Olivia’s Luck (2000) (8 page)

Claudia was fascinated by this little menage, and one afternoon, when she’d been feeling rather brave, had knocked on their door. I’d found her there later watching the racing – Pils and vindaloo happily substituted by 7-Up and crisps – looking very important and clearly feeling very grown up. My mother had been horrified when I’d mentioned it, but frankly I could see nothing wrong with her watching the 5.40 from Kempton with my workforce before I called her back to do her homework. Right now, of course, she was tucked up in bed, and they were no doubt in there watching something far more risque.

I turned back to Molly. “I haven’t seen her for ages.”

Molly was on her knees, changing a nappy.

“Who?”

“Imogen.”

“Oh, right. No, neither have I, really. Not since she split up with Dominic anyway.”

I swung around. “She split up with Dominic?”

“Yes, didn’t you know?”

“No! When?”

“Oh God, I don’t know, four or five months ago?”

“Four or fi – but she didn’t tell me!”

“Oh, well, Heavens,” she looked up, awkward suddenly, privy to information I wasn’t, “you’ve been so busy with this house, Liwy, and she’s been frantic at the gallery – she’s had a rush of private views on recently – it’s hardly surprising. Anyway, she was never really serious about him.”

“She’s never been really serious about anyone except – ” I shook my head. “And I’ve spoken to her loads of times, Molly. She never even mentioned it!”

“Oh well,” she shrugged and snapped the new nappy on, “perhaps she wanted to see you to tell you. You know what Imo’s like. Listen, are you going to open those Pringles I’ve just spotted lurking in that cupboard down there, or are me and my appendage here going to have to starve to death?”

I ignored her, knowing full well she was changing the subject, and seized her hand as it went for the crisps.

“Four or five months, Molly. Don’t you see? That’s exactly when it started, four or five months ago!”

“Stop it!” Molly shook me off, horrified. “Liwy, how could you? Of
course
it’s not Imo!”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s your best friend!”

“Doesn’t count, Mol.” I shook my head violently. “Love cancels out everything like that. Friendship, loyalty – it all goes out of the window and, God, they were
so
in love all those years ago and – ”

“Liwy, you have got to stop being so insecure about that! Just because he went out with her, for God’s sake!”

“It was more than that and you know it. She broke his heart with Paolo, and then through her own stupid pride broke her own heart too. Imo’s never found anyone else, Mol, and look at her now, chucking in the towel with one guy after another!”

I was ranting now, pacing the floor, all the pent-up, horrid, suspicious thoughts I’d had over the last few weeks spilling out like serpents from my mouth.

“Don’t you see, Molly, it would
have
to be someone as serious as Imo! Johnny would never leave me just for a fling with a floozie. It’s not his style. He despises philanderers! He’d rather slit his wrists than join that sordid little band of – ”

I froze as I heard tyres on the gravel drive.

“Don’t you dare,” breathed Molly, staring at me.

I held her gaze for a moment, then went to the door. I stood for a moment, regarding the paintwork. The doorbell went, I waited a moment longer, then finally opened it.

She was standing on the doorstep, looking as beautiful as ever in a grey, sleeveless Ghost dress, her blonde hair slipping silkily over her shoulders, her pale blue eyes wide, like a baby’s. They filled up with tears when they saw me.

“Oh, Liwy! You poor darling!”

I was so glad she hugged me. So glad I could hide my shame in her hair. I was wrong. So wrong. I knew that instantly. But this was what he’d done to me, you see. This was what the love of my life, the ache in my gut, had done. Made me see treachery in childhood friends.

“How are you?” She held me at arm’s length and scanned my face anxiously.

“Terrible,” I grinned. “Despicable too, and nasty with it, but all the better for seeing you. Come on, come in before Molly and I finish all the wine.”

“Molly’s drinking?” she enquired doubtfully.

“Er, well, just a thimble or two.”

“And smoking!” she said, catching Molly hurriedly stubbing out a cigarette.

“My doctor says it’s fine,” she said defiantly. “He says the shock to my heavily addicted, twenty-a-day system would be far greater if I stopped and that one or two is not going to hurt,
plus
a little glass of wine and
plus
, Imo, if
you
were seven months pregnant, flatulent, exhausted, incontinent, and with a one-year-old with a charming habit of projectile vomiting,
you’d
have the odd ciggy too!” Molly got up to kiss her friend. “How are you anyway, you old bag?” She plonked Henry’s bottle in the microwave.

“Well, sorry I spoke, since you ask. But – blimey, it can’t be all that bad, surely? I mean, let’s face it, millions of women do it every day, don’t they? Have babies?” She gave a bright smile, perfectly designed to wind Molly up.

Molly ground her teeth. She and I longed for Imogen to get pregnant. We longed for that perfect size ten figure to swell up to monolithic proportions; for her to scratch and sweat, for her feet to swell, for her tummy button to pop out, and more importantly, for her to suffer the indignities of childbirth. Sadly though, we secretly knew that if Imogen were to get pregnant, she’d just look as though she’d swallowed a doughnut, and that when the time came for the doughnut⁄baby to be delivered, she’d effortlessly slip the perfect specimen into a gorgeous gynaey’s hands, who’d gaze at her with lust and admiration as, pausing only to deposit the babe into the arms of a waiting, uniformed nanny, she shimmied out of his private delivery suite in her size ten jeans, and headed back to the art gallery she ran in Walton Street for a refreshing spritzer with a client.

She sat down now on the only available seat – which, to her credit, was an upturned milk crate – and somehow managed to make it look like a Conran original. After crossing her elegant legs and flicking back her long, blonde hair, she cleared her throat.

“Liwy darling, I’m afraid I’ve got something to tell you.”

My heart stopped. I lunged for my glass; spun round to face her like a machine gun. Ah, so this was it, then; my hunch had been right. The serpents slithered back up my throat and I met her eyes challengingly. But Imo’s slid away. Imo’s eyes never slid like that.

“What?” I whispered.

“He’s seeing someone else.”

I nodded. “I know.”

“You know?” She glanced back at me.

“Yes, he told me.”

“Ah.” She paused for what felt like an eternity. “And did he tell you who?”

I shook my head. Couldn’t speak.

She gave a brief confirmatory nod. “Her name’s Nina Harrison.”

My jaw dropped. “Nina…what? Who? Who the hell’s Nina Harrison?”

She shrugged. “Search me, but I saw them in a restaurant about a month ago. It was round here actually. I came home for Mum’s birthday and we took her to that new Italian place on Hollywell Hill. They were in there having supper together.”

“No!” I gaped. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh sure, come on, Liwy. What – tell your best friend that you’ve just seen her husband with another woman? And how was I to know it wasn’t a colleague from work or something, or even just a brief fling that would be much better you didn’t know about?”

“Better I didn’t…” I was speechless for a moment. “Well, God,” I blustered finally, “I think I might have told
you
!”

“Oh, me, maybe, but I’m single with no kids. But think about it, Liwy. Would you have told Molly? Pregnant? With a small baby?”

“Oh, I’d have been highly delighted,” said Molly as she took the bottle from the microwave and handed it to a grabbing Henry. “I dream of Hugh having a concubine. I’d be very happy with light scullery duties, just so long as she took over in the bedroom and breeding department. Really.” She gave a bright smile and I knew she was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“So how come you know her name?” I persisted, stunned.

“Looked at her credit card. She paid the bill – which was why I thought it could have been a client or something – and then when the waiter took the saucer away to the counter, I crept to the loo with my pashmina over my face. Saw it as I went past.”

“Did you see her?”

“Not clearly.”

“But?”

She shrugged. “Small, fairish – not blonde – and pretty, I suppose, but in a very mousy, nondescript sort of way. Nothing special at all, Liwy, and certainly no competition for you.”

She was being kind. Being protective. Dear, sweet Imo, who twice in the space of five minutes I’d cast as a she-devil in my husband’s bed, a temptress, a Jezebel. But lovers on the skids have no redress. No dignity either.

“And did Johnny…?”

“Oh God, no, he didn’t see me. I made sure of that. And anyway, they left more or less as soon as we arrived, thank goodness. I was terrified Mum would spot him.”

“Off for a night of spine-shattering sex, no doubt,” I said bitterly.

“She didn’t look the spine-shattering type, Liv.”

“They never do,” I said sadly.

I got up and cleared away some glasses. I knew my eyes were filling up, so I ran the taps at the sink and dithered ineffectually with a dishcloth to hide my face.

“Very odd,” murmured Molly to Imogen behind me as she sat Henry on her lap, rubbing his back to wind him. “I mean, Liwy’s right, a tacky affair with a mousy blonde, it’s not exactly his style, is it?”

“Hardly,” said Imogen drily, “and he’s always been erudite on the subject of extramarital sex; always been very happy up there on the high moral ground. Well, how the mighty have fallen.”

Down in the sink a plate almost came to pieces in my hands as I wished, not for the first time, that they didn’t know quite so much about my husband, about my marriage. I wouldn’t dream of making disparaging remarks about their partners, but Johnny, it seemed, was fair game. He was public property, you see, belonged to all of us, always had done, and whilst –

“
Christ
!” Imo shrieked suddenly. I spun round to see her clutching her head, as a stream of yellow liquid splattered on the wall behind her.

“What was that!” she yelled, frozen to her milk crate.

“Projectile vomiting,” muttered Molly, grabbing a dishcloth and hastening past her to mop it up. “I believe I mentioned it earlier. So sorry, Liwy, your wall. I’ll – Oh, Imo, did it get in your hair? Here, I’ll – ”

“
Not with that!
” screeched Imo, leaping to her feet as Molly brandished a vomit-soaked rag. “No, really, Mol, he missed,” she breathed. “I’m fine, truly.” She sat down again shakily, smoothing her hair. “Jesus, does he always do that?”

“Periodically,” admitted Molly, scrubbing away, “although he’s supposed to have grown out of it. Most babies do at about three months, but not my Henry. He doesn’t know when the joke’s over. I wouldn’t mind betting that in years to come he’ll be offering you a gin and tonic and still be taking aim at your highlights.”

Imo shuddered. “That’ll charm the pants off the girls. Let’s hope his incontinence clears up by then. Although I have to say,” she smiled smugly, “whilst I don’t know much about children, I don’t think you can claim the monopoly on that, Mol. I’m pretty sure all babies are incontinent.”

“Oh, Imo, I’m afraid you misheard,” smiled Molly. “That’s my affliction, not his.”

Imogen looked appalled. “Molly! God, how
awful
, poor
you
!”

“Yes, poor me. Still lactating with number one, sick as a parrot with number two, and now, thrillingly unpredictable in the waterworks department too, but don’t worry, Imo, it only happens when I laugh, and believe me, there’s precious little to laugh about in my life at the moment.”

“Evidently,” said Imogen weakly. “God, remind me to avoid this child-bearing lark. I’ll have one in a test tube, or adopt. Yes, that’s it, I’ll send out for one, like a pizza – except, hang on, now here’s one I
would
take home with me. Hello, darling, how’s tricks?”

Claudia appeared in the doorway in her nightie.

“Claudes!” I jumped up. “It’s ten o’clock! What’s the matter?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, fumbling across to the dresser for her glasses. She put them on. “But tricks is fine thanks Imo. I like your dress.”

She kissed her godmother, fingering the grey silky material covetously – very much a Du Bray in the clothes department was our Claudia – before going to kiss her other godmother and pick up the baby.

“How come Henry isn’t in bed and I am?” she said, crouching down.

“Henry doesn’t sleep, darling,” said Molly, ruffling her hair fondly. “He’s a changeling. He doesn’t behave like other, normal babies. He’s only been put on this earth to vex his mother. He’s from the planet Thwart.”

Claudia giggled, then suddenly looked serious. She straightened up, folded her arms. “She’s told you then, has she? About Daddy?”

There was a silence. I hastened across to her anxiously. “I did actually, darling. Do you mind?”

“Course not,” she said, pushing her dark fringe back impatiently. “I said you should share it more, not bottle it up.”

“Well, quite,” I agreed nervously. My daughter was ten, going on twenty-four.

“And how do
you
feel about it, my love?” asked Molly gently.

“Oh, I’m OK. Daddy says he’ll see me on Sundays and I know from books that he’ll feel really guilty about making me a product of a broken home, so I’ll probably get loads of treats and things, and trips to Thorpe Park, which’ll be cool. I won’t get spoilt, though. Susan, in
The Chalet School
adventures hasn’t got a father, but she’s not spoilt ‘cos her mother’s strict but fair, so I expect I’ll be the same.” She nodded firmly.

“Good, good,” said Molly faintly.

“And, anyway, it’ll all come right in the end. Something good will come out of it, I’ll be bound.”

“I’ll be – ” Molly turned wide eyes on me.

“Angela Brazil,” I muttered. “She found all my old books.”