The One Before the One (24 page)

‘Wow. You’ve really been through it, haven’t you?’

He shrugs. ‘Worse things happen. At least I had a mum for most of my childhood, a great one too.’

There’s a pause, and I am aware of not getting too heavy. If he wants to tell me more about his childhood, he will.

‘So what of this little floozy Christabel, then?’ I say, handing him a piece of bread.

‘We ran away’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘Nope. Dropped out of school and ran away to a kibbutz. I wanted to get away from my life, she wanted to be with me, but her parents disapproved because I was this little ruffian, not good enough for their little girl, you know, all that nonsense. So we ran away to Israel.’

‘Bloody hell, is there anything you haven’t done?!’

But it’s all falling into place, the tattoo, the dropping out of school, the affinity he must have with Lexi, the lists he made. The life lived. I feel like Wayne Campbell is emerging, right here, in St James’s Park, like he’s handing me pieces of a jigsaw puzzle to complete the whole.

‘Anyway, enough about me, what about you?’ he says, squinting up at me. ‘Ever had your heart broken?’

I pause, did I want to tell him this? Could I tell him about Toby? Had Lexi done so already?

‘Yes,’ I say, eventually ‘yes, I have …’

Like he can read my mind, his eyes widen, then he says, very slowly:

‘Ah, Toby.’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Toby. But he was my lucky escape.’

And then, almost as if we both know we’ve had all we can take of heart to hearts and picnics in parks and life stories and anecdotes, we hit the town and get the sort of drunk that is definitely not allowed on first dates. (Rule Number Five broken.) We start off in a bar called ScooterCaffe near Waterloo doing beers and tequila chasers amongst the vintage Vespas and the old motorcycle parts and the pretty bunting strung up on the ceiling and, then, when we decide we’re nowhere near drunk enough and the night is yet young, we hit an all-night drinking den in Hanway Street where ridiculously trendy clientele with their ironic satchels and their angular fringes and brogues drink beer out of vintage teacups. It’s the sort of bar I’d never be seen dead in normally, but I don’t care, I’m having the time of my life. We’ve broken every rule there is to break now: Don’t get too drunk (5), don’t mention ex-partners (7) but there’s one main rule left to break.

So I am back at his place now, on the boat and all I know is that I want him, more than I have wanted anyone, ever. My dress is off within minutes of getting below deck, all my own doing, and I am sprawled, arms back, on his hammock. He kisses me.

‘God, you’re beautiful,’ he says. Then he kisses my belly and I quiver, every last inch of me.

I grab him under the arms.

‘Make love to me,’ I say. ‘I want to be made love to.’ Tender. Not ‘seedy mistress sex’.

He kisses me, and he’s the best kisser, changing his stroke between so soft it’s like gossamer and firm and purposeful.

We’re moving together now, our pelvises pushing against each other, our breathing quickening.

‘We don’t have to do this,’ he says, looking me in the eyes.

I put a finger to his lips.

‘Will you just shut up? I am very busy.’

Wayne giggles at me.

‘And drunk,’ he says. ‘We’re very, very drunk. Oh, but you’re so pretty.’

‘Am I?’

‘Ridiculously so,’ he says. ‘And with the sexiest legs I’ve ever seen. It’s been all I can think of since I first clapped eyes on you in that dress, in my stall.’

‘Well, if it makes you feel better …’

‘Oh, I couldn’t feel any better than I already do.’

‘I fancied you from the first moment I saw you, too, even if I didn’t know who you were, even if you took the piss out of my list making.’

‘Well, we all know why I took the piss out of that, don’t we?’ he says. And then I’m in some other zone. On some other plain.

Afterwards, we lie rocking gently in the hammock. I am breathless with arousal, my body still shaking.

‘Well, that’s got to be the best sex I’ve ever had in my life,’ Wayne says, incredulously, laughing.

‘Me too,’ I say. ‘God, we were good!’

I squeeze him, inhale his scent: that slightly woody smell of the boat’s woodburning stove and the scent of St James’s Park in summer, all rolled into one.

We lie still, and I watch his contented face, slack now with approaching sleep.

What now? What will become of Wayne Campbell and me? In the porthole above us, I can see the pink dawn creeping in. I’ll have to go home, soon, I think, back to my sister, who will ask me about the Rules. We broke every last one of them and I couldn’t care less. The minutes tick by. I don’t want to leave, I think. I just don’t want to leave.

Wayne turns to me, the gorgeous creases around his eyes, deepened by tiredness now.

‘You’re not worrying, are you?’ he says.

‘Worrying? About what?’

‘About tomorrow, this. You won’t sober up and regret it, will you?’

I smile, curl my leg around his.

No, I won’t regret it. If this was what one-night stands were about, ‘reckless sex’, then I wonder why I’ve not done more.

‘Well, anyway,’ he says, tidying a strand of hair behind my ear when I don’t say anything, ‘it’s not like we have to worry about it. I’m off to Sheffield soon so you won’t have to see me or bump into me all the time.’

Sheffield. I hadn’t thought of Sheffield for the entire night until now. He was right, of course, the fact he was going was all for the best in the long run. I’d done it. I’d had a one-night stand with someone (not married) and now it wouldn’t get all complicated. There’d be no tears and, ‘Where are we taking this?’ This couldn’t be taken anywhere, it was just here, right now. This was all we had.

‘So, when do you go?’ My voice sounds sleepy, extra muffled down here below deck, like we’re in a little cocoon.

There’s a pause, a very long pause.

‘Three weeks,’ he says.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days.

So by the time Sarah Rawlinson dumped me, my heart was already a hardened mass of scar tissue. Plus, I had a new
actual
scar on my face after a scrap I’d had with Ryan Kaye after the under-16s night at Crystal Ts and too many Southern Comforts … Life couldn’t have got much worse.

I close the page and finally turn my light off, my eyes stinging from reading. I’m slowly falling in love with Kevin Hart – or was it just because when I read it, I heard the voice of his creator?

I lie in the darkness of my bedroom, thinking: I can’t fall in love with Wayne Campbell. I just can’t. There are various reasons for this and I list them in my head.

But I can’t stop thinking about Wayne. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Mind you, sleeping with a married man wasn’t supposed to happen, either. Or getting engaged to Martin. I’m beginning to wonder what
is
supposed to happen. The thing that’s confusing me is, wasn’t this a one-night stand? Because if it was – which I’m pretty sure it was, it
had
to be, he’s going to Sheffield in three weeks – then I don’t think I’m supposed to feel like this. I’m sure (although obviously I’m no expert, never having had a one-night stand), I’m supposed to feel like, ‘Way-hay! Go, girl’, and all that girl power malarkey. I am a thoroughly modern chick who just had drunken, meaningless sex with someone just because I can. So there.

I’m sure it’s supposed to be all about the sex, but that’s it. This
is
all about the sex. The sex was bloody brilliant! And I’m sure that’s not supposed to happen on a one-night stand, either, is it? Isn’t it supposed to be all strange houses, strange smells and noises, excruciatingly embarrassing breakfasts even though five hours earlier you had your nipples in his face? But there was nothing strange about sex with Wayne. Nothing. Everything about sex with Wayne was familiar and yet exciting and amazing, like arriving at your favourite
holiday destination with all your best friends, knowing you are guaranteed to have the time of your life.

We breakfasted like we did this every day, me in just my pants and his T-shirt, up on deck. Then I walked home, barefoot, in my dress; my stupidly high wedges that had torn my feet to shreds swinging by my side and my thighs still aching from the motorbike … amongst other things. The sun was high in the sky, the pavement already warm beneath my feet. I could still taste him in my mouth, smell him in my hair, and I found myself having one of those rare, fleeting moments of joy that actually made me cry. A diamond-in-a-rock-face moment. Gosh, haven’t had one of those for a while.

‘Er, missus?’ Lexi called from her bedroom, as I tried to creep past it to mine. ‘Miss Dirty Stop Out. We need a debrief.’

It was all she could do not to laugh out loud when she saw me.

‘What? Nothing happened!’ I said. ‘We were just listening to music back at his, it got late so I stayed over.’

‘Mm-mm.’ She nodded, a dirty great grin across her face. ‘So, what happened to your chin?’

‘What’s wrong with my chin?’ I grabbed the mirror from her dressing table. ‘Oh
shit!’
Lexi was now doubled over with mirth. My chin, or what was left of it, looked like I’d been at it with a pan scourer. ‘His bloody stubble did that to me!’

‘So you
so
snogged?!’

I bit my lip.

‘Oh my God, you shagged? You broke
all
the rules!’

I sat down on her bed and pointed at her, warningly. ‘He’s going to Sheffield, nothing can come of this, lady, and let me tell you, I am not proud of my behaviour …’

‘Don’t lie,’ she said. ‘You are.’

‘We had a good time. For what it was.’

‘Which was?’ She was fluttering her eyelashes at me now and I didn’t quite know what she was getting at.

‘A one-off. One night of fun …’

She put her head in her hands and groaned, dramatically.

‘He’s going to Sheffield, Lex, what can I do? Things happen for a reason. Wrong timing. I thought you knew that, anyway?’

‘But you
liked
him?’

‘Yes.’

‘So my match-making skills were good?’

I hugged her. ‘Alexis Steele, they weren’t just good, they were brilliant. Thank you …’ I kissed her cheek repeatedly, like an overbearing aunty. ‘Thank you, thank you, gorgeous sister of mine. What am I going to do without you?’

She raised on eyebrow.

‘What are you going to do without Wayne Campbell?’ she said.

So I feel like a teenager again, except I don’t, because something is stopping me and that something is thoughts of Rachel. They were there when I went shopping with Lexi, they were there even when I was with Wayne, and they are there at work, whenever I look at Toby, which is not often now since he has taken it upon himself to move desks. He will barely even look at me. There are long, loud conversations on the phone to his wife, shows of his newfound commitment – and I’m glad, genuinely glad. I meant what I said. She’s the only one for him. But for me, the aftermath is a bit like being on holiday knowing you have a dissertation to write. There’s a gnawing, uneasy feeling like something bad’s going to happen. I stole another woman’s husband for a year and there’s no fallout? It all seemed too easy. And I was right, because on the Tuesday after my date with Wayne, this happens:

I come back from lunch to find the office deathly quiet and Shona at her desk in tears. Toby is leaning on the back of his chair, his head bowed, his knuckles white. Christ, had someone died?

‘What’s happened?’

Silence. Just the sound of typing. I look over at Lexi for some clue, something, but she just gives me a sympathetic smile.

Shona says, ‘Caroline, I need to speak to you. Now, in private.’

My blood starts to rush with nerves. What the hell was going on?

That’s when I notice it. The odd flicker of an eye up from a screen, a snatched glance. People are looking at me.

I look at Shona, then Toby. ‘Just tell me,’ I say. I’m panicking now. Maybe someone really had died. ‘God, is it one of my parents?’

Toby lifts his head up and it’s only then that I see that he’s been crying too.

‘No, it’s
Rachel,
for fuck’s sake’

‘Rachel?’ I say. Rachel had
died?

Then the realisation catches me like a chill wind. My body goes cold. She
knew.
Of course she knew.

For a nanosecond I actually toy with the idea that this could be a dream, a horrid dream, then become aware of Heather standing at the photocopier in her fire marshal tabard, pretending not to listen. You don’t get anything as subtle as that in a dream, I think. In a dream, Rachel would be standing there at the copier with a knife in her hand. Or my mother. I didn’t know which was worse.

My hand goes to my mouth.

‘Oh God,’ is all I can manage.

‘Yes. Oh God,’ says Toby, glaring at Shona. She’s still crying, and still wearing her coat from lunch.

‘Look, let’s just go outside for a minute, shall we?’ she says to me. Then she gets up and I follow her, feeling everyone’s eyes burn into my back.

We’re outside now, on the elevated smoking section, looking out towards Edgware Road.

‘Shone, tell me. Whatever it is, I promise, I don’t blame you.’

And I meant it. Rachel knew now, what did it matter how or when?

‘We met for lunch,’ starts Shona. Her voice is shaking. She puts her hand up to her mouth and her fingers are shaking too. ‘I thought it was a bit strange, her wanting to meet me for lunch when she doesn’t know me that well, but I thought it might be something to do with Toby. That maybe she wanted to throw a surprise birthday party for him, or something,
anything.
I wouldn’t have agreed to go if I’d have known, because like I’ve always said, I knew this would happen. I knew I was an appalling liar. I knew if I was ever put on the spot, I’d fuck up. That’s why I tried to warn you.’

Down below, the traffic crawls along the Edgware Road, I can just make out the sprawl of Hyde Park in the distance. This all feels so unreal; I can’t believe it’s come to this.

I get hold of her hand.

‘It’s okay, you don’t have to justify it. I don’t blame you. Just tell me, what happened?’

‘Well, she just came out with it, didn’t she? I got to the café and she was already crying …’

I close my eyes. How could I have possibly ever thought I could get away with this.

‘She said, “Shona, you have to tell me. Is there something going on between Caroline and Toby?”’

I picture her sitting there, the strength it must have taken her to ask for the truth. Her searching Shona’s face for clues, how Shona must have felt. God, I could die.

‘And I had to tell her, Caroline. I had to. I couldn’t lie to her …’

‘Shona, it’s
okay.
Course you couldn’t.’

She starts sobbing again and I put my arms around her. This was such a mess, such a horrid, complicated mess.

‘It’s not your fault. It’s
my
fault. I didn’t listen, did I? I didn’t listen when you told me to get out of this?’

‘Rachel’s told him to move out.’

Oh God. That was big, that was different.

‘She says he has to have his stuff gone by the time she gets home from work. Janine knows,’ she says, head bowed, face like stone. I nod my head.

‘And everyone else in the office?’

‘Yep,’ she says. ‘And everyone else.’

I keep my head down until lunch and I’m not invited to the weekly round-up meeting. ‘I just think it’s probably best today,’ Janine says, discreetly, hand on my desk. ‘Just until everything calms down.’

I am a scandal in my own lunch hour. Talk about a fall from grace. To think that this time a few weeks ago, Janine couldn’t get enough of me, that I was teacher’s pet. That I was her hope for the Sales Award.

Now, I have been outed as a mediocre sales manager – can’t even push bloody mouthwash worthy of an award – and a wanton harlot of a mistress. Not bad for a few weeks’ work.

Things go from bad to farcical, when Schumacher drops the Minty Me account. Turns out that during my ridiculous, nervous showing off at the Barbecue of Horror about winning the Minty Me account with Schumacher (don’t know what I was thinking, as if Rachel cared, as if she gave a shit!), I let drop how cheap we’d got it on the shelves, how much profit Darryl had – in his generosity – inadvertently made for the company.

Rule Number One of sales: never let a buyer know how good a deal they gave you.

Turns out Lexi hadn’t quite grasped this.

‘But I thought I was giving him a compliment,’ she says, confused, when I finally get out of her exactly what she said, which was,
‘You make us the biggest profit out of all our clients!’

(Headthunkdesk.)

But I don’t care, not like I once did. I really couldn’t care less. So I’d lost Toby, I’d lost Schumacher, I’d lost my dignity, and I was probably going to lose my job.

Lexi and I go to Pret à Manger on Baker Street for lunch. I feel dirty and ashamed, like I was just found snorting coke off the toilet seat. And to think my little sister came here for me to set an example to her? It’s just too grim to contemplate.

She’s being unbelievably gracious and grown-up about it. Every day, she impresses me. It’s me who asks her advice these days.

I pour soy sauce on my sushi.

‘Do you think I should call Rachel?’ I say.

She looks at me like I’m mental. This is what I love about Lexi. There’s no stroking your ego, or well this, or well that, it’s just ‘that’s the shittest idea I’ve ever heard’ or ‘that is genius’. If you want a true opinion, ask a teenager, that’s what I’ve learned.

‘Are you mad?’ she says.

‘I don’t know, am I?’

I couldn’t really tell any more.

‘Yes! Think about it. Think about your mum. Would she have loved it if my mum called her and said: “Hey, Gwen! I’ve been having sex with your husband, but I’m sorry, truly I am, can we be friends?”’

When put like that, she had a point.

‘Anyway, why do you want to call Rachel?’ she said.

I thought about this. Why did I want to call Rachel?

‘Coz I bet it’s not to make her feel better, is it? I bet it’s to make
you
feel better.’

She was right of course. She always is these days.

I stir my coffee and look out of the window at everyone walking past. Normal people getting on with normal lives. The thought of going back into that office, today, day in, day out, dealing with the gossip and the scandal and the seeing Toby every day, I didn’t know if I could handle it.

‘Maybe I should hand in my notice,’ I say.

Lexi gasps. ‘Don’t you dare! You’re going to have to just walk in there, hold your head up high and get on with it. It’ll all blow over soon, these things usually do.’ Turns out she was right about that too. When did she get so goddamn mature?

This whole mess has made me think about Martin, too. When the Rachel thing blew up, I wanted to tell him. Not because I wanted to off-load on him, but because I wanted him to know – I wanted him to know I didn’t get away with it. I wanted to thank him, in a way, for making me see the light!