.

‘You’d nearly think we’d collaborated on it,’ Roland said. And he and Mannix exchanged a little smile that was so connected it almost shocked me.

‘Hello, sir!’ Roland advanced on Jeffrey. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’

‘No …’

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘You too.’

I almost laughed. Before my eyes, Jeffrey was softening.

‘And you must be Betsy?’

Betsy’s eyes were out on stalks at Roland’s hipster look, but she was polite and charming.

Then Roland turned his attention to me. ‘Stella.’ He gathered me to him in a huge hug, then he pulled back to inspect me. ‘Looking great, Stella. You get more beautiful every time I see you.’

‘You look great too, Roland.’

‘I do?’ Sinuously he ran his hand over his belly. ‘Really?’

‘Yes.’ And suddenly we were both doubled in two, yelping with laughter.

On the drive home, Betsy was wildly positive. ‘Those kids are super-cute. Adorbs!’

‘So what are they to us? Step-cousins?’ Jeffrey was obsessed with this sort of thing.

‘Friends, hopefully.’

‘In theory, they wouldn’t be step-anythings unless Stella and I got married,’ Mannix said.

‘That’s not going to happen.’ Jeffrey glared.

Mannix opened his mouth. I flicked him a look and he clamped it shut again.

‘Does Uncle Roland have a girlfriend?’ Betsy asked.

‘Don’t call him that,’ Jeffrey snapped.

‘Okay, does Roland have a girlfriend?’ Betsy asked. ‘A special friend?’

‘No special friend right now,’ Mannix said. ‘But even if he did, it wouldn’t be a girl.’

‘He’s gay?’ Betsy said. ‘I am so totally cool with that.’

I pulled up at the house and we all piled out.

‘There’s your girlie car,’ Jeffrey said to Mannix. ‘Off you go home.’

‘He’s coming in,’ I said. ‘He’s having dinner with us.’ I’d been gently but firmly trying to shoehorn Mannix into our lives.

‘This is
our
weekend with
our
mom,’ Jeffrey said. ‘Next weekend we’ll be with Dad and you two can do what you like.’ He swallowed at that bit. ‘But for now, goodbye.’

He shooed Mannix with his hand. ‘Go on. We did what you asked: we met your nephews, who, incidentally, are a crowd of saps, we met your sisters and their drinking problems, and your so-fat-he’s-going-to-die brother.’

‘Jeffrey!’ I said.

‘Go home. My sister and I have got places to go and we need our mom to drive us.’

‘Georgie wants to meet you.’

‘Mannix, I don’t want to meet Georgie. I’m afraid of her.’

‘You’ve got to meet Georgie. If we’re doing this thing properly, we’ve got to meet everyone.’

So a table was booked at Dimants. For two.

‘What do you mean, for two?’ I asked Mannix, in a panic. ‘Why aren’t you coming?’

‘She wants to see you alone,’ Mannix said.

‘We don’t have to do everything she wants.’

‘We do. Meet her. You’ll see.’

The table was booked for eight o’clock, so I got there at eight o’clock.

‘You’re the first to arrive,’ the hostess said.

I sat at the table and the minutes ticked by, and at eighteen minutes past eight I decided to leave, just to protect the last few remnants of my self-respect.

Then I saw her.

Karen would say there’s no such thing, but she was too thin. Even thinner than that time at the hospital. She was carrying a handbag the size of a Nissan Micra and was dressed entirely in black, except for a fascinating-looking scarf-cum-necklace thing that featured a green stone.

She rushed towards me and kissed me on both cheeks,
giving me a whiff of a strange, spicy perfume, then sat down opposite me, and although she was a bit sunken-looking around the eye sockets, she was beautiful.

‘Please don’t scold me for being late,’ she said. ‘You know how it is. Traffic, parking …’

I too had engaged with traffic and parking and had managed to arrive on time but I already understood that different rules applied to Georgie.

She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You are not to feel guilty about Mannix.’

‘… I …’

‘Let me explain,’ she said. ‘We weren’t good for each other, Mannix and I. He’s a bit of a nightmare. And so am I.’

I demurred, anxious to not give offence.

‘I truly am,’ she insisted. ‘I’m moody and pessimistic and given to incredible darkness. I fly off the handle. I’m deeply sensitive.’

I nodded, tentatively. This was my first time ever to meet someone who described themselves in such a fashion.

She was quite mesmerizing; she was very
long
. Everything about her – her limbs, her hair, her eyelashes, even her knuckles – was sort of stretched-looking. She had a mild touch of the Iggy Pops about her.

Unexpectedly she choked back a laugh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop looking at you and comparing us.’

‘Me too.’ And with that, we were friends.

‘Your perfume is –?’ Then I understood. ‘It’s a customized blend, isn’t it?’

‘Of course.’ She sounded surprised – as if it was really strange that a perfume
wouldn’t
be bespoke. ‘There’s a man in Antwerp. He’s – no other word for it – an enchanter. You
must
come. His waiting list is about six years long, but say you’re a friend of mine and he’ll see you.’

‘So you go to Belgium a lot? On buying trips for your boutique?’

‘Maybe five times a year.’

‘Your neck-thing is beautiful,’ I said. ‘Is that one of your funny Belgian designers?’

Instantly she was unwinding it. ‘Have it,’ she said. ‘It’s yours.’

‘No, really.’ I batted her away with my hands. ‘I wasn’t trying to … Georgie, I’m begging you, please don’t.’

But there was no reasoning with her. She was up and out of her seat and was draping the scarf-thing on my neck and rearranging my hair around it. Then she sat back down again to admire her handiwork. ‘See! Made for you. Like my husband.’

‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

‘I’m joking! I don’t care in the slightest. Really, Stella. Mannix and I were all wrong. I’m highly strung. Like a racehorse. Whereas you … you’re … steady. You’re sensible and – oh God, please don’t take this the wrong way, Stella – you’re solid. He needs someone like you.’ She studied me. ‘In your ordinary way, you really are very pretty.’

I touched the neck-thing. I was deeply miserable about this. I hated her thinking that I’d asked for it. I’d only been admiring the fecking yoke; I was only being
nice.

‘You could never be described as a classic beauty,’ she mused. ‘But you do have a lovely face.’

‘Was this very expensive?’ I asked anxiously.

‘It depends on what you call expensive. It’s not like it needs to live in a safe
. Do
you have a safe? No? Well, then, don’t bother, simply keep it in your jewellery box. Promise me you’ll wear it lots. Every day. It’s got jade for protection and I’m sensing you’re going to need plenty.’

Before I could get derailed by that, she said, ‘It’s just I feel bad for what I said that Christmas night in the hospital. I implied that you weren’t so all that. But at the time we were simply being cruel to each other, Mannix and I. I was losing my husband and … it hurt.’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t looking my best. I’d no make-up on and my roots hadn’t been done in months.’

‘And at the time I was fucking my meditation instructor,’ she said. ‘Who was, quite frankly, a crashing bore. Spiritual people so often are, don’t you find? I had no right to sneer at Mannix’s romance. So how’s it all going? I hear your son doesn’t approve?’

‘… No.’

‘And you can’t just say, “Get used to it”?’

‘He’s my son – I’ve shattered his world and I’ve got to take care of his feelings.’

‘And what’s going on with your ex? Is he helpful?’

‘No.’ Suddenly I felt like crying.

Ryan and I had agreed that, to give the kids a sense of security, they lived with me during the school week. Every second weekend, they stayed with Ryan, and for those precious two days out of every fourteen, I got to see Mannix properly, to have sex with him, to go to bed with him and wake up with him.

‘Sometimes Ryan flakes on the weekends he has custody,’ I said.

‘So what happens when you can’t see Mannix? How do you manage for sex?’

I blushed hot and red. Was this any of Georgie Dawson’s business?

‘God, I’m sorry, Stella,’ she said. ‘I should engage my brain before I speak.’

But she had a point. Although we’d been seeing each other
for more than two months now, Mannix and I were struggling with the limits on our time together. Now and again we cracked. There was that Wednesday I pretended to Karen that I had a dentist’s appointment and I raced across town and met Mannix in his horrible, sleazy, single-guy’s apartment for frenzied sex. There was another occasion when Mannix appeared when I was locking up the salon, and he said, ‘I know you’ve got to get home to your kids, but just give me ten minutes.’ And we sat in the empty salon and held hands, and I cried because I was worn out from wanting him and not being able to have him.

The chronic deprival was exhausting and the only thing worse was the carefully orchestrated, agonizingly awkward meet-ups when I tried to blend my two worlds.

Carefully, Georgie said, ‘I understand you have to take care of your son’s sensibilities.’

I began to prickle with unease.

‘But,’ Georgie said, ‘take care of Mannix too.’

This was a friendly warning, this was coming from a good place, but it scared me.

‘And how about Roland?’ she said. ‘Isn’t he just the best? That’s the sad thing about a break-up. You have to break up with the whole family.’

‘Do you miss them? Aren’t you lonely?’

‘I’m always lonely.’ Despite the desolate words, she sounded almost pleased with herself. ‘It’s true, Stella. I am the loneliest woman on earth.’

‘I’ll be your friend,’ I said, earnestly.

‘You’re already my friend,’ she said. ‘And I’m yours. However, I could have a million friends and it wouldn’t stop the ache here.’ She put her hand on her solar plexus. ‘It’s almost tangible. I feel like it’s a black lump. Both a lump and a yawning emptiness. You know?’

‘No.’

I was fascinated. I’d never really met a depressed person before. Well, not one with such endless self-interest. And yet I really liked her.

‘Maybe the three of us could live together,’ I said.

That made her laugh hard and wave her hand dismissively. ‘I’m so happy that I don’t have to live with Mannix Taylor any longer.’ Quickly, she added, ‘No offence. He’s great. You do know he’s on antidepressants?’

‘He said.’

‘But he’s not depressed. It’s just the way he is. A glass-half-empty guy. Sometimes he says he didn’t get given a glass at all. But you’re going to love his parents!’

‘Am I?’

‘They’re such fun!’

‘But what about the gambling and the paintings they can’t afford and all that?’

She shrugged. ‘I know, I know. But it’s only money, you know?’

No.