I sit down in his stark white office and close my eyes for a split second. I stifle my initial response. My body is resorting to its usual fight-or-flight mechanism and my brain is saying, “Danny, run away’. But I don’t. I stay right where I am.
I consider appealing to his compassionate side for a moment, but I doubt that he actually has one. I do the only thing you can do when you’re faced with an irrational human being who’s relishing the power that they hold over you. I flatter him. I make him feel important. I convince him he’s the far better brain.
It takes me a good twenty minutes to press all his buttons, but they’re not very difficult to find. I thank him for picking Rufus up. I recognise he was only doing his job. I explain a little of Rufus’s history and I tell him that he’s never been violent in his life. I persuade him that the holding cell could be far better used. I convince him Rufus is no kind of threat. I remind him that it’s almost pub chucking-out time and I suggest that his
efforts might be far better used somewhere else. Why doesn’t he save himself the trouble? I say. Why doesn’t he give Rufus back to us?
He urns and ahs and grimaces for a while, and he informs me that my ‘wife’s’ friends were skating on very thin ice. He agrees to release Rufus into our custody if we promise to take full responsibility for him. We thank him profusely. We agree to have him seen by a doctor first thing in the morning.
And then we take him home.
“How is he now?” I say as she comes out of the spare room and shuts the door.
“He’s sleeping,” she says. “He’s exhausted. I just spoke to Mum and Dad and they’re going to come down to fetch him tomorrow morning. They’ll take him back up to Lincoln to stay with them for a while.”
“That’s a good idea,” I say. “It’ll probably do him the world of good.”
She gets up and walks over to the kitchen and comes back with two large glasses of wine. She sits down next to me on the sofa and rests her head carefully on my shoulder.
“Thanks, Danny,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you tonight. I knew you’d know what to do.”
“You didr I say, wondering whether I’ve heard her right.
“Yes,” she says. “You were fantastic. You handled it brilliantly.”
“That’s OK,” I say, putting my arm round her, ‘it wasn’t that difficult in the end.”
“Yes,” she says, ‘it was. It was all about staying calm. Bob went leaping in feet first and I was too angry to think straight. But you sorted it, Danny. You got him out. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
I pull away and take a big gulp of my wine. It’s making me uncomfortable, her being so nice to me like this.
“I’m sorry about what I said last night,” she says, wondering why I’ve pulled away. “I didn’t mean any of it, you know.”
“That’s OK,” I say, fiddling with the TV remote control. “You were right. It’s unlikely the record deal will come to anything much.”
“No,” she says, ‘that’s not what I meant. You have to let me explain.”
“So,” I say, scratching my ear, ‘you didn’t think we were rubbish, then?”
“No,” she says, “I thought you were incredible. It was so unexpected, seeing you perform up there on that giant stage; with all those people jumping up and down and getting into the songs and clapping and cheering and, shit, Danny … I don’t even know how to say this—’
“What is it?” I say, urging her on. “What is it you’re trying to say?”
She knits her fingers together and hums quietly under her breath.
“I know it’s awful of me,” she says slowly, ‘but I was… well, I was just incredibly jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Yes.”
“Of mer
“Yes. Of you. I’ve never been more jealous in my life.”
“Why?” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “Why would you be jealous of me?”
She takes a sip of her wine before she answers.
“Because you looked so happy up there, like it was everything you’d ever wanted to do. And I was envious of it, I suppose. Envious of your self-belief. I can’t believe you’ve had the guts to pursue it all these years, that you’ve had the courage to see it through.”
“But … I thought you said I was running away, I thought you said I was wasting my time.”
“No,” she says gently, “I’ve never thought you were wasting your time. I think you realised early on that you were good at something and you’ve followed your ambition ever since.
It wasn’t because you were trying to live up to your mum’s expectations and it wasn’t because you were too scared to do anything else. It’s because you’re good at it, Danny. Much better than I ever realised.”
“Shit,” I say, draining my glass, “I don’t know what to say. I thought you wanted me to be more like Ruth’s partner Bob.”
“No,” she says, relaxing slightly, “I don’t want you to be anything like Bob.”
“Well, what about Didier, then? I thought you wanted me to be more like him.”
“Didier? You must be joking,” she says, grimacing at the thought. “He’s an arse hole a complete lech. He makes the whole office go out to dinner with him every time we complete a new part of the project and then he spends all night ordering schnapps and telling crap jokes and trying to wrap his podgy arms round all the women. He’s a wanker, Danny. No one in the office can stand him.”
“Wow,” I say, pouring us some more wine. “So you’re not having an affair with him, then? You’ve not been having a bit of Belgian leg-over action while you’ve been off on your holidays in Bruges?”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she says, turning round and narrowing her eyes at me. “You honestly thought there was a chance I might be sleeping with him?”
“Well,” I say, feeling ashamed of myself, “I didn’t know what to think. I mean, what about all those sexy dresses? What about the mystery timetable that I found in your bag?”
“What sexy dresses? What mystery timetable?”
“You know, that one. That dress you wore to go back to Bruges that time. The one with the low-cut bits and the see-through bits and ..
.”
She starts to smile.
“I was trying to make you realise what you were missing, I suppose. You were so preoccupied with the band when I came home that you barely seemed to register that I’d been away. I wasn’t even sure that you were missing me.
You seemed more interested in discussing your flared trousers than finding out about what I was getting up to in Bruges.”
“Right,” I say. “You’re right. I suppose I was a bit preoccupied now you mention it. But what about the timetable, then, what was that all about?”
She takes a deep breath before she answers.
“You know that morning I told you I’d been out shopping with Rufus? Well, that wasn’t all I did. I went up to the university afterwards. They were having an open day.”
“I don’t understand,” I say, still confused. “Why would you want to visit the university?”
“Because… I’ve been thinking about going back to college, to study creative writing or journalism or something. So you were right in a way, it was a timetable. It was a list of course dates.”
She stops for a moment to gauge my reaction and then she carries on.
“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” she says, taking a prospectus out of her bag and showing it to me. “I mean, I’ve always loved writing, ever since I was a kid, and I just thought… well, this is my last chance, isn’t it? If I leave it any longer it’ll be too late.”
“Too late for what?”
“Too late to change. In a couple of years we might want to have kids and we’ll probably have a mortgage and then I’ll be stuck, won’t I? Stuck in a career that I hate for the rest of my life.”
“I didn’t know you hated what you were doing,” I say, genuinely surprised. “I mean, I knew you weren’t all that happy but I never realised you hated it.”
“No, Danny, of course you didn’t. You weren’t paying any attention. You never do. I didn’t say you weren’t still a selfish fucker.”
Her smile belies the harshness of her words. And then she says she has a confession to make.
“The thing is,” she says uneasily, “I think I gave you the ultimatum because part of me hoped you’d fail. I suppose I thought it might be your turn to take a proper job for a while. Your turn to take some responsibility for once.”
“I thought you liked it. I thought you liked being the responsible one.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head, ‘not really. I just don’t know how to do anything else. I’m not like you, Danny, I’m not any good at taking risks. I think it might be something to do with growing up with Rufus, seeing the chaos he’s had to go through over the years. It makes me want to be in control… it makes me want to feel safe. I’m sorry, Danny. It’s not fair. I should have been straight with you. I should have told you what I wanted from the start.”
I can’t bear to hear her apologising to me like this. I can’t stand to see the look on her face. She’s gazing up at me with those giant blue eyes and she’s asking me to forgive her but I can’t. Because my body is full of sour milk and insects And there’s the weight of a city pressing on my chest. And I open my mouth. And I let out a groan. Because I’ve suddenly remembered what I’ve done.
“I’ve got a confession too,” I say suddenly. “I’ve got something I have to tell you. I’m sorry, Alison. It’s pretty bad.”
She smiles, suggesting it can’t be quite as bad as I think it is. “I know, you nutcase,” she says, laughing at me. “The thing is I already know.”
“You do?” I say, wondering why she’s being so calm about it. “You mean Kate’s already told you what happened?”
“Kate? No. What’s Kate got to do with anything? I saw you for myself. I saw you hiding behind that lamppost. With your flowers and your wine and your ridiculous Hercule Poirot cake. I know you came to Bruges, Danny. Can you believe it? I saw you and I didn’t even come out and say anything. I wanted to see what you’d do. I wanted to know if you’d ever get round to telling me. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I’ve been punishing you for it ever since.
“This is crazy,” she says, tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. “The two of us are just as bad as each other.”
“Not quite,” I say sadly, ‘not quite.”
She can tell. I know she can. She can tell from the look on my face. She doesn’t want to believe it and she’s hoping that she’s made a mistake but deep down I think she already knows. She pulls away. She moves to the corner of the sofa and tucks her knees tightly into her chest. Because she thinks I’m about to hurt her.
And she’s right.
“This isn’t about you coming to Bruges, is it?” she says finally.
“No,” I say, “I wish it was.”
“What, then? What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” I say bitterly, “I didn’t mean it to happen … it was a mistake … it was after we’d argued at the gig. I was angry about what you said and—’
“Tell me,” she says quietly. “Just tell me what you’ve done.”
“I’m sorry, Alison. I slept with someone else.”
In the split second it took for the words to leave my lips our whole world changed. She asked for everything back: the trust, the affection, the comfort and the love and the right to touch her skin. I lean towards her. I put down my wineglass and reach out for her hand and she pulls it away like a snapped elastic band.
“Don’t,” she says. “I don’t want you to touch me.” I try to make things better but I’m not sure there’s any way that I can. I apologise until I’m sick of the sound of my own voice. I promise her it will never happen again. I answer all her questions and fill in all the gaps and try to find some explanation for why it happened. I tell her that I was drunk.
That I never intended to sleep with anyone. That I wouldn’t have planned to hurt her like this for anything in the world.
“It didn’t mean anything,” I say, wringing my hands, “I swear to you. It was a mistake.”
“Did you know her?” she says. “Was she someone you knew?”
“No. I’d only just met her. I don’t even know where she lives.”
“Did she stay the whole night? Did you have breakfast with her?”
“No. I mean we didn’t have breakfast, of course we didn’t.”
“But she did stay the night?”
“No, it was a couple of hours. It was dawn before I even went up to the room.”
I’m making things worse. I can see her wince with every new detail even though part of her is desperate to know. I try again. I try to make her understand.
“Look,” I say, “I know I’ve done a terrible thing to you and there’s no reason on earth why you should forgive me but it was a stupid mistake. It was only a one-night stand. I swear to you. That’s all it was.”
She starts to cry. Fat tears ooze over her lashes on to her cheeks and she makes no attempt to wipe them away.
“You don’t get it, do you?” she says scornfully. “Don’t you see, it’s worse that it was a one-night stand. It makes things even worse.”
“How? I don’t understand. How does it make things worse?”
She turns away. She can’t bear to look at my face.
“Because it does,” she says. “It means our relationship was worth so little to you that you were prepared to sacrifice it for one meaningless fuck. How do you think that makes me feel? If you’d loved her … if you’d even liked her a little bit … I don’t know, Danny … it just makes things worse.”
We talk long into the night but I’m not sure it does any good. Both of us are exhausted and the longer it goes on the more we seem to be repeating ourselves.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wondering whether she’s still listening, “I’d never have done it … I’d never have done it if I’d known.”
“If you’d known what?”
“If I’d known how you felt… about the band, about your job, about wanting to go back to college…”
“You’re just making excuses,” she says, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’d never have done that to you.”
“But I’m telling the truth. I thought we were finished. I was confused … I really thought you wanted to leave me.”
“So it’s my fault, then, is it? I forced you to get pissed and fuck a groupie behind my back?”
“No, of course not.”
“But that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? Even now, even after everything that’s happened, you still can’t take responsibility for what’s going on, can you?”