I jump out of the cab at the end of Doug’s street. Eleven o’clock. I’m not sure that he’ll be home yet, but I’m happy to sit on the steps outside until he arrives. What does a case of piles matter when you’re rediscovering a past love?
As I reach his doorway, I see that the lights are on. Yes!
I ring the doorbell once, then again after a couple of minutes. I’m just about to press it again when it opens. But it’s not Doug. It’s a stunning, tall, supermodel type, with raven black hair and a wide smile, and only a towel covering her dignity. If this is his cleaner, then she wears a highly unusual uniform and keeps strange hours.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, smiling.
Silence. My teeth have fused together. Then I realise what’s happened. In my state of catatonic bliss, I’ve rung the wrong doorbell.
‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Doug Cook. I must have the wrong house.’
‘No, you haven’t, he’s upstairs. C’mon in.’ She stands back to let me enter, then follows me.
When we reach the lounge, Doug is just coming out of the bedroom, wearing the ‘his’ version of their ‘his & hers’ matching towels. I want to vomit.
‘Carly, this is a surprise. Saskia, this is Callum Cooper’s sister, she’s here to talk about his birthday party,’ he smiles, oozing nonchalance.
What? But… I don’t… Again, what? It takes me a moment before realisation dawns. The bastard! He doesn’t even look shocked. He’s so smooth you could fucking skateboard on him.
‘Carly, this is Saskia.’
‘Nice… nice to meet you.’ I’m stammering, all signals from my brain to my gob being hijacked by sheer disbelief and total fucking fury.
‘You too. I’m just gonna go throw some clothes on, babe,’ she tells Doug, letting her fingers trail across his hips as she sashays past him. I wait until the door closes behind her.
‘You bastard,’ I spit, articulate as ever.
The smug smile on his face tells me that the insult hasn’t even permeated his brain.
Oh, no. Suddenly, I have a flash of understanding.
‘Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, you don’t play football at all, do you?’
‘Nope. Saskia is an air hostess. Those are the nights she’s in town. In saying that, after we’re married, she’s giving up her career. We’re anxious to start a family.’ He’s enjoying every messed-up, tortuous minute of this.
I struggle to stay composed. I will not let this dickhead see me cry.
‘So what was it, Doug? What was all the “love” crap and the “I’m not letting you go again” shit? Was it all some fucked-up game?’
Is there a world record for the number of times that you can swear in one minute? If so, I’m going for it.
He leans back against the wall, still with that lazy smug grin on his face. I want to wipe it off with a brick.
He laughs. ‘What can I say, Carly? You didn’t really believe me, did you? I thought that’s the way people treat each other in your world – they promise everlasting love and affection while they’re shagging someone else.’
So that was it. Good old-fashioned revenge. What’s the penalty for manslaughter these days?
He’s not worth it, though. I dig deep to try and find a shred of dignity. I hold my head up and stare at him. ‘I feel sorry for you, Doug. You’re a sad, sick, pathetic bastard.’
With that, I turn and walk to the door. Please God, don’t let me trip over anything, not when I’m doing the dramatic departure bit. I slam the door for effect, but forget to check that my feet are clear first. Crack! I don’t know if it’s my toes or the door.
I limp to the end of the street (it was my toes) before disintegrating into a hysterical lump. This is all a bad dream.
I hail a taxi and the driver rolls his eyes as I climb in. Just what he needs – a distraught female. Bet he wishes he’d gone off shift early.
Twenty minutes later, I’m in Kate’s kitchen, telling her everything.
Two hours and twenty minutes later, I’m talking gibberish after consuming two bottles of wine in record time, my whole life in the bin with the empty bottles.
When she finally puts me to bed, the combination of exhaustion, grief and half a vineyard has me sleeping in two minutes.
I wake with all the symptoms of a heart attack, and in the depths of my self-pity, I’m disappointed to see that it’s only Cameron and Zoe bouncing on my chest.
‘Auntie Carly, Auntie Carly, Mum says you’ve to get your sorry bum downstairs,’ they giggle, finding the word ‘bum’ highly amusing. They take off squealing, one of them chasing the other along the landing and down the stairs.
I attempt to stand, but someone has put the planet at a ninety degree angle without telling me. I pull on my robe and stagger downstairs like a coma patient in Awakenings.
Kate throws a bacon sandwich in front of me.
‘Right, Cooper, you’re allowed one day of feeling sorry for yourself, then it’s time to snap out of it. Any longer than that and you’ll scare the children.’
I push away the sandwich. There’s only one food for me in times of trauma. I search the freezer but come out empty-handed.
‘Kate, why have you never got ice cream in this house?’
‘Because I’ve got kids. The ice cream’s devoured within ten minutes of leaving the supermarket car park.’
I settle for Ambrosia Devon Custard, straight from the tin. If I’ve only got one day of self-pity, then I’d better get started – there’s still the whole dairy section at Sainsbury’s to get through.
17
Never Ever – All Saints
On Saturday night, I volunteer for babysitting duty and send Bruce and Kate to the pub. I adore Cameron and Zoe, and
