Who's That Girl? Page 4

  It wasn’t always like this. After a romantically chaotic youth gadding about the capital in the post-university years, she’d settled down by her mid-twenties with her picture perfect soulmate: a difficult, intense, complicated young northern poet and Alain Delon lookalike, called Matt.

  He was the glorious culmination of a reinvention, where messy Edith became Edie, pretty, funny writer girl who was taking life in her stride and London by the scruff.

  Edie had tried to make the relationship as great on the inside as it looked on the outside. They matched. People envied them. She fantasised the wedding, even babies, but increasingly when faced with Matt’s moods, it was obvious to Edie that it was best kept as fantasy.

  After three years of wrestling with difficult, intense and complicated, Edie was thoroughly knackered with the effort of trying to work him out and cheer him up.

  They split, and while Edie was very sad, she was also twenty-nine. She wasn’t short of men hovering at the edges of the fall-out, willing to help pick up her pieces. She assumed that Mr Right was a few dalliances away, over the other side of the horizon of thirty, holding a bunch of flowers.

  Yet somehow, he never happened. Single went from a temporary glitch to a permanent state. There was no one worth falling for. Until Jack. Who she absolutely shouldn’t have fallen for.

  Do we ever choose who we fall for? Edie had many a long lonely evening in with only Netflix for company to contemplate that one.

  Edie often cast her mind back to that first meeting with Jack, at the advertising firm where she was a copywriter. Charlotte was an ambitious account executive and had successfully talked their boss, Richard, into hiring Jack, despite a strict No Partners rule.

  Edie hadn’t given the arrival of Jack Marshall much thought, beyond assuming he’d be another gym-before-work super over-achiever, like Charlotte.

  ‘Edie, this is my boyfriend!’ she had called across the table, late last summer, in the Italian wine bar they piled into every Friday. ‘You’ll love Edie, she’s the office clown.’ A mixed compliment, but Edie took it as one and smiled.

  Over the table, awkwardly pitched half on the pavement and half inside the restaurant, she stood up to shake the tips of Jack’s fingers in lieu of his hand. She’d later marvel at her total indifference at the time. Jack looked prima facie Charlotte business, with his sharp suit, sandy hair and slim build, and Edie returned to her conversation.

  In the weeks afterwards, Edie caught Jack throwing the odd stray glance her way, and assumed he was simply getting the measure of his new workplace. Charlotte was a willowy goddess of the southern counties, it seemed unlikely he was admiring a Midlander who covered her greys with L’Oreal Liquorice and dressed like Velma from Scooby Doo.

  One lunchtime, she was reading a Jon Ronson book and eating an apple at her desk and she caught Jack staring at her. She would’ve blushed, but Jack said quickly: ‘You frown really hard when you read, did you know that?’

  ‘Elvis used to slap Priscilla Presley when she frowned,’ Edie said.

  ‘What? Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. He didn’t want her getting lines.’

  ‘Wow. What an arsehole. I’m giving away my copy of Live in Vegas now. You don’t need to worry, though.’

  ‘You’re not going to slap me?’ Edie grinned.

  ‘Hahahaha! No. No lines.’

  Edie nodded and mumbled thanks and went back to her book. Had she been flirted with? She doubted it. But not long after, a passing client, Olly the wine merchant, had paid Edie particular attention, and again, she felt Jack’s gaze.

  ‘My little Edie! How are you?’ Olly said, clearly kippered by the lunchtime intake. ‘What a delightful blouse. You remind me terribly of my daughter, you know. Doesn’t she? Richard? The image of Vanessa.’

  Her boss, Richard, hem-hawed the sort of agreement you gave someone who you had to agree with, for money.

  Edie thanked him and hoped everyone else in the office knew she did nothing to invite his whisky-breathed attentions.

  As Richard guided him away from her desk, her G-chat popped up on her screen. Jack.

  ‘Young lady, may I tell you, in a completely platonic way, how much I’d like to have sex with you?’

  Edie boggled and then noticed the inverted commas. She almost guffawed out loud. Then, gratified, typed back:

  Ahem, Olly’s a valued client. He’s family … *like the Wests were family* *seasick face*

  Without knowing it, she was sunk. She had picked up the baton from Jack. The journey to ruin starts with a single step.

  Jack

  The only thing worse than his pick-up patter is his wine. Have you tried the Pinot Grigio? BLETCH

  Edie

  I think you’ll find my copy describes it as having a tingle of green plum acidity and a long melony finish, perfect for long afternoons in gardens that turn into evenings

  Jack

  Translation: a park-bench session wine, aromas of Listerine mixed with asparagus wee

  Edie

  The bouquet could be described as ‘insistent’.

  Jack

  I’ve actually looked it up for the lols. ‘A fruit forward blend of ripe, zesty flavours. Will transport you to Italian vineyards.’ Will transport you to A&E, more like.

  If this sort of instant familiarity had come from a single male colleague, Edie would have treated it as clear flirting. Obviously. But Jack was Charlotte’s boyfriend and she was sat right there, though, so this couldn’t be flirting. It was G-chat, but not a G-chat-up.

  They became messaging mates. Most mornings, Jack found some witticism to kick things off. He was catnip to someone with Edie’s quick wit, and he seemed entranced by her. He had an easy self-confidence, and ran on dryly humorous remarks and giant Americanos.

  In the boredom of office life, the ping of a new message from Jack on her screen became inextricably associated with pleasure and reward. Edie was like a lab rat in a scientific experiment, pressing a lever that gave her a nut. To follow the analogy, sooner or later it’d give her an electric shock, and she’d prove the mechanics of addiction by keeping on pressing for another nut.

  It was all a bit of fun.

  Even when the conversation naturally strayed into slightly more serious, personal topics. Amid the anecdotes, the casual intimacy and larks, she found herself telling him things she hadn’t told anyone in London.

  Edie found her spirits dip at home time on a Friday – a funny reversal – realising there’d be no more ‘special chemistry’ chatter until Monday.

  Eventually, there were text-jokes from Jack at the weekend – saw this, thought of you – and favouriting of her tweets, and explosively she’d even occasionally get the notification he’d Liked an old photo of hers, buried in the archives on Facebook. Truly, the footprint on the windowsill of social media courting.

  Jack would sometimes say in front of Charlotte, during the Friday night drinks, that he’d shamelessly distracted Edie at work. Charlotte tutted and chided Jack and apologised to Edie – and then Edie definitely felt a whisper of guilt.

  But, why? For conversation that Jack was openly acknowledging in front of his girlfriend that he instigated? If it was anything untoward, it’d be secret, right?

  There was enough plausible deniability to park a bus.

  7

  What Charlotte didn’t know, and Edie didn’t admit to herself, was that the devil was in the detail.

  It was unlikely Charlotte would be blasé if she knew Jack got joke-or-is-it? jealous whenever Edie had been out on a date. ‘Oh my word, just imagining the stress of you as a girlfriend though …’ Jack would say. ‘Getting you to tone down the potty mouth when you meet the parents. You bringing them a gift of black pudding sausage.’

  They both imagined this intangible ideal and happy-sighed and laughed, Edie pretending to be outraged by his ongoing teasing about her supposed northernness, when in fact it was thrilling he was contemplating her as his other half. There was such a tenderness t
o it.

  Jack played the role of a best friend, confidante and, well, sort-of boyfriend. And she wanted him to.

  Eventually, Edie realised she’d crossed an invisible line, without ever intending to. This mistake wasn’t one big decision, it was a series of smaller, unwitting choices.

  She was never going to act as long as he was with Charlotte, though, so what did it matter? A crush added a sparkle to your day, it was a calorie-free, non-carcinogenic, cost-free joy.

  Only, she found out it did have a cost, some four months after Jack first G-chatted her.

  Jack hadn’t wanted a mortgage, and definitely not in commutersville. One lunch time, Charlotte popped a bottle of Moët and handed round fizzing plastic cups. ‘We’ve completed on our house!’

  What? Jack never said? And he and Edie shared, well, pretty much everything, she thought.

  It felt like a betrayal. She’d had, as her friend Hannah liked to say, her world view bitch-slapped by reality.

  She messaged, as soon as Jack was back in his seat: ‘Didn’t see this coming?’

  Ack, I know right! She wore me down & got her way in the end. Hold me and tell me it’s going to be OK, E.T. x

  That was it? That was all she was going to get?

  Edie’s strength of feeling over this development knocked her for six. She could have it out with Jack, push him on why he’d not mentioned it, but then, it wasn’t her business. It was prying into his life with Charlotte and implying she was owed personal information. It was distinctly not cool. She’d argue with herself: Well, you go on dates? Can he not buy property with girlfriends?

  But it forced Edie to take a hard look at how her hopes had been building, quietly and unobtrusively, even to her.

  She resolved to avoid banter, and for a while, he kept his distance too. But after a short time had passed, and he reappeared on G-chat as sparky as ever, it was difficult to change gears, without it being a giveaway. She had to play it off as business as usual, or the jig was up.

  Something that began so lightly was now the cause of much fretting for Edie. She spent evenings scrolling through Jack’s emails and texts, looking for proof of his reciprocal feelings for her. ‘X’ marks the spot.

  Jack was also once again saying that Charlotte wanted things he didn’t: weddings, babies. Wood-burning stoves and 4x4s.

  Edie now avoided talking about all this, and yet equally avoided what it told her about him. Refusing to look at the great big health and safety warning sign, saying: DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT. HAZARDOUS MATERIALS. MANAGEMENT ACCEPT NO LIABILITY.

  It dawned on Edie that he didn’t tell Charlotte about their chatting because he thought it was innocent. He told Charlotte because he was an accomplished liar, and those liars hid in plain sight.

  There was only one person to take this to. Her best mate, Hannah, who inconsiderately lived in Edinburgh.

  Edie bucketed it all out by last orders in a nice old man’s type boozer on the Royal Mile on a bank holiday trip to the far north.

  ‘You know,’ Edie said, trying desperately to wear it lightly, ‘I might be better with it if I understood him and Charlotte. They’re so different.’

  Hannah shook her head, dismissively.

  ‘Selfish jokers always like a woman who runs the show. They have a basic respect for finances and efficiency. If not fidelity.’

  This had the CLANG of ugly truth.

  ‘Take it as a sign you don’t know him as well as you think you do, not that she’s wrong for him,’ Hannah said, adjusting her poker-straight brown hair in its top knot.

  This sort of common sense wasn’t what Edie wanted to hear. She wanted to be told Jack was fatally in love with her and hadn’t found the courage to tell her.

  ‘This wasn’t your idea, you know,’ Hannah said, picking at peanuts in the ripped-open packet between them. ‘You didn’t want to end up here. He’s been messing with you and he doesn’t care if you get hurt, as long as he gets his entertainment. The butterflies and rollercoasters that you don’t get when you’re settled. And you’re friendly and obliging; some blokes take advantage of that openness.’

  Edie knew the word she wasn’t using that also applied. Needy. He exploited a neediness she’d not admitted to herself she had. Needy Edie.

  Hannah had been with lovely dependable Pete since university, though, Edie thought. Perhaps she doesn’t understand what a complicated jungle it is out here.

  ‘Does he even know I’ve been hurt by it, though? Maybe he doesn’t know I care,’ Edie said.

  Hannah shook her head.

  ‘He knows. If he didn’t know, why keep things that didn’t help, from you? Why not say, by the way what’s your views on this place on RightMove we’re seeing on Saturday?’

  Edie nodded, morose. ‘Don’t laugh at me. But could he be confused about his feelings?’

  ‘He’s not so confused he can’t co-sign mortgage papers. Bottom line. If he wanted to be with you, he’d be with you. However infatuated he is, he doesn’t want to be with you enough to do anything about it.’

  Hannah had special dispensation to be brutal, because she was a surgeon (kidneys) and when she’d had a bad day, someone had died. ‘I lost someone on the table,’ was a phrase that kicked Edie’s complaints into touch.

  Edie couldn’t find any way out of this last logical point. Her lip went wobbly.

  ‘Fuck, Hannah, he’s broken me. I feel as if there’s no one else in the world who will ever be right for me, if I can’t have him. And I’m thirty-five. I’m probably right.’

  Hannah put her hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Edith,’ – school friends didn’t hold with her ‘Edie’ revisionism – ‘he was not right for you. If he’s treating his girlfriend like shit by doing this, if you ended up together, he’d treat you like shit too. That is an eternal truth, and you know it.’

  Edie couldn’t allow this to be true, even though she knew it couldn’t be truer than Darwin being right about the ape thing.

  She whimpered that maybe he didn’t want to hurt Charlotte.

  ‘Haha!’ Hannah said. ‘Oh wait, you’re serious?’

  ‘Also,’ Edie said, knowing she was truly rummaging at the bottom of the Christmas stocking with this one, with the unshelled Brazil nuts you could never find a nutcracker to open, ‘he once said that I’m unpindownable and intimidating, I’ve been independent for so long. Perhaps he thinks I’d be a risk …’

  ‘Oh yeah, so hard to catch that you’re sat in another country crying about him over your weekends! Exactly the sort of thing that manipulative bullshitters say,’ Hannah said. ‘Ugh. Sorry, I really don’t like him, Edith.’

  Edie sort-of agreed and yet thought if Hannah met Jack and was exposed to the full force of his charm, she’d understand. And that perhaps Edie shouldn’t have said so much, because now if Hannah and Jack ever met she’d have to do some serious repair work on his image. This was such a triumph of hope over rationality, she wondered if he’d made her loopy.

  So, all things considered, Edie should’ve seen the engagement coming.

  Yet the Friday when Edie spied Charlotte pink-cheeked with excitement, fingers of her left hand clasped by a cooing secretary – it was like someone had put a fish hook in her stomach, attached it to a flatbed truck and accelerated away.

  Edie pretended not to have seen, and slipped out to a client meeting, which she didn’t return from. She got a text later that night.

  Hey you. Where were you today? Didn’t see you in Luigis’s after work? And yeah so I’m getting married, what’s up with that? Gulp. Are we growing up? Please tell me we aren’t … I’m not ready for the La-Z-Boy recliner yet, E.T. Jx

  She threw her phone across the room, drank three-quarters of a bottle of gin and danced around so loudly to Kelis’s ‘Caught Out There’ that the couple downstairs complained.

  It was in many ways worse than if she and Jack had a full- blown physical affair. That infidelity was incontrovertible; making fury and hurt legitimate. An
emotional affair required two people to agree it had taken place, even while one person lay in tatters. Her dad once told her about ‘quantum superposition’ which seemed to boil down to something both existing and not existing at the same time. This, to Edie, summed up her and Jack.

  She couldn’t complain. She should never have got entangled with someone who was with someone else.

  It was like trying to go to the police to report that you’d had a knife pulled on you during a drug deal.

  8

  The problem with waking up after a day like yesterday, Edie discovered, were those few seconds of freedom before you remembered what had happened. A psychological prison break where you didn’t make it to the perimeter fence.

  She had finally passed out in twitchy exhaustion around four a.m., roused by the alarm on her phone at five. For a split second, she couldn’t remember where she was, why she was looking at a flowery bed canopy or why she was so tired and wrung out. When it all came rushing back, it was almost as bad as realising her fate the first time round.

  Edie jumped up and ran to the bathroom, dragged a flannel across her puffy eyes, threw make-up in the general direction of her face. She pushed every possession into her trolley case, swallowed hard and squared her shoulders. None of this should be happening. She should be sleeping off the previous night’s consumption, and later sharing a full English with other hungover refugees from the stop-when-you-drop service of a hotel bar. Instead, this.

  In the pin-drop quiet deserted dawn on a Sunday, her heart was pulsing, ker-thunk ker-thunk.

  Any traces of sleepiness from her grotty hour’s rest were chased away by the gigantic adrenaline surge as she turned the lock to open her door. She half expected to find a crowd of snoring people with outstretched legs, weaponry like unplugged irons in their hands, a boobytrap tripwire at her feet.