A Question of Love (17 page)

It was strange being left alone in Luke’s house. As I picked up my discarded shirt, I noticed a photo of his parents looking much the same as I remembered them, and of his sister, Kim, who’d gone to live in Australia, and one of Rocky, his old dog. The wardrobe door was hanging open so I went to close it and, as I did so, I peeped inside. There were Luke’s jackets—mostly casual, but three smart ones, presumably from his Christie’s days. Next to them were his shirts, subtly striped and finely checked, and one Liberty print one. They’ve recently become fashionable with men. I could imagine Luke looking good in it. It was that classic art nouveau pattern in turquoise and red. I pulled it out but, as I did so, I saw that it wasn’t a man’s shirt at all. It was a woman’s. I felt as though acid had been spilt on my chest.

Next to it, I now saw, was a black, heavy satin vintage cocktail dress, and hanging alongside that was a velvet jacket—size eight—and, next to that, a pale green silk dress,forties-style, with a lily-of-the-valley print. Then I looked on the wardrobe floor. There were three pairs of high-heeled shoes. She had tiny feet. I found myself resenting her as much for this as for the fact that, almost a year after she’d left him, Magda’s things still hung alongside Luke’s. I suppressed the urge to rip them off their hangers and stuff them into bin liners. But I couldn’t resist the masochistic temptation to look for further evidence of her. It was all too easy to find.

On the mantelpiece, in the china bowl in which he kept his cufflinks were two pairs of crystal earrings, a big diamante brooch, some sparkly hair clips and a string of pearls. On the shelf beside the bed was
Bridget Jones’s Diary
; a Hungarian-English dictionary, and
The Handbook of Goat Care and Health
. In the bottom of the chest of drawers I found two silk nighties, a hydra of tights and, to my dismay, several pairs of lacy black knickers. In the bedside table on what must have been ‘her’ side, were a silver watch, a hairbrush, a bottle of sea green nail polish and a small leather purse. Everywhere I looked I saw this residue of Magda—a glistening snail-trail of her personal effects.

I sank on to the bed, heart pounding, nausea rising in my throat. Why were so many of her things still here—let alone such intimate ones? Were she and Luke
still…
? I breathed deeply, forcing myself to think rationally. Then I drew back the curtains. By now the sky was a flawless blue. The answer had to be no. Because if they
were
, that would mean their relationship was fine, in which case they’d still be living together, which is what Luke had wanted, because of Jess—in which case he would
not
be pursuing me.

‘She
left
him, she lives
elsewhere
, she’s with someone
else
,’ I said firmly. Even so, I felt confused and distressed. But then, as I stepped into my skirt, I saw something that surprised and consoled me. Sitting on a chair by the window was Wilkie, my old bear. I picked him up and held him, inhaling his musty aroma. His suede-covered paws were shiny with wear, and the green jumper my mother had knitted for him when I was five was badly frayed, but he was otherwise in fairly good shape. I’d given him to Luke when he was recovering from appendicitis because I’d wanted him to have something of mine that I’d loved. He’d kept him all these years, and he’d clearly cherished him. Calmer now, I let myself out.

My equanimity was to be short-lived.

‘Hi Tom,’ I said when I got in to work a couple of hours later. He was engrossed in the newspaper. ‘Morning Tom,’ I tried again. He seemed unable to hear me. ‘Can you hear me, Major Tom?’

‘Oh. Laura…er…sorry.’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘Sorry.’

‘Anything up?’

‘Well…’ He looked
very
uncomfortable, I now realized. So, it seemed to me, did Dylan and Sara, who seemed to be slinking away. And Nerys had given me a peculiar look when I arrived, but I wondered whether that might have been because, being a shrewd old bird, she’d detected my postcoital glow.

Tom put the paper down, then ran his left hand through his hair. ‘I’m afraid there’s something in here you’re not going to like.’ He handed me the paper. The
Incognito
gossip column was dominated by a large photo of me—taken yesterday I realized—walking up Portobello, looking distracted.

QUICK TEMPER
it was captioned.

‘Wh-at?’

Laura Quick, the host of Channel 4’s quirky new quiz, Whadda Ya Know?!!, may have cut the mustard when she made her TV debut last week, but at a party in Notting Hill over the weekend fellow guests were said to be ‘appalled’ by the Clever Clogs’ not so brilliant behaviour. She was ‘drunk and obnoxious’ said one party-goer. Quick allegedly has personal problems—her husband, charity supremo, Nick Little, went out to buy a pint of milk three years ago, and decided not to come back. Is it any surprise, Incognito can’t help wondering…

I felt as though I’d fallen down a mineshaft.

‘This is terrible,’ I croaked. I closed my eyes, breathed in, then looked imploringly at Tom. ‘It’s just…terrible—and they’ve completely twisted it.’

‘I thought they must have done—but what actually happened?’ I told him. ‘So this Scroggins is obviously both the source and the unnamed “party-goer”.’

‘Yes—it’s Scrivens all right—but it’s
trash.
‘ I snapped through to the City pages: there he was—complete with hideous photo-byline. ‘He probably wrote it himself.’ Now I thought, with horror, of all the people I knew who might read it. ‘I want you to sue the
Post
, Tom,’ I said impotently.

‘Well, it wouldn’t be Trident who sued them, Laura, it would have to be you. And it would be hard to prove defamation given that, by your own admission, you did have too much to drink, didn’t you?’

‘I was just merry—it was a family christening—and of course my behaviour wasn’t “obnoxious”. It was just unfortunate that my admittedly unflattering remarks about Scrivens were overheard on the bloody baby monitor. I unwittingly insulted him and here’s his revenge.’ Tears sprang to my eyes. ‘Hope
said
he was a shit and she was
right
! But a million people will read this, Tom. And some of them will believe it.’

‘If it makes you happy I’ll ring the Channel Four lawyers,’ he replied quietly. ‘But I know what they’ll say. It’s tough, Laura, but you’ll just have to take it on the chin. You’ll also have to be more careful because the show’s sparked a
lot
of interest—so what you do or say could get in the press. And you won’t have much redress, because the papers will be able to claim that you’re a public figure now.’

I laid my head on the desk. My morning had started blissfully but, from the moment Magda had rung, it had gone crashing downhill—as though her phone call had cursed my day.

‘This is a disaster,’ I moaned. ‘Everyone I know will have seen it. I’m just…
cringing.’

‘People will forget,’ Tom said soothingly. ‘I know, because, well, I’ve been there myself you may remember.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said vaguely, though I didn’t feel I should say any more.

‘And let’s face it,’ he went on, “TV presenter drinks too much at party” is hardly an interesting story, is it?’

I pushed myself up. ‘No. But the fact that said TV presenter’s husband has been missing for three years ago
is
an interesting one.’

‘Well…yes,’ said Tom regretfully. ‘I’m afraid
that
is.’

‘How
could
you?’ I said to Felicity five minutes later. I’d gone up to the boardroom to berate her in private. ‘It was bad enough that you invited that creep to the christening, but why the hell did you have to tell him about
Nick
?’

‘I’m sorry,’ she whined. ‘I had no
idea
he worked for a newspaper.’

‘Even if he didn’t, you had no right to discuss my private affairs with him—or with anyone. I
told
you it was essential to be discreet, but you blabbed. You even told him that Nick had gone out to buy a pint of milk—what a delicious little detail! I was hoping it wasn’t all going to be dragged up—or at least not for ages, until I could perhaps cope with it. But now, thanks to my own
sister,
it’s right
out
there, on Day
One
, in black and white!’

‘I’m
sorry
,’ she wailed. ‘I was trying to make him feel sympathetic towards you.’ I rolled my eyes. I could just imagine Felicity laying it on about how I’d been ‘cruelly abandoned’ by my ‘cowardly husband’ who’d just ‘run off’. She’d never pulled her punches about Nick, and after he’d ‘gone walkabout’ as Mum tactfully puts it, she’d really had it in for him. ‘I’m
sorry
,’ she repeated. ‘I was only trying to help.’

‘You’ve done the opposite.’

I put the phone down feeling slightly better for having at least vented my indignation. As I passed Tom’s office I noticed that his casement window was wide open and that the breeze was lifting his papers off the windowsill, sending them flying. I went in and closed it, then picked up the bits of script and correspondence that lay scattered about the threadbare carpet. Beneath a letter from the bank was Tom’s Valentine card. It was a cute, rather than a romantic, one, depicting a large teddy bear clutching a red satin heart. With a guilty pang I looked inside, unable to resist a quick peek.

To Tom with lots of love from…
The writing was deliberately childish—and there was a string of hugs and kisses after the signature which was, teasingly, just legible—
S…a…m.
So he was seeing someone called Sam…Samantha. I left the card there as I didn’t want Tom to think I’d been snooping.

As I went downstairs I found myself wondering who Samantha was, and what she looked like, and what she did, and if she was like Samantha in
Sex and the City
and whether he made a habit of asking
her
‘very serious’ questions
;
I also wondered how he’d met her, and how long they’d been together, and what they had in common, and then I realized, with relief, that this train of thought had distracted me from the horror of the
Incognito
piece. In any case I knew I’d have to put it from my mind because today was a recording day. But when I got to the studio I saw that one member of the audience was holding a copy of the
Post
. Just seeing it made me feel sick. I was convinced that he’d read the offending article out loud to everyone and that they’d all been sniggering about it.

‘They were giving me funny looks,’ I confided to Marian as she did my make-up. ‘A few of them were waiting in reception when I arrived, and they were all looking at me in this shifty way.’

‘They were only doing that because you’re the presenter and they were curious,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s no need to be paranoid because of one silly little piece in a cheap newspaper. Just forget it, and put on a good show.’

Somehow, I managed to do so, although my concentration was shot to pieces. I felt hot with indignation and shame. I dropped my question cards at one point because I was so distracted—they just flew out of my hands. To my relief, the winning contestant didn’t want to Turn the Tables—I didn’t think I’d have coped—and, at the post-show party no-one mentioned the piece. My anxiety began to recede.

‘Tom’s right. People will forget,’ I said to myself firmly as I got the taxi back to the office. ‘It’s tomorrow’s chip wrappings.’ But when I arrived Nerys told me that she had fielded no less than eight interview requests from the manufacturers of rival chip wrappings.

‘They seem desperate to talk to you.’

‘About what?’

‘Well…about…your husband.’ I felt sick. Look what that
Incognito
column had stirred up! This was just what I’d hoped to
avoid
. ‘They all said they want you to “open your heart” about your, what was it…?’ Nerys looked at her notebook. ‘Oh yes—’ she fiddled with her locket—‘“Secret Heartbreak”.’

‘Oh
shit
. And who are “they”?’

She peered over her glasses at her list. ‘The
Daily News
, the
Daily Post
, the
Daily Mirror
, the
Daily Star
, the
Daily Mail
, the
Daily Express
…’

‘The Daily Muck and the Daily Filth. I’m not talking to any of them,’ I said. ‘Why
should
I, just so they can sell more copies of their tabloid rags?’ I silently cursed Felicity again.

‘I’d do it if
I
were you,’ Nerys said matter-of-factly as she took off her glasses.

‘Why? I don’t have to.’

‘No, but if you
don’t,
they’ll never leave you alone.’ Annoying woman—always prescribing.

‘Thank you for your advice, Nerys,’ I said coldly. ‘But if I
don’t
talk to them, then they don’t have a story, do they? In my view, silence is golden.’

She shrugged. ‘Up to you. But in
my
view you’re making a mistake.’ Blasted woman, sticking her oar in, as usual. ‘Good afternoon. Trident Tee-
veee
. Tom O’Brien? Certainly…putting you
thro-ugh
…’

‘At least the photo’s nice,’ Luke said consolingly when he phoned me at five.

‘Although it gives me the creeps to think it was taken without my knowledge.’ I imagined the camera trained on me, from a distance, like a sniper’s rifle. ‘And the piece was a farrago of lies and spite.’

‘Well you’ve had loads of good publicity, so one nasty bit is hardly going to matter is it? Anyway, when can I see you again?’ My mood instantly lifted. ‘How about tomorrow? Why don’t you come round and I’ll cook supper.’

‘Tomorrow would be fine—but do you mind if we watch the show? I’m not being vain—it’s just part of the job.’

He said he didn’t mind at all—he loves quizzes, whether or not presented by me…

‘I enjoy releasing my inner nerd,’ he explained as he turned on the TV the following night. ‘And when’s the one I was in being screened? I mustn’t miss it.’