One Day in December(75)
‘Here we go,’ I say, bright as a button as I take the tray through. ‘Milk, sugar and biscuits. I think I’ve covered everything.’
‘No, no and no, but thank you for the effort.’ Lucille’s eyes are a different shade of brown to Oscar’s, more amber. More snake-like.
‘This is nice,’ I say, sitting on my hands so I don’t fidget. ‘Did you need Oscar for anything special?’
She shakes her head. ‘I was just passing this way.’
I find myself wondering how often she’s just passing; I know she has a key. It wouldn’t surprise me if she let herself in when there’s no one home. The thought disconcerts me. Does she search for proof that I’m a gold-digger? Go through our mail looking for maxed-out credit-card statements or search my drawers for evidence of a shady past? She must be spitting tacks that I’m clean.
‘I imagine you find it lonely here during the week?’
I nod. ‘I miss him when he isn’t here.’ I feel a wicked urge to tell her I throw wild parties to fill my time. ‘I just try to keep busy.’ As if to prove my point, I pour her tea. No milk, no sugar.
She takes a ladylike sip and winces as if I’ve given her battery acid. ‘A little less time in the pot next time, I think.’
‘Sorry,’ I murmur, privately thinking that the most alarming part of that sentence was ‘next time’.
‘Admin, isn’t it? For a magazine? Sorry, you’ll have to remind me what you do.’
I sigh inwardly at her abruptness. She knows exactly what I do, and for whom. I’ve no doubt she’s checked it all out online. ‘Not exactly. I’m a journalist on a teen magazine.’ I know, I know. I’m hardly at the cutting edge of journalism.
‘Have you spoken with Oscar today?’
I shake my head and glance up at the clock. ‘He normally calls after nine.’ I pause, and then in the spirit of offering an olive branch, I add, ‘I can ask him to call you tomorrow, if you’d like?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’m sure it’s burden enough having to call home every day without adding to his list.’ She puts a little peal of laughter at the end, as if I’m some harpy wife who needs to learn her place.
‘I don’t think it’s any trouble to him,’ I say, offended despite myself. ‘It’s hard on us both being apart, but I’m proud of him.’
‘Yes, I expect you must be. It’s a pressured job, especially managing an overseas team.’ She smiles. ‘Although Cressida tells me he’s marvellous to work under.’
Cressida works out there? She wants me to ask her what she’s talking about. I swallow the question, even though it burns in my throat. To mask it, I pick up my teacup and sip the wretched tea. It tastes of cat piss. We assess each other across the glass coffee table, and then she sighs and looks at her watch.
‘Goodness, is that the time?’ She gets to her feet. ‘I should be on my way.’
I jump to my feet too and see her out. As I kiss her papery cheek by the door, I dig deep and finally find my balls. ‘Well, this has been an unexpected pleasure, Mum. We should do this more often.’
I don’t think she could look more horrified if I’d called her a whore. I genuinely think she’s going to slap me.
‘Laurel.’ She inclines her head formally and glides out of the door.
Once she’s definitely gone, I dump the piss-tea in the sink and pour myself a large glass of wine instead. How such a bitter woman raised such a sweet man is a mystery to me.
I sit down on the sofa, feeling very alone. Lucille came here for one reason and one reason only: to make sure I’m aware that Oscar is spending half the week in Brussels with his far more suitable ex-girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend who he didn’t think to mention was now working under him.
The one person I’d love to pick the phone up and talk to now is Sarah. I almost try her number, but what am I going to say if she actually answers? Hi, Sarah, I need someone to talk to because I’ve discovered that my husband is spending too much time with his ex? I somehow doubt she’d be a sympathetic ear. Instead I reach for my laptop and open Facebook. I’m not friends on there with Cressida, but Oscar is, and it’s a moment’s work to hop on to her page from his. Much of it’s set to private, aside from the few posts she wants the world to see, shots of her sophisticated lifestyle in Brussels. I click through until I find one of her in a group outside a bar, Oscar laughing beside her at the table.
Oh, Oscar.
10 June
Jack
Edinburgh in the sunshine is bloody cracking. I’ve been here for a little more than a year now and it’s really starting to feel like home. I know the streets without asking for directions – well, most of them – and I’ve got muscles in my calves I never had before because the whole place seems to be built on one huge sodding mountain. When I first arrived I found the looming granite buildings austere, but perhaps it was more a reflection of my state of mind than the gothic architecture. I see the city now for what it is: vibrant, buzzing, welcoming. I’m still not keen on bagpipes though.
‘Got you one in, Jack.’ Lorne, my huge, bearded producer spots me and raises a pint glass towards me across the beer garden. We’re having our team meeting in the pub, because that’s the way we roll.