Fionnuala Kearney - You, Me and Other People

‘Before, you know, it took ages … It was only a one-night stand, at least that’s what he swore to me, but it took a long time to rebuild that trust again.’

Caroline is still handing me tissues. ‘Research shows,’ she says, ‘that it takes between one and three years to recover from a breach of loyalty within a marriage, so why do you think he did it again?’

‘Because he could? Because he’s a bastard? I don’t know, are you trying to say that this could be my fault; something I didn’t see?’

‘No, no, of course not, but if you raise the point, is it valid?’

Now, I’m furious. I resist the urge to march out through the door and never come back. But something keeps me here, rooted to the chair, and she at least has the grace to avoid my eyes. Silence.

The fact is, she’s right. There were signs. We weren’t as physically close as usual and he seemed uncommunicative, emotionally detached for months before the night I found out. I ignored it. I can feel my neck colour, feel my part in this whole mess crawl up my face. My defences are now on red alert. Since when has it become my burden to stop my husband dropping his pants?

‘Apparently,’ I break the silence, ‘somewhere between fifty and seventy per cent of married men have an affair at some time, as opposed to between twenty and forty per cent for women? A lot of marriages survive and, of those that don’t, up to eighty per cent of those who divorce over an affair regret their decision.’ I am armed with my own research, compliments of a survey in a trashy magazine.

Caroline nods sagely.

‘So, without going all Mars and Venus on me, why is it, Dr Gothenburg, that men are bigger fuckers, literally?’

A hint of a smile. ‘Well, evolutionary psychology says that men are predisposed to spread their seed but, if we bring evolution into it, historically women would have feared sex more because of the possibility of pregnancy, so maybe they just didn’t indulge as willingly, who knows?’ she finishes, shaking her head.

‘Or maybe they’re just greedy, immature and selfish?’ I say, and we laugh together.

My agent Josh has an office just off Soho Square. He rents first-floor space in a dilapidated old building and insists the building’s more ‘shabby’ and less ‘chic’ appearance is a must for ‘creatives’. He’s asked me in for coffee, which will accompany a good portion of the ‘Now, this is what we’re going to do about your career’ chat. I’m sitting opposite him in his favourite old leather Conran chair. I only know Terence Conran designed it because Josh tells me he did. On the low-slung coffee table in between us is the predictable array of tiny pastries. In my hand is a hot mug of Arabica roast with lashings of frothy milk. In the thirteen years I have known Josh, we have never consumed anything together other than cake and coffee.

He starts the ‘chat’ by bringing me up to speed on the sales of ‘Missing’, which are better than I’d expected. He confirms that two Nashville publishers have options on three other songs. My eyebrows rise: this is all good news, really good news, so I reach for a Danish. Then he tells me about the fact that he’s been approached for me to write a song for a movie. I put the Danish down and listen.

‘It’s all hush-hush for now.’ He taps the end of his nose with his forefinger. ‘But they’re looking at three UK writers and you’re one of them.’

I nod, feeling excited, so I pick up the cake again, allowing myself a small swirly bit. It tastes like sugary paste. I’ve been here before, supposedly shortlisted, presented newly written material, only to be told: maybe next time; not quite what we were looking for.

‘Think “Twilight”,’ Josh adds. He wanders around the office, searching in various different piles of paper for something. Upstairs the sound of a lunchtime soap’s theme music vibrates through the floorboards. ‘Which movie was it? You know, the one with Bella’s wedding to the Dracula guy?’

I smile. ‘Not Dracula, Edward.’

‘Edward, whoever. Anyway that song, the one about him loving her for a thousand years? Or her loving him for a thousand years, whatever.’

I nod my head.

‘Think that!’ He points at me, wagging his finger. ‘Only not that, obviously. We have to be different. And better,’ he adds, handing me a red folder. ‘The script. Page 312 is where the song appears. Make it work?’

I ignore the slight pleading inflection. ‘Right. Love song. Wedding. Make it work.’

He scratches his head. ‘Read the script. It’s not a wedding. It’s a love song. It’s a sort of “I’ve loved you forever, will always love you” love song. But the storyline is a couple who split up, get back together and er …’ He eyeballs me. ‘Well, they get back together and—’

‘Live happily ever after?’ I snort loudly, then sip my cooling coffee. ‘Movies,’ I say. ‘Only in the movies.’

‘Write the song.’ He’s back opposite me, wide-eyed. ‘Please?’

‘I’ll write the song.’

‘Beth, have you talked to Adam yet?’ He refills his own mug from a shiny red machine in the corner.

I don’t look at him. Instead I think about his American accent and the way he says Beth. Coming from Nashville, he’s the only living person I know who can add a twang to a one-syllable word.

‘Beth?’ He’s suddenly standing beside me.

There it is again. I look up. ‘Josh, I really have nothing to say to Adam.’

‘You never did tell me exactly what happened. I mean, how did you know? I mean, I know he had an affair and left and that it’s not the first time, but what actually happened? ’

He says all of this without taking a breath. And I realize I’m holding mine as the memory of the night plays in sepia in my head:

‘Where have you been till now, Adam?’

‘Matt and I worked late on a new pitch, then went for a curry.’

‘You didn’t think to call?’

‘I just didn’t notice the time, Beth, sorry.’

He then undresses in the bathroom. And scrubs his teeth. Not brushes them, scrubs them. Then, he takes a shower.

‘You tired?’ I ask when he gets into bed.

‘Mmmm. Beat.’ He plants a brief kiss on my cheek then turns over. I get up and go to the bathroom. He has pushed his clothes into the end of the linen basket, covered them with other items. I sit on the loo and pull it towards me. His shirt is in my hands. I smell it. Lemons. Citrus perfume. From the doorway, I rub my right hand slowly left to right over the place I know my heart lies beneath my skin. It’s like I’m massaging it, willing it to keep beating. I look at his body, already curled away from my side of the bed.

‘Adam. Who is she?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing much “happened”. I smelt perfume on his clothes, tackled him, he folded and I asked him to leave. End of story.’ I give a gentle shrug.

Josh reaches over, takes my hand, and stares for a long time at my ring-less finger. ‘You’re a songwriter,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That is never the end of the story.’

Home by three, I check the answerphone to find a message from my mother. Hearing her voice makes me sigh. Hearing what she says makes me scrunch my face painfully. ‘Elizabeth! If you do not call me back, I shall be forced to get in my car and drive to see you. I’d prefer not to have to get in my car to drive to see you, but I will.’

I call her back, knowing that if I think about it too much, I’ll never call her. I have no idea what I’m going to say, but I do know it will be laced with lies. I cannot tell her that Adam left me. As it happens, I only have to lie to her answerphone. Giddy fibs trip easily from my tongue as I tell her machine that I’m sorry for not being in touch, that I’ve been busy with an amazing project. I guess I have, really. I’ve been surviving. Ending it with a ‘Let’s meet for lunch?’ comment seems like a good idea.