You Can’t Fall in Love With Your Ex (Can You?) (17 page)

And
it was just an evening – an evening at the theatre. After that I wouldn’t see
him again, ever. There was no reason for our paths to cross again – they hadn’t
before, so why would they in future? An evening at the theatre, and then Felix
would be consigned to my past where he belonged and normal service would resume
in the Payne household – no more ex-boyfriends, no more chasing after actors in
a park at nighttime, no more not telling Jonathan everything. Especially that last
bit. 

My
conscience uneasily appeased, I opened Jonathan’s and my shared calendar app
and entered “Laura out, Juniper sleepover”, before I could change my mind.

“So
where are you off to next Friday then?” Jonathan asked that night over
dinner. He’d come home late again – I’d more or less given up mentioning it. No
amount of protest from me was going to change his workload and arguing about it
just made both of us angry.

“The
play,” I said. “The one in Battersea Park? I wanted to see it again before it
finishes, and Zé managed to get more tickets.”

The
lie came out before I could even think about it. Shit. Why couldn’t you just
say, Laura? Just tell him? But once again, it was too late.

“Cool,”
Jonathan said. “It must have really made an impression on you; I’ve never known
you to be into this stuff before. Although, of course, you must have been – you
were a dancer. You hardly ever talk about that.”

He
forked up some salad and looked at me.

“No
– what’s to talk about? You worked at Pizza Hut when you were at uni and you
never talk about that either.”

“I
can if you want,” Jonathan said. “Although my hilarious anecdotes about
pilfering bacon bits to take home to my brother wouldn’t be as interesting as
your stories.”

“I
haven’t got any interesting stories,” I said. “I started ballet classes when I
was six, I was good at it, I did it professionally for a bit, then I got
injured so I stopped. Then I did my degree and then I met you. The end.”

“You
know, Laura,” he said, “I sometimes think… I sometimes worry that, now the kids
are bigger and you’ve got more time, especially when I’m putting in these
hours, you need something else in your life. Have you ever thought, maybe, that
you could teach dancing? You’d be amazing at it. It would give you an interest,
outside of us.”

“I
don’t want to teach,” I said. “God! We always used to say only losers taught.
Or people who were too old to dance, obviously. Look, Jonathan, I don’t know
where this has come from, suddenly. I’m perfectly happy. I’ll go back to work
when Owen starts school – there are loads of comms agencies in London who are
just desperate for mid-thirties women who have to leave on the dot of half five
for after-school pick-up and take endless days off when the kids have chicken
pox. It’ll work out brilliantly.”

“Laura…”
He reached across the table and brushed the top of my hand.

“What?”

“Sometimes
I worry you’re not very happy.”

“Of
course I’m happy!” I said. “Look at my life. It’s brilliant. I’ve got two
gorgeous children, we live in this beautiful house, we go on fab holidays – why
wouldn’t I be happy? And I’ve got you, of course.”

I
realised as I said it how much like an afterthought that sounded, but it was
too late to change it, to make it better.

“Okay,”
Jonathan said. “I just wondered… I worry.”

“Well,
don’t,” I said. “Look, this thing – it’s just a play, all right? If I was going
to Les Mis you wouldn’t think twice about it.”

“You
wouldn’t go to Les Mis twice,” Jonathan pointed out.

“Too
right,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t go once. Come on, let’s clear up and go to bed.”

So
we did, and we had hasty, comfortable sex before we both fell asleep, and
Jonathan didn’t say anything more about my past life or my sudden obsession
with an immersive theatre production, for which I was grateful.

I
didn’t either – but that wasn’t because I wasn’t thinking about it. I counted
down the days until I’d enter that world again, waking up every morning
thinking, that’s another sleep over, just like Darcey did when she was looking
forward to a party. The eight days became seven, then it was the weekend and
Jonathan was home, blissfully content as he pottered in the garden and took the
children to the park. On Sunday we had Amanda, the nicer of the two Helens and
their families round for a barbecue. The sun shone, the children played happily
together, Jonathan made burgers using his secret recipe – it was all perfect,
and it made me wonder why on earth I hankered, deep down, for something more.

But
on Wednesday morning I woke up to find that Owen had been sick in the night.
Grey sheets of rain were battering against the windows, and real life descended
on me again with a thud. I cleaned up the mess, rang the nursery to say I’d be
keeping him home, and we walked an unusually silent Darcey to school, huddled
together under Jonathan’s golfing umbrella.

I
spent two days on the sofa with Owen’s warm body on my knee, cuddling him and
cautiously giving him sips of water with apple juice in. He felt floppy and
listless, unlike his usual boisterous self. It was just a bug, I told myself – nothing
to worry about. But I did worry, and the more I worried, the guiltier I felt,
because I knew that I was concerned not just about my little boy, but about
whether he’d be well enough for me to leave him in two nights’ time.

To
deflect my anxiety, I found myself obsessively checking the BBC weather app. If
it carried on raining like this, the show would be cancelled, and none of it
would matter. I found myself bargaining with my phone – if Owen’s okay, it can
rain all day on Friday and I won’t care.

But
in the event, by Thursday evening Owen was devouring banana on toast and the
sky had cleared, and Darcey was saying, “Only one more sleep until Juniper
comes to stay, Mummy!”

And
I was thinking, “Only one more sleep until I see Felix again.”

Owen
made a full recovery from his lurgy, but whatever bug it was that was going the
rounds claimed another victim. I was getting ready, applying my makeup with far
more care than I had the first time I prepared to go and see Flight of Fancy’s
Dream
,
as I was learning to call it in my head, when my phone rang.

“Zé?
How’s it going? Are you excited?”

“I
fucking was,” she said bitterly. “I’ve been like a kid waiting for Christmas, but
now I’m ill. I’ve been spewing all day and I feel terrible. I’m not going to
make it, Laura, I’m so gutted.”

“Oh
no, you poor thing! Have you got flat Coke? That’s meant to be the best thing.”

“I
can’t even face a glass of water. I’m in bed right now, and I literally feel
like if I move I’ll be sick again.”

“Oh
no.” Poor Zé, poor Darcey missing her longed-for sleepover with her friend, and
poor me. It looked like I wouldn’t be going to the ball after all. Maybe it
wasn’t too late to book a babysitter online – but I couldn’t do that to my
daughter. I’d have to stay in with her and think of something fun to do, and
hide my disappointment.

“Anyway,
Laura,” Zé continued dolefully, “Do you mind if I send Juniper and Carmen over
anyway? You’d be doing me a favour. Unless you’re worried about the children
catching whatever it is?”

“Owen’s
had it,” I said. “Unless what he had was food poisoning from my cooking, which
is possible, but I think not. Are you sure, though? That’s so lovely of you.”

“It
really isn’t,” Zé said. “It’s the most selfish thing I’ve done all week.
Juniper keeps coming to check on me and see if I want cups of tea, which I
don’t – at least this way I can get some rest. And you can see the show and go
to the party. What are you wearing?”

“Jeans,
I guess,” I said, remembering the requirement for practical clothing.

“Don’t
you dare! Wear something sparkly – I bet people will dress up. Ugh, I have to
go. Have a great time. Carmen and Juniper are leaving in ten. Call me
tomorrow.”

“Feel
better soon,” I said, but she’d already ended the call, presumably to race for
the bathroom.

I
ransacked my wardrobe and found a white shift dress that had a few sequins
round the sleeves and hem. I hadn’t worn it for ages – it had been a lucky find
in a charity shop when I was uni – but it still fitted, just. I combed my hair,
slicked on a coat of bright red lipstick and went downstairs just as the
doorbell rang.

“You
look amazing, Laura,” Juniper said.

“Mummy
always looks beautiful,” Darcey said loyally. I kissed her and Owen, gave
Carmen money for takeaway pizzas, and headed out into the balmy night.

Until
the moment I closed my front door, excitement and adrenaline had been carrying
me. All that mattered was that I got to go out – that I didn’t have to abandon
my plans and send Felix a sheepish text saying I wasn’t going to make it after
all. But now, the reality of my situation hit home again. I felt more like a
woman going to meet her lover than like a suburban housewife out for an evening
at the theatre. And, in my sparkly frock and lipstick, I must look like one
too.

A
passing group of teenage boys in hoodies gave me a long, appreciative stare and
one of them said, “MILF.” I knew I ought to feel outraged, but instead I burst
out laughing and they scuttled off, shamefaced. With my laughter came a new
sense of carelessness. This was, honestly, just a night out. I should enjoy it,
not encumber myself with needless guilt when I’d done nothing wrong, and wasn’t
going to. Jonathan was at work, my children were being safely cared for in
their own home by a girl they adored. Even Jonathan had said I needed to do
more for myself, and now I was. It was just like booking a spa day. I was going
to have a brilliant time.

My
sense of elation carried me all the way to the park, and I backed it up with a
hastily gulped glass of prosecco. Zé had been right – people were dressed up. A
few women had even come with fairy wings strapped to their backs, and one man
was wearing a donkey mask on his head, until a steward made him take it off.

The
sense of anticipation was almost palpable. I joined the crowd by the marble
pillars, and wished I’d come earlier to have a chance of being in first. The idea
of being alone – truly alone, even for a few seconds – in that magical world
was intoxicating. But I was a few minutes too late, and there were about a
dozen people ahead of me. I wasn’t first – but I knew where to go.

As
soon as the barriers opened, I hurried through the curtain of light. I knew
what I wanted to do – find Felix and follow him all night, seeing the play
through his eyes, watching every move he made and trying to understand what it
meant to be Oberon, what it felt like to have this power to enchant, to command
a night-time world where love was a game and mortals were nothing more than
toys, or pieces on a chessboard to be moved around in a contest of power.

But
I’d forgotten the sheer size of the set. I took a wrong turning leaving the
village, and found myself watching an amazing, acrobatic dance performed by
five of the fairies. There must surely be wires involved, I thought, astonished
by the sheer height and duration of their leaps. My plan forgotten, I stood
transfixed, overwhelmed with admiration and envy, because once long ago, I’d
been able to do this, or something like it.

Even
though I was lost, I’d come to the right place. Soon I saw Puck, then Oberon,
and I spent the next hour racing after him along the narrow paths through the
undergrowth, until my breath was coming in gasps and the hem of my dress was
wet with dew. I knew he’d seen me, because when he rounded a sudden corner and
I was sure I’d lost him, he’d be there a second later, waiting for me. Every
time his eyes behind the great, horned mask scanned the audience, I was sure
they paused on me, resting for a moment in acknowledgement. Once I was sure I
caught a glint of blue through the elaborate bronze visor.

And
then I did lose him. He darted behind a tree, I followed – and he wasn’t there
any more. I stopped, listening, but all I could hear was my pounding heart and
the eerie, unearthly music. I wasn’t alone – there’d been a group of five or
six of us all night following the same route, and now we’d all been thwarted.
We looked at each other, keeping to the rule of silence, and exchanged baffled
shrugs. Two women went back the way we’d come; one turned away to the left, I
thought in the direction of the palace, and the other two went on ahead.

I
paused, indecisive. I could wait here, see whether he returned to find me. But
I knew all too well that this wasn’t about me – Felix was a professional
playing a role, and he’d be governed rigidly by his cues, the orders given to
him by the music and the lights. There was no time for messing about. I’d see
what lay beyond the thicket of trees to my right, I decided, and then I’d head
back to the bar and have a drink and sit down for a bit, and see if I could
catch the wedding scene at the end, which I’d missed before. It was fine – I
was having a wonderful time; the twinge of disappointment I felt was ridiculous
and would pass.

I
found a gap between the trees, and emerged into a clearing I hadn’t seen
before. I stopped and looked around, a gasp coming unthinking from my throat.
It was beautiful. The full moon – even though I knew it was a spotlight – cast
an ethereal glow over the trees, the moss that covered the ancient stone floor and the flowering vines that twined over a pair of stone columns in the centre. For
a second, my brain acknowledged the genius of the set design, but I was in no
mood for analysis – I was transported entirely, charmed by the illusion as
powerfully as if a spell had been cast on me.