Читать книгу: «The Things That Matter»

Chapter One
2020

London

‘Are you almost ready to go?’

Angela raised a perfect eyebrow and tapped the Champagne flute with her nail. She was annoyed with me, that much was clear.

‘What’s your hurry?’ I said. ‘Pre-drinks were your idea, so we could catch up. I haven’t seen you in forever.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Angie flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and fixed me with a stare.

‘Well, you run a tech empire and I don’t work, so I’m going to say yours.’ I smiled at my friend, bumping her with my hip. I felt like I was doing well, keeping the smile on my face, staying light and happy. It was exhausting, but I was managing it.

I was determined that today I was going to do better, be better. I was going to be the friend Angie deserved.

I leaned across the kitchen island and topped up her glass, willing her to let it go. But that wasn’t Angie’s style. We’d been friends for about four years, ever since she waltzed into a 6 a.m. yoga class still in her clothes from the night before, fell asleep on the mat for the whole hour, snoring loudly, and without a whiff of shame thanked the teacher for such a ‘rejuvenating savasanna.’

I thought she was absolutely mad, and really we made no sense as friends except for the fact that we both loved shopping in charity shops, mocking the rich and famous, and proving people wrong. Although Angela, as some sort of heiress, was kind of at a disadvantage with the rich and famous thing – they were her people.

But these days we moved in the same circles and sometimes you really needed someone who was willing to join in mocking the woman who spent fifteen grand on a dog house for her toy poodles. You just needed back-up. A spark of reality in with the excess.

‘You took a call from the Wah Wah centre when I arrived and were gone for forty minutes!’

‘Don’t call it that.’

One of the few things Angie and Dan agreed on was that I spent too much time helping on the grief helpline. They thought it wasn’t good for me.

But I was helping people. That’s what they couldn’t understand, that I desperately needed to do something useful, something good. Something that wasn’t sitting around miserably feeling guilty.

We could have Champagne any time. We could spend any day we wanted sitting in my huge Hampstead flat and drinking expensive wine out of expensive glasses and talking about things that didn’t matter. The people who called me had real problems.

‘They needed help, I was there. I’m sorry I ignored you, okay? I’ve put the phone away and we’re focusing on you.’ I tried to soothe her and Angela snorted into her glass.

‘It’s your birthday, moron! We’re meant to be focusing on you!’

‘Well, I’d quite happily skip it, thanks.’ I smiled tightly, trying to make it sound like a joke. ‘Who’s excited for thirty, anyway?’

I sounded ungrateful, I knew. I was trying so hard to seem okay again after everything. To have enough time pass that people didn’t tilt their heads and wince when they asked how I was. To not have them exclaim in those pitying tones that it was really awful, what happened. And then you have to say sorry, or thank you, or some other weird thing to make the conversation end.

And then if you’re me, you take your drink and you hide in the toilet until your husband comes and gets you, makes excuses and takes you home.

Unsurprisingly, Dan hadn’t taken me out much in the last few months. I can’t quite be trusted on the corporate dinner party circuit anymore. The offers that used to pour in, ski trips to Chamonix and weekends in Monaco, they’ve dried up. I can’t say I’m disappointed. But I think Dan might be.

The only person I liked out of that group was Angela anyway, and she still dropped by every week with huge takeaway cups of coffee to chat and moan about how awful they all were. At the beginning I didn’t even say anything, just gripped the coffee cup with both hands and stared at her face, but it was honestly the best thing anyone did for me. Just came into my day, asked nothing of me, and told me stories.

‘You wouldn’t believe who was there, Taz, this woman was wearing so much gold she may as well have been carried in on a lounger.’

‘Taz, honestly, I think everyone got food poisoning. Must have been the sushi. I heard later in the evening there was projectile vomiting!’

‘Oh god, babe, you know Nicola’s best friend Yvonne? Her wanker banker husband had an affair with the cleaner and now they’ve run off to Mauritius!’

She didn’t require anything from me. She didn’t talk about life before. She didn’t talk about Dan, who still had to go and build his career and play nice for his daddy. Show him that nepotism really did pay, that it was worth it to let him back in, to promote him to that nice corner office, even with his council estate wife.

I’m not quite over it yet, in case that wasn’t obvious.

The huge bouquet of birthday flowers Dan sent me was on the side in the kitchen, and every time I looked at them I noticed some other extravagant detail. They were huge, colourful, audacious things. Exactly the kind of thing Dan would have bought me when we were younger, if we’d had a spare seventy quid to spend on things that weren’t food or rent.

It made me feel better, that he picked something fun. He’d been tip-toeing around me for so long that seeing something bold felt hopeful. The card said, ‘To my darling Taz, happy birthday. You deserve all the good things this year. All my love, Dan.’

Something in there hinted at pity and survival, just a little, but I wasn’t going to dwell. I was incredibly lucky, I had a lot to be grateful for. Thoughtful husband, beautiful home, good friend looking at me like she was about to drop a bombshell…

‘What?’ Please don’t be pregnant.

‘I feel like I should tell you something, but Dan told me not to…’ Angela untangled one of the huge gold hoop earrings stuck in her hair, and I snorted, relieved. Poor Ange. Never could keep a secret. And my lovely Dan, always plotting and planning, as if he’d let my birthday pass quietly, even this year.

‘He’s throwing me a surprise party.’

She raised an eyebrow, ‘You knew?’

‘No, but it’s a Dan way to approach things.’ To try and fix things. ‘He’s a go big or go home type. My husband has never found an over the top gesture he didn’t like.’

Angela looked at me like I’d grown two heads. ‘Taz, you hate big events and fancy parties. You hate having to dress up and pretend to be interested in the stock market whilst frat boys in suits look at your boobs and your husband pretends he likes these people. It’s why we get along so well.’

I laughed and shrugged, sipping my wine. ‘I know.’

‘So why wouldn’t you be annoyed?’

‘Because he wants to do something nice for me. Even if I would rather stay home in my pyjamas and eat pizza—’

‘—which he knows because you’ve been married since you were children—’

‘Babe, this is how Dan shows love. He likes to make a big show, he feels like it means more if he has an audience.’

I tried to not make it sound like a judgement. That had been the difference between us – Dan’s parents had taught him to care what things looked like. It was so hard to get used to the idea that people gave enough of a damn about what you were doing to form a negative opinion. My parents had more of a ‘fuck anyone who criticises you’ approach. But as far as I was concerned, neither of us lucked out in the family department. Except in finding each other.

‘Sweetie, aren’t you a bit tired of this Stepford Wife shit? I mean, I know you wanna stand by your man and all that but… don’t you think it’s time to stop trying to be perfect?’

I recoiled a little. ‘What?’

Angela put a hand on mine, ‘Look, you know I don’t do all the warm and fuzzies, and I would rather go bond by getting simultaneous bikini waxes, but you went through some stuff, and you’re pretending everything’s fine.’

‘That’s what people do, Ange. They get on with their lives. They pretend they’re fine until they are fine. Otherwise you mope and get bitter about how unfair the world is, and you wake up five months later and your husband’s left and your friends are bored of you and you’re bored of yourself…’ I could feel myself getting choked up, and Angie squeezed my hand.

‘I’m not trying to upset you, I’m just saying you don’t have to be perfect. Not for me, not for Dan.’

‘I’m not trying to be perfect. I’m just trying to be okay.’

The thing is, all these people, these well-wishing bystanders to your life, they say things like that just because it’s what you do. They say ‘take all the time you need’ but what they really mean is ‘hurry up and get over this, we want you to be normal again.’ Grief makes people uncomfortable in a way I’ve never experienced before. Like you’re handing them something and they don’t know where to put it.

When we went through everything as teenagers, we didn’t have to talk about it with anyone but ourselves. Even now, these people Dan surrounds himself with don’t know about his stint in prison, they don’t know our story. They just know enough: that he was the good boy from the nice family, and I was the girl with nothing who still doesn’t like seeing how much of that catered food is thrown away at the end of the night. I always end up sweet-talking the caterer into packing half of it up so I can drop it off at a shelter. The other half is for the staff, obviously. I worked enough catering gigs as a teenager to know a lot of them are surviving on leftover canapés for dinner.

The thing is, before I didn’t mind being the kooky leftie wife. I was doing good things, even if it made them uncomfortable. I wasn’t on display. Now the problem is that every time someone asks me how I am, I get closer and closer to telling them the truth.

That wouldn’t be good for anyone. It’s better to put on a smile and gloss over the cracks. What’s that saying, about pouring yourself a drink and putting on extra lipstick? These last few months I’ve been buying a lot of lipstick.

I’ve been buying a lot of everything, actually. Dan sees the credit card bills, all these charges to late night shopping channels, stupid stuff we’d never need. Stuff the old me would be horrified by. Pointless expense, just because. But he hasn’t said anything about it. Either he doesn’t want to embarrass me, or he doesn’t want another conversation about why I’m still not sleeping. Doesn’t want to bring up medication again.

There were a lot of things we weren’t talking about at the moment.

‘Well, now that the surprise is good and ruined, I’m meant to have you out of the flat and on the way to the pub in the next ten minutes, so chin chin.’ Angela topped up my mostly full glass, and filled her empty one again.

‘Is it subterfuge? We go for a drink and they come here?’ I was hopeful, but it was unlikely. Dan would have had a cleaner come in if it was at home. And then I would have pointed out we don’t need a cleaner, and he would have said I was being difficult for no reason, and it would have been a thing.

Angela shook her head, ‘But it’s at the Star and Anchor, so that’s not bad, right?’

The Star and Anchor was our local pub, and although it was a little fancy for my tastes, I liked it. The food was good, the drinks weren’t insanely expensive and there was never anyone from Chelsea auditioning for a TV show on a Saturday night. Dan and I sat drinking in the garden one summer’s evening before we moved to the area, when we used to walk around Hampstead and dream of living somewhere lovely. We bought the cheapest pints possible with a pack of salt and vinegar crisps and just sat quietly in the garden, people watching. When I closed my eyes I could still conjure him sitting there, ivy behind him, impossibly young as he told me all about the big fancy home we’d live in on this very street. I’d called him a dreamer, but he was someone who turned dreams into reality. He mapped out our future over a packet of crisps, and when we’d left the pub he’d pulled me along to skip with him.

‘Why are we skipping, we’re not kids!’ I’d laughed, happy to be dragged along.

‘Maybe we should be, they have more fun!’ he’d replied, and kissed me. All we’d been through and he was still my dreamer. My dream maker.

And so if he wanted to make me happy with a big party, I’d be happy with a big party.

‘The Star and Anchor is great. It was really nice of him to try and do something for my birthday.’

‘Ugh, Robo-wife, stop with all the gratitude is the new attitude bullshit or I’m going to boycott your party on principle.’

‘You are a very angry lady,’ I stuck my tongue out at her.

‘I don’t know if you’ve looked at the world, turned on the TV lately, but there’s a lot to be angry about.’

I raised my glass to hers, ‘Fair enough. I’ve just got to find my keys, then we can go.’

Fair play to my friend, she didn’t even blink. I’d been losing things all over the place the last few months, and half the time I was holding them in my hand whilst I searched. She always just went with it, joined in the search without judgement.

‘Shall I check your coat pockets?’

I gave her a thumbs up and emptied my handbag onto the counter. The way I’d been recently, my keys could easily have been in the fridge, the soap dish or the fruit bowl. All equally as likely.

‘Taz, what’s this?’

Angela appeared in the doorway, holding an array of snacks. A couple of cereal bars, a mini pack of biscuits, clementines. ‘You’ve got food in all your coat pockets!’

I tried to think of a reason to wave her concern away.

‘Oh,’ I shrugged, ‘it’s when I go to the shop and don’t want to buy another plastic bag, so I stick stuff in my pockets and forget about it. Drives Dan mad.’

I’d always done it, squirreled away food in unexpected places. If you’ve never been unsure of what you’re going to do for a next meal, if you’ve never been saving up to leave, you wouldn’t understand. Even years later, with more material comforts than I ever could have imagined for myself, when I get nervous, I start to hide food. Dan never noticed. And I wanted to keep it that way. He already worried enough about me.

Angela seemed to accept my excuse, as ‘scatty confused woman’ was an acceptable reason for anything for me these days, and we walked down the street, arm in arm to the pub.

‘Are you going to practise your surprised face?’ she asked. ‘Or your pleased face?’

‘I don’t need to practise! I’m a master!’ I put my hand up to my mouth and widened my eyes. ‘Oh my god! All this, for me? That’s so lovely!’ I faked a few tears and Angela snorted, nudging me as I dabbed at my eyeliner.

‘Alright, calm down Olivier, I get it. You’re good at pretending to be happy.’

I frowned, ‘Low blow, Ange.’

Angie just shook her head and smiled, the light catching in her hair as she linked arms with me again. I couldn’t help but smile back. My beautiful, unlikely friend.

‘You need me. I am the antidote to your life. The only friend you have who tells you the truth.’

‘You’re the only friend I have, except Dan.’

‘Husbands don’t count.’

‘Mine does,’ I said and she looked pleased with me, like I’d said something she’d been waiting to hear.

I followed Angie into the pub, and of course, suddenly everyone turned around and yelled ‘Happy birthday’ and it was noisy and Dan was in my face, that puppy-dog look of excitement and slight trepidation as he bounced around.

‘Happy birthday! Were you surprised, did you guess?’ He kissed me on the cheek, and I closed my eyes briefly at the comfort, the feel of him grasping my hand. ‘I never manage to surprise you!’

Looking at my husband still takes my breath away sometimes. Those bright blue eyes with the dark lashes. The thick wavy hair run through with the beginnings of grey. He complains, but it only makes him seem more attractive to me. I like seeing him age, seeing signs of the time we’ve spent together, growing up together.

More than that, I love how he always looks happy to see me. I’m never invisible when I’m with Dan.

‘I am surprised! How did you arrange all this?’ I plastered a smile on my face and I could see him searching my features for a giveaway, signs that I was unhappy. He wouldn’t have had to look far. My ideal night would be staying in with a super cheesy pizza, a movie and a five quid bottle of wine. He knew that. But it was clear this was important to him.

Dan handed me a drink and I looked around at the faces in the room. I didn’t know half of these people, and the ones I did know, I didn’t like. Most of them were from Dan’s work; his colleagues and their girlfriends, people we’d hung out with because I’d been told it was good for Dan’s career. Most of them were insensitive knobheads who only cared about money and one-upmanship. If I had to hear about one more person’s holiday chalet or how many of the latest sports cars were made I was going to pull my hair out. Dan said I was a snob about snobs. I just found the excess tiring. All that money and they were still just concerned with what everyone else had.

‘Oi oi birthday girl! You look like you’ve lost the weight then! A bit too much even, maybe? It’s a shame you’ve lost your tits though.’

Case in point: Paul. Possibly the biggest shitstain on humanity I had ever met.

‘Erm, security, I think someone’s let a wanker into my party by mistake!’ I trilled as Paul kissed me roughly on both cheeks. I’d never properly called him out, and he must have been important enough at work that Dan never had, so now I just thinly hid my hatred under a veil of ‘banter’. That seemed to be the way these people did business.

‘What do you think of Danny boy’s party Taz? Let me guess, all a bit too opulent for you? Shall we trade in the sushi bar for a Maccie D’s and a few Bacardi Breezers?’

I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he got there first, that big greasy grin in place.

‘Oh don’t mind me Taz, you know it’s all just banter. You know what it is?’ He clicked his fingers, ‘You remind me of this bird from school, Jemma, and if you gave her a few cigarettes she’d give you a blowie round the back of the bins. Some of the best times of my life.’

I looked over to my husband, disappointed, almost waiting for him to storm in and beat the shit out of Paul. He would have, years ago. Before this job and these people became normal to him. He looked pained, shrugging at me apologetically as he tried to steer me away. But I wouldn’t be led.

‘Sorry, why exactly do I remind you of this bird who sucked you off behind the bins, Paul?’ I could feel myself gear up for a fight, and actually, I was gagging for it. I’d been so good for so long. I’d been kind and understanding and cheerful. The good little wife, like Angie said. I deserved this.

But I supposed punching your husband’s colleague at your birthday party probably wasn’t the best way to show people you were better.

‘Is it that she lived on a council estate? Was she poor, Paul, is that what it was?’ I asked, smile firmly in place, not even blinking. ‘Was she not impressed by your stories of your daddy’s fancy car? Or did she have a constant look on her face like she’d enjoy punching you in the dick?’

Paul hooted, clapping his hands. God, I hated him. ‘Hilarious, Taz, you’re hilarious! Such a riot! Always good for the bants, eh White? You’ve got yourself a handful there. Or you did before she lost her boobs. Bet you’re glad you dodged a bullet with those sleepless nights though, eh mate?’

I heard myself gasp.

Dan just looked at him, stony-faced and I felt my hands shake, wondering which one of us was going to say something. Surely now, surely that was enough to make Dan say something? But no. He glowered, but stayed perfectly still until Paul put up his hands and walked off, muttering.

Even though I was disappointed, I put my arms around Dan and rested my head on his chest. ‘Why is that awful man here?’