Second Chance (28 page)

‘Ha bloody ha.’ She grinned. ‘Your turn.’

Will looked all wide-eyed and innocent. ‘I don’t have one.’ He shrugged. ‘Seriously. I’m a bloke. There’s very little that embarrasses me.’

‘You big old liar. There must be something.’

‘Okay. Not the most embarrassing, but last year my friend Nick got married and we all went down to Brighton for a stag weekend. Bear in mind, we were all rugby players at school, and this was all the old team, so we knew we were in for a weekend of heavy drinking. So… we spent the afternoon doing a pub crawl, and then someone had the brilliant idea of playing rugby on the beach wearing just underwear.’

‘So far it’s not very embarrassing.’

‘Yes, well. Some bright spark had thoughtfully provided pink furry thongs from Ann Summers as the underwear.’

A smile spread wide on Holly’s face. ‘Now I’m starting to enjoy this story.’

‘So here we are, nine great big rugby players, pretty pissed, wearing nothing but a piece of pink fur over our crotches, tackling one another on the beach, when this guy comes over – completely normal-looking guy
–and says he’s a photographer and would we mind if he took a few pictures.’

‘Uh-oh.’ Holly leant forward, chin on her hands.

‘Had we been sober, we might have thought the same thing, but as it was we all basically said, sure, mate, take whatever you want. So we’re all showing off, flexing our muscles and being super-macho as this guy’s snapping away; and then, just as he leaves, Nick calls him back and asks him if he’s going to use the photos anywhere. “Yep, they’re for
Boyz
, a gay lifestyle magazine. Thanks so much, guys,’ he says and disappears, leaving us all completely mortified.’

Holly burst out laughing. ‘Ha! Serves you right, appearing in a public place with nothing but women’s pink furry thongs on.’

There was the time she went to a Police concert when she was nineteen. She and Saffron had slept the night before at Saffron’s house, got stoned beforehand, and had excitedly approached Wembley Stadium with the determination to get backstage, meet Sting, and have him fall madly in love with them. They didn’t particularly care which one he would fall in love with. Hell, he could have had both for all they cared. The important thing was to get backstage.

And backstage they got, but only by virtue of turning themselves into classic rock-star groupies and delivering blow-jobs to a couple of roadies who couldn’t believe their luck. Incidentally Sting did say hello, asked them if they enjoyed the show, and that was it. Much to their consternation, he didn’t fall in love with either of them.

‘So from Sting to Marcus,’ Will mused. ‘Can’t say I can quite see the similarity there.’

Holly still doesn’t talk much about Marcus with Will. Can’t talk about Marcus with Will. They touch upon it, upon Holly’s unhappiness, but she doesn’t go into the details, doesn’t share the intimacies of their life.

And she hasn’t shared that tonight she’s asked to go out for dinner with Marcus. She’s going to take a deep breath and tell her husband that she’s not happy. She’s going to ask him to spend more time at home, to pay more attention to the kids. To pay more attention to her. She doesn’t particularly want him at home more, but perhaps, she thinks, it would all be better if they were together more, if they had more of a partnership.

He is coming home at seven, and they have a table at E&O for eight.

At a quarter to seven, just as Holly is stepping out of the shower, Marcus phones. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ he says. ‘I’ve just had a call from a client who needs me to do some urgent case-history research on child support. It won’t take too long, but I’ll never get home and get back into town. Can I meet you at the restaurant?’

Holly shakes her head in dismay. What can she say? What, other than it’s not exactly a great start.

Holly is sitting at the table, nursing a Cosmopolitan, and smiling broadly as she reads a text from Will.

These days, Holly goes nowhere without her phone. The Holly of old would forget her phone daily, forget
mostly that she even had a phone, but today’s Holly has her phone clutched in her hand twenty-four hours a day. Even when she is out shopping or picking the kids up from school or sitting on a bus on her way to the office, she can text Will. Not as good as email, but not far behind.

And their emails, texts and phone calls flow thick and fast. Her eyes light up when she gets a text from him; she will excuse herself from the table, from dinner with Marcus and the children, and escape into the loo to read the latest message, tap out something quick and witty before rejoining her family or her friends.

‘Hello.’ Marcus swoops down and pecks her on the cheek. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. What are you drinking?’

‘A Cosmopolitan,’ she says, leaning back and watching him as if watching a stranger. Dutch courage, is what she thinks. This is her second. She was early, Marcus was late, and she has been sitting here for twenty-three minutes. The first Cosmopolitan took the edge off her nerves; the second is making tonight’s mission – the business of telling Marcus she is unhappy – almost ridiculously easy.

‘How was your day?’ Marcus smiles across the table at her as he accepts a menu, his thin fingers opening it up, and as he glances down, Holly thinks about Will’s fingers. She loves his fingers. Loves his hands. Loves watching him move them, could spend hours fixating on his forearms. She has become used to Marcus’s lanky, pale body, the hair on his arms black against the whiteness of his skin, his fingers elegant and expressive but not strong. Not sexy.

Will has large hands. Thick fingers. Holly can see the muscles move under the skin when he moves his wrists. His skin is dark, almost olive. He looks as if he has been sunbathing even in the middle of winter, although, as he points out, he usually
is
sunbathing in the middle of winter, on some exotic island with some exotic woman. Holly tries not to think of the woman.

But how different from Marcus. Holly suppresses a slight shiver – lust? Revulsion? She doesn’t know, but she moves her gaze away from Marcus’s fingers to meet his eyes.

‘Everything all right, darling?’ he says, but he is not asking because he suspects anything; it is just one of his stock phrases.

‘Let’s order.’ Holly forces a smile and swigs another gulp of her drink as the waiter comes over, taking a deep breath when he finally leaves.

‘Marcus,’ she starts, ‘we need to talk. I…’ She pauses. How does she say this? What are the words she should use? It felt so easy earlier today, practising in front of the bathroom mirror, having a one-way conversation with herself in the car after she’d dropped the kids off at school.

‘I feel so disconnected from you,’ she says slowly, barely able to look him in the eye. ‘You seem to be at work all the time, and uninterested in us, and I’m not happy.’ There. She said it. She raises her eyes to meet his, almost scared of his reaction. ‘This just isn’t what I expected marriage to be.’

‘What?’ Marcus looks dumbstruck. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I don’t understand. What are you
trying to say?’ He looks hurt and angry, exactly the reaction Holly expected. Exactly the reaction she doesn’t want.

Because Marcus’s anger scares her. Has always scared her. It is why she has never confronted him before. His temper is not something she sees often, but when it emerges it is explosive. He shouts and stamps, much like a little boy, and he can be both cutting and cruel.

He has said many a thing in anger that has wounded Holly deeply, and she has retreated from him for a few days to lick her wounds and attempt to heal. He is always contrite eventually and she has always forgiven him and has tried hard not to do or say anything that will set him off again.

She has thought, she realizes tonight, many times of what her life would be like if she were single, if she were to leave Marcus and raise her children herself. She has lain in bed and planned it many times, but the plan always starts with her telling Marcus she is leaving, and she can almost predict what he will say. ‘Me, leave?’ he would shout, his voice fierce with anger, causing Holly to shrink. ‘Me? You’re the one who wants to leave.
You
leave. I’m staying in the house with the kids.’ And he is a divorce lawyer, after all, and knows what he’s entitled to. He knows how to fight the dirty fight, and Holly has always been just too damned scared.

‘I’m not saying anything,’ Holly speaks calmly, trying to smooth things over, and she reaches over and takes his hand. ‘Marcus, listen to me. I’m saying that I’m not happy. That I’m sure this is just a phase in our marriage,
but that something needs to change, I can’t go on like this.’

‘Like what?’ His voice is icy cold.

‘Like this!’ Her voice rises with anger, and she consciously takes a deep breath. ‘Like you being late for everything. Like you being away all the time, cancelling our plans, not seeing the children. Daisy cries almost every night wanting to see you. We don’t have any friends left because nobody bothers making plans with us any more, and I never see you. When I do see you, it feels like we’re two ships passing in the night. We barely even talk any more. Perfunctory questions about what our days are like, but that’s it. I don’t feel married, Marcus. I don’t see the point.’

‘So what are you saying?’ Marcus leans forward, his voice now dangerously soft. ‘You want me to leave work so you can see me more? You want me to leave my job so I can spend more time with the children? Fine.’ His voice starts to rise, and as people sitting around them turn to stare Holly wishes she could disappear.

‘You want me to be a stay-at-home husband or dad, fine, but who’s going to pay the mortgage? Who’s going to put food on the table? Who’s going to put the children through school? Your illustrating work doesn’t exactly contribute to anything; but fine, if that’s what you want, I’ll give my notice in tomorrow.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Holly whispers, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m not saying that, I’m just saying that we have to find a different way of doing things.’

‘Fine.’ Marcus sits back and crosses his arms, waiting.

‘How?’

‘I don’t know, Marcus!’ Holly is almost in tears. ‘I’m trying to talk to you about this, to tell you how I feel. I’m not attacking you. I don’t know why you’re jumping on the defensive.’

‘I’ll tell you why,’ Marcus hisses. ‘Because I work like a dog to keep you happy. Do you think I’m doing it for me? I couldn’t care less about work. All I care about is my family, you and the kids, and I’m doing this so you can live in your big, beautiful house in Brondesbury. I’m doing this so you can wear your cashmere sweaters and not worry about anything. You can’t have it both ways, Holly. That’s not how it works.’

Holly sits back and looks at him, four words going through her head. Over and over and over.

You big fucking liar
.

He’s not doing this for her. Or the children. The truth is Holly doesn’t give a damn about the big, beautiful house or the cashmere fucking sweaters. She never has.

She doesn’t give a damn about any of the stuff that Marcus deems so necessary in order for people to look at him and think he is someone important, someone special. A big shot.

You big fucking liar
.

He’s doing exactly what he always does. He doesn’t hear her, can’t hear anything he might be able to interpret as criticism. He throws it right back at Holly, making it her fault, painting himself as the victim, sending Holly retreating with the force of his denial.

Their hors d’œuvres arrive. Holly looks miserably at her parsnip and apple soup – her appetite long since
disappeared – and back at Marcus, who has now fished his buzzing BlackBerry out of his pocket and is punching an email into the phone.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ Marcus says, when he finishes his correspondence, placing the BlackBerry on the table next to his plate. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

‘I don’t know.’ Holly shrugs. ‘I wanted you to know how unhappy I am. I wanted you to care.’

‘I do care, Holly.’ His voice is gentle now, now that he no longer feels attacked. ‘Of course I care if you’re unhappy, but darling, I don’t think it’s anything to do with me. I have no idea why you’re so unhappy… Do you have your period?’

Holly shakes her head, resisting the urge to leap across the table and throttle him.

‘Maybe you should go to see a doctor,’ Marcus says gently. ‘It could be depression, and perhaps you could look at medication. I do understand you’re unhappy, but I also know it’s nothing to do with me.’

Holly shrugs again and goes back to playing with her food.

She tried, she thinks. At least she tried.

The phone shrills, waking Holly out of the most bizarre dream. She and Will are at the theatre. The actress on stage is supposed to be Saffron but in fact it is Olivia, and Holly keeps wondering why Olivia is on stage when she can’t act and why she and Will seem to be a couple, but she knows it is just pretend.

‘Holly? Are you awake?’

‘Only just. Who is it?’

‘Oh God, sorry. Holly, it’s Paul.’

‘Hey, Paul, how are you?’

‘Well, I’m fine. But the thing is – you’ve seen the papers, right?’

‘About Saffron? I know! Isn’t it awful? Poor darling.

I’ve left her a ton of messages and I’ve had a couple from her, but we haven’t managed to catch up. Have you spoken to her?’

‘Well, that’s the thing. You know we’ve got this place in the country? We offered it to her as a hideout because it’s in the middle of nowhere, and she was coming over to stay. But basically her driver called us this morning from Heathrow, asking for help because she’s… well… she’s completely shit-faced.’

Holly sits bolt upright. ‘What do you mean, shitfaced?’

Paul starts laughing. ‘What do you think I mean? Here, I’ll pass you over. She wants to talk.’

‘Holly Mac? Is that my darling Holly Mac?’

And of course Holly hears instantly that Saffron is drunk. And she knows instantly what this means. She knows all about Saffron’s drinking, her drinking years of old, and she knows about her long-standing sobriety since walking into AA. She isn’t supposed to know but Tom told her, swore her to secrecy, although Paul clearly hasn’t heard about it. Paul thinks Saffron is just drunk. A one-off. An amusing incident.