Ros was woken by Issy drawing back the curtains.
“Jesus, Iss.”
“It’s midday.”
“So?”
“We’re hungry.”
She buried her face in the pillow. A tinny, iPhone rendition of Private Dancer filled the air. Issy chucked Ros’ phone on the bed and walked out. Someone had put it on last night, too. She’d danced cheek to cheek with Scott until over his shoulder she’d caught Clare’s eye like a warning, so she’d clung onto her instead and they’d swayed between tables, Scott watching from the bar. Diane hadn’t come with them to the pub, thank God. She’d left the theatre with a wave and a see you all tomorrow night. Come for seven. Bring a dish.
She tried opening her eyes. What to wear, that was the question. What to wear to the after party, and how to tell Tessa that her marriage was over. She turned off Tina Turner and checked her messages; one from Clare, you still standing? They’d played that as well, Clare with her fists in the air, Brian stomping about like a demented soldier. She texted just, stumbled to the bathroom, and turned on the ancient shower that a 1960’s renovation had arranged badly. A circular rail like a Star Trek prop, a grey plastic shower curtain; she stripped off her Calvin Kline leggings and t-shirt. The slope of the claw footed bath made standing directly under the stream impossible. With one foot flat against the end, she remembered for the millionth time that she needed to descale the rose, half the shoots shot water sideways. He’d said to her in a stolen moment, both of them smoking outside, there’s never a right time. If I’d walked while she was in, I’m a bastard. If I walk now, I’m a double bastard and if I wait till she gets better she gets Fred. She couldn’t quite remember what she’d said in return but it was something like I’ll wait for you before Brian had come reeling out to join them. She’d staggered inside and draped her arms around Clare. Good old Clare. So dependable. So timid. So fucking nice. All night she’d wanted to shout pick a fucking side but instead she’d listened to her go on about how much Tessa needed her friends.
She felt sorry for Tess, but not that sorry. It had been one long bitch from the moment she’d met her, nothing but complaints, Scott doesn’t do this, Scott doesn’t care about that; Ros scrubbed her armpits with a flannel. Poor Tess, that’s what everyone will say. Poor Tess. Shampoo streamed down her face. What about poor Ros? It wasn’t as if she’d pushed him. She’d been to hell and back, and how was she to know she’d meet her soulmate in the yellow painted confines of West Sussex? She was only sorry she and Tess had become friends, she felt bad about that, if she’d known she’d have kept well away.
Clare drew up outside Ros’ house as promised at six. Always the good girl, never late, never letting anyone down. Just once she’d like to be like Ros and have people say did you see? Last night Barbara had said did you see the way she rubbed herself on him as if the real show was in the pub, not the stage they’d just left. It’s not right, Barbara had added and gone off to find her coat as if sharing the scene had infected her. Clare slid the tray of vol au vents from the front seat and rescued the two bowls of potato salad from the boot. Her head hurt. And her heart. She didn’t mind making Ros’ food contribution, but she did mind never being allowed to touch her the way she wanted to; not as a prop for Ros’s arms, not what would I do without you slurred into her ear as Private Dancer faded into Come on Eileen. She nudged the unlatched front door with her shoulder and edged sideways into Ros’s kitchen, the cling film crinkling at her fingertips. Crosby and Nash jumped up to greet her, tails wagging. She dumped the food on the kitchen counter and patted their heads in turn.
“This is the last thing I feel like doing.”
“Eating?” Ros stood at the small mirror that hung by the scullery door. She fixed her earrings; long, gold, dangly, a cupid firing an arrow.
“Going out.”
“It’s not really out.”
“Well it’s not in, is it. I’d rather be in my pyjamas. How are you?”
“Like a pig shat in my mouth.”
Clare laughed. She’d introduced her to Withnail and I one night huddled on her sofa while Nancy and Molly were off doing their Duke of Edinburgh and Issy was on a sleepover with a friend. A bottle of Shiraz, a bowl of popcorn, and Clare’s ancient DVD player. Clare had quoted all the way through, a rare moment of triumph, but Ros had fallen asleep before Withnail’s final speech and Clare had cried alone. “You look great. I love those jeans on you.”
Skinny jeans, a black t-shirt emblazoned with a ragged Iggy Pop barely covering her midriff, cowboy boots, a tattered corduroy jacket, her hair tousled as if glamour had alighted in their parochial community and didn’t want to show them up.
“You got home alright?”
“Looks like it.”
“Didn’t look like it last night.” Clare remembered Brian bashing into a table and breaking three glasses. She remembered the bar staff calling time and falling out into the cold night air.
Ros disappeared into the little cloakroom that was always freezing. The dogs looked up from their beds, assuming food. Clare listened to the sound of Ros peeing. She peeled back an edge of clingfilm and ate a potato. Ros and Scott arguing over who was more over the limit. Ros and Scott ignoring offers of a lift, Ros and Scott saying we’re fine in some sort of unison that made Clare sweat. None of it was fine. Clare felt like she was the only one who could see it coming.
The clank of an ancient flush, and Ros reappeared, zipping up her jeans. She leaned in the doorway. “I tried to tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
But at that minute, Issy appeared in a pair of Doc Martins followed by Molly in maroon silk that trailed beads and netting to the floor.
“That’s my dress,” said Ros.
“Issy stole my boots,” said Molly.
“You’ll freeze,” said Ros.
“You never wear them,” said Issy.
“I’m sick of you stealing my things,” said Ros and Molly together.
The Rectory shone with warmth and light. Freddy ran in, Scott grabbed the cocktail sausages. Tessa had been tasked with a quiche but the walk into town had defeated her, and they’d had to raid the freezer. She watched her husband and son be swallowed by the house, saw Ros flit into view through the kitchen window, Scott reappear holding out the frozen multipack, both of them laugh.
The roar of the party, men in red trousers, their shirts undone one button too many, women in dresses that had looked good in the shop, Diane hurtling about with napkins, Peter pouring wine, the crowd of amateur-dramateurs congratulating each other on doing nothing more testing than wearing costumes and forgetting their lines, screeches of darling and re-enactments of scenes Tessa couldn’t care less about, in-jokes and back slapping, Freddy had already got bored and gone off to find the teenagers smoking stolen cigarettes in the garden. Tessa had half a mind to follow him. She’d exhausted her what did you think of the show and what are you doing for Christmas, and if one more person told her how great Scott was, she pushed her way to the drinks table and held out her glass to Peter.
Three cocktails and half a whisky later, she was more than ready to leave Peter and Diane’s lovely sitting room, with its outsize sofas upholstered in cream, its Persian rug that half of Sussex knew Diane had inherited from her grandfather. The fire dancing in the open hearth, the heavy black firedogs growling, no broken lights or cheap art here, the walls lit softly by Venetian half-chandeliers, an invisible spotlight on an antique woven jacket from Tibet framed in glass, another on the black and white photograph of Diane before she’d put on weight and scarves.
Charles, Charles, there it was again, driving her mad, Ros gyrating, draping herself all over him. Tessa watched from the window seat, hidden by the backs of others, the woman who used to be her friend pull Scott up to dance. She’d greeted her as if they still were, as if Tessa’s reality was insane. It was crazy making. It had made Tessa doubt until she’d settled in the window seat to watch. And there it was, the truth while she’d been shut in Mercury Ward, the same old performance only this time, there’d been no Tessy, I love you or don’t be mad, woman, you’re the only one I want. There’d been silence, and anger, and if it happens again, I’m leaving you.
Barbara bumped through the crowd, but Tessa avoided her eye. She saw Ros and Scott flop onto the sofa, Clare straddle the fat arm beside them, all three chink glasses; how could anyone find her attractive? Clare pretending she wasn’t in love, Scott pretending he could have female friends, Ros pretending to have this terrifying life sewn up - the sound of breaking glass brought more screams of laughter, and Clare holding aloft the stem of a smashed glass, wine dripping down her wrist. Tessa followed her to the kitchen. The sink was filled with suds, dirty plates piled haphazardly. Tessa dipped her hand looking for a cloth and came up bleeding. Clare looked at the broken wine glass in her hand as if somehow she’d done it.
“Knife,” said Tessa, she’d felt the slice one of Peter’s carving set chucked in, invisibly. Clare wrapped the broken stem in kitchen roll, and gave another to Tessa as Diane swept in, a dustpan of shards held out before her.
“Absolute chaos. And now you?” she saw Tessa’s finger. “Plasters in the drawer. Do you need antiseptic?”
Only for Ros, thought Tessa.
She returned to the sitting room. Scott was deep in the sofa, Ros on his knee, she wasn’t sure when she’d reached into the sink again, if she’d only been thinking it was dangerous to leave a knife hidden in suds. When Scott saw her coming he pushed Ros up as if she was a shield against the point, it wouldn’t have met that midriff if he hadn’t shoved. But it did.
“What the fuck” Ros stopped laughing. Her face drained of colour. It was only a moment, a pierce, a pin prick. “Ow.” She looked down. They all did. Scott scrambled to his feet.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” Tessa’s hand shook.
The party grew quiet, everyone watched as a swell of red breached the dam of Ros’ fingers and dripped onto the Persian rug. Ros lifted a bloody palm as if to believe it was true. The point of the knife was stained, but only the point, she was lucky it hadn’t been Peter’s serrated Damascus. The room emptied, coats were put on hurriedly, guests left like rats. Clare came in with Freddy.
“Give it to me.” Scott wasn’t laughing anymore either.
Ros said, “I think we should tell her.”
Tessa said, “Tell me what?”
A piece of cotton wool pressed into her hand by Diane, Ros stood wavering at the sofa. “Scott? We have to tell her. Don’t leave it all to me.”
Peter gently took the knife from Tessa’s hands. Scott patted his pockets, checking for cigarettes, keys. Diane put her hand on Ros’ shoulder, but Ros threw it away, lost her balance and from the depths of the sofa said, “We’re having an affair. I’m sorry.”
“Oh Jesus,” said Peter.
“I fucking knew it,” cried Tessa.
Clare covered Freddy’s ears.
Scott lifted both hands as if to stop traffic. “Tess, I’ve no fucking idea what she’s talking about.”
“I fucking knew it,” said Tessa again.
“You’ve no fucking idea?” said Ros.
“Too much to drink.” Said Scott.
“Was it her that moved the cutlery drawer?” said Tessa, and Peter laughed, and Diane told him to shush.
“If you’re talking about baby-sitting Fred, she came round a few times, cooked supper, didn’t she Fred?”
“Don’t bring him into it,” said Tessa.
“We kissed,” said Ros.
Everyone looked at Scott. His mouth moved but nothing came out of it.
“Did you kiss her?” said Tessa.
“On stage, I did. On fucking stage. Jesus.”
“Scott,” Ros tried to get up. “I can’t believe you’re -”
Scott backed away. “Seriously, Ros, I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but there was never any -”
“Any what? Messages? Holding me? Calling me your angel?”
Scott turned to Tessa again. “Seriously, Tess. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I don’t have to believe you anything.”
“I never touched her.”
“You held me,” cried Ros.
“On fucking stage. Christ, okay, I think we’d better go. Diane, Peter, I’m sorry about this. I thought she was being friendly, it was company, you know? I’d no idea she had all this -”
“Fantasy?” said Peter.
“You’re a fucking liar,” shouted Ros.
“And you’re out of your fucking mind,” Scott shouted back.
“Ros,” said Peter. “Calm down.”
But Ros made it out of the deep pile of cushions and onto her feet. She lurched towards Scott. “You told me there was never a right time to leave.” There were tears and there was blood, the cotton wool dropped to the floor. Scot reversed into the fireplace, so she pushed into Tessa instead, her face up close, “he told me it was over, he said wanted out of his marriage.”
Six adults and a child, staring into the ruins of their realities, each believing their reality was true. Nobody moved until Ros put her hands to her face. As she ran from the room, Clare let go of Freddy and ran after her.
OMG, Eleanor, this is fantastic. How did I let a week go by before I read this installment? Even the pretensions have pretensions! Even the self-deceptions are deceptive. There are so many great lines, I can't begin to quote them. It's just like Chekhov said, if a knife appears in a sink full of soap.
I'm going to pour myself a dram before I read today's.
Holy smokes!! I KNEW Ros was gonna get it, too bad just the "tip"...! 😂🤪 Good lord, what next?