Faking Friends Novel – I went back out and along the windowless hall. In the bathroom, I stopped short. There was a little cluster of girly toiletries on the windowsill. None of it belonged to me. Shampoo for fine hair. Toner for combination skin. I suddenly felt light-headed. Put out a hand to steady myself on the sink. In the bedroom, the bed was made. I don’t think I’ve ever known Jack to make the bed in the five years we’ve been together. Not because he’s lazy, he just doesn’t see the point. He’s only going to get back in and mess it up again. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on my side. I flung it open, riffled through the clothes inside. She was a size eight, whoever she was The second my plane hit the runway I was already beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. Didn’t surprise visits always end in disaster?
But, up until the moment the flight took off, a big part of me had been worried that I would have to cancel at the last minute, that work would call and say they’d rejigged things again and they needed me after all, so it had seemed safer not to tell anyone. No expectations, no disappointment: that was my rationale. And, besides, I thought it would be fun. Not to mention the fact that I needed a bit of home comfort. I was still reeling from my big news. It felt, to be honest, a bit like the world was about to end, but I knew deep down that I was overreacting. I had always known it was a possibility. I had watched as many others had suffered the same fate. I just hadn’t been expecting it to be so sudden. I’d been living in New York for seven and a half months. In two weeks, I’d be home for good. And I thought that breaking the news to Jack face to face would help.
Because sad though he’d be for me that I was losing my job, I was pretty sure his main reaction would be happiness: that I was coming home, that we could get on with setting a date for the wedding we’d announced before I’d left, that we’d be back to being a normal couple who lived together rather than more than three thousand miles apart. And I knew that would rub off on me. I needed a bit of perspective. My heart was kicking up a storm as I approached our road, sweaty and overtired with the jet lag that was kicking in already. I have never done anything like this – flown halfway round the world on a whim. Over and over again, I’d been imagining Jack’s face when he found me at home – shock, but I had no doubt it would be quickly followed by sheer delight. I knew, of course, that he would already have left for work by the time I arrived, but there was always a chance he’d have taken the day off sick or as a random holiday.
Not that I have ever known him to do either of those things. He loves his job. Or, at least, he loves his work – which is in advertising. He’s finding his actual job a bit frustrating. He’s impatient to move on and up. I had spent the whole flight trying to decide what I would do – should I hide and jump out on him? (Might give him a heart attack.) Stand proudly beside a lovingly cooked meal with a serving spoon in my hand? (TooStepford Wives.) Or be lounging on the sofa wearing nothing but a basque? (He’d probably laugh. Also, the slight hitch that I don’t own a basque, wouldn’t know where to buy one if you paid me. I barely know what one is.) In the end, I decided that booze was the way to go. Beverage bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. Don’t tell me I don’t know the way to a man’s heart. Or a woman’s, for that matter. I was already planning a trip to the offy around the corner. I lugged my – way too big for a weekend – suitcase up the stairs.
I was transporting as much of my home as I could manage before the big move: another reason why this trip made sense. I smiled when I saw that Jack must have been watering the rubber plant on the landing that is my pride and joy, because it looked so healthy and shiny. He might even have polished the leaves, too. That would be a first. This, I realize in retrospect, is when I should have known. Thirty-eight-year-old men do not suddenly start buffing up the leaves of houseplants for no reason. I let myself in, calling out his name, crossing my fingers that today might be the day he had decided to go in late. It was still only a quarter past nine but deep down I knew he’d already be at his desk. He wouldn’t be home till half six, quarter to seven at the earliest. And I hadn’t even dared think about the fact that he might go out straight from the office. When I spoke to him last night – just before I boarded the plane, although he didn’t know that – he didn’t mention any plans, but these things change. The moment I opened the door I knew something wasn’t right.
The flat looked tidy, for a start. And there was a smell I didn’t recognize. Just a hint of it, mixed in with Jack’s earthy blend of coconut shower gel, takeaway curries and laundry with a hint of unwashed gym kit. I sniffed loudly, trying to work out what I was finding so unsettling. Could it be me, a faint trace left in my possessions, even though I hadn’t been back since Christmas, over three months ago? I ditched my case and my computer bag and snuffled my way around the flat like a bloodhound. There was more evidence of extreme tidiness – the dishwasher was empty and everything put away, papers were stacked neatly on the coffee table; even the remotes were in a straight line. Maybe he’d invited his mum up, it occurred to me. I should have checked with her, let her in on my secret. He probably wants to show her how well he’s coping without me. I know how concerned she was when she heard work was taking me to New York.
Maybe she was here already and she’d just gone out for the day, leaving a lingering, unidentifiable but most definitely female scent behind her. I jumped as Oscar, our portly black cat, appeared out of nowhere and ran towards me. Grateful that he remembered me, I picked him up and made a fuss of him, but I was distracted. I looked in the fridge for his food. Hummus? Jack thinks the only thing hummus is good for is grouting the bathroom. He thinks it tastes like old sofa cushions, although when he’s ever tasted those I have no idea. I shut the fridge door, plonked a handful of Dreamies down for Oscar, who looked at me, disappointed. I checked in the spare bedroom for signs of life. The bed was stripped and piled up with junk, like it always is. Most of it has been there since the day I moved in four and a half years ago. Pictures we’d never got around to hanging, two tennis racquets we’d used once on holiday, a lamp neither of us liked.
No visiting mother, then. I went back out and along the windowless hall. In the bathroom, I stopped short. There was a little cluster of girly toiletries on the windowsill. None of it belonged to me. Shampoo for fine hair. Toner for combination skin. I suddenly felt light-headed. Put out a hand to steady myself on the sink. In the bedroom, the bed was made. I don’t think I’ve ever known Jack to make the bed in the five years we’ve been together. Not because he’s lazy, he just doesn’t see the point. He’s only going to get back in and mess it up again. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on my side. I flung it open, riffled through the clothes inside. She was a size eight, whoever she was. In the wardrobe, a row of dresses, blouses and skirts edged my own stuff to the far corner. Some of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out why.
The labels revealed they were from Zara, Top Shop, Maje. Half my friends probably have the same things. I resisted the urge to phone Jack to demand answers. He didn’t even know I was in the country. I retrieved my bags and made sure I’d left no trace behind. Then I exited the flat and headed down to the street. I went straight to the park across the road and sat on a bench. I needed time to think. I wake bleary-eyed I don’t know how much later. The first thing I notice is a folded-up ironing board screwed into the wall at the foot of the bed. I can’t remember installing that in my state-of-the-art Manhattan apartment. I look around, taking in the tiny TV (screwed to the wall), the kettle (wired in) radio alarm (ditto), and it all comes crashing back. I check the time on my phone. Twenty-five past twelve. I’ve slept for about an hour and a half. I make myself a tinny-tasting coffee from a complimentary sachet (only two provided) with a sliver of milk from one of three tiny plastic capsules.
Then I lie back down on the bed and try to process what’s going on. Jack is having an affair? Could that really be happening? We FaceTime practically every night, unless one of our work schedules makes the time difference a nightmare. I think back over the past few nights and try to remember if there were any tell-tale signs. Nothing. We’ve never been the type to be all lovey-dovey over the phone. Or in real life, for that matter. We both find that stuff a bit cringy. By which I don’t mean we don’t tell each other we love each other. We do. Always. We just say it in plain English, and in normal voices. Not like we’re suddenly five years old. Anyway, there’s been nothing that rang any alarm bells. Nothing that felt different. No stage whispers, no accidental eye flicks to whoever else was in the room. No abrupt ending of calls. Before I can think too much about what I’m doing, I send Jack a text. Guess what??? I’m coming home for the weekend!! I arrive late tonight.
Flight gets in about half eight. Don’t tell Mel. Big surprise!!!! Call you later. Love you xxx Almost immediately my phone rings with the distinctive FaceTime tone. I can’t answer, obviously, because he might wonder why I’ve suddenly got an ironing board mounted on my wall. I let it time out and then I call him back, audio only. ‘Sorry. Terrible reception.’ ‘You’re really coming today? That’s fantastic!’ ‘Yes!’ I say, in what I hope is my happiest voice. ‘I’m at the airport now, actually. We should board in a few minutes.’ I get up and force open the mud-spotted window of my room and traffic noise blasts in. ‘Do you want me to come and meet you?’ I should have thought this through. Jack likes to meet me at Heathrow. The first time, it didn’t even occur to me that he would be there, so I was halfway to the train before I noticed him huffing along beside me, half swamped by a mountain of flowers and balloons. We both cried, I remember. Me with happiness at seeing him, him probably because of exhaustion. ‘No! You know what I’d really like? I’ll jump in a cab and, if I ring you when I’m on my way, you could order an Indian. I’ve been fantasizing about mushroom balti and pilau rice.’ Jack laughs.
He sounds like his usual relaxed self, not like I’ve sent him into a major panic. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’ I try to laugh along, but it comes out a bit like a strangled cat. ‘No!’ ‘I can’t wait to see you.’ ‘You, too.’ ‘I’d better … I’m about to go into a meeting. What time did you say your flight gets in again?’ ‘Eight thirty. So I should get home for tennish. Half ten.’ I mentally curse myself for picking such a late flight, but I was trying to go for authenticity. ‘Result,’ he says. ‘You didn’t …’ I say, making an effort not to sound as if I’m asking a loaded question. ‘You hadn’t made plans, had you?’ ‘Are you kidding? Like I wouldn’t cancel them. But no, this lonely saddo had no plans. Beyond a quick after-work drink. And now I’ve had a much better offer.’ I ring off, promising to call him as soon as I land. It’s so confusing. He sounded genuinely excited at the prospect of seeing me. Maybe I have this whole thing wrong. Maybe there really is an innocent explanation. I’m suddenly starving.
It seems ridiculous to go and buy something to eat when there’s a flat full of food that, by rights, should be mine across the road, but I don’t want to risk going back in there now. Jack will have got straight on the phone to her and I’m pretty sure she won’t be spending her lunch hour eating a sandwich at her desk now, not when she has tracks she needs to cover. I have a quick shower to wake me up and then walk up the road to Tesco Metro. By five past one I’m back sitting on a bench in the park opposite my flat, eating a tuna baguette. I’m far enough away and obscured by enough trees that no one would see me unless they were looking, but I still put a baseball cap over my dark (not to mention dirty) hair, just in case. Air travel does that to me. I get on a plane looking like a Silvikrin advert but by the time I get off you could stand a fork up in the grease. It’s a mystery.
It’s turned into a beautiful early-spring day and I share a crumb with a couple of mangy-looking pigeons, which turns out to be a mistake, because now they think we’re friends for life and they’re making me feel guilty about not just tossing them the whole thing. Eventually I do, just to get rid of them, but all that does is cause them to fight among themselves. Of course, whoever she is, she could decide to come after work rather than in her lunch hour, although if it were me – not that it ever would be – I would want to get it over with as soon as I possibly could. Just to be on the safe side. Or she might not even have a job, or work shifts – that would mean she could show up at any point between now and half ten this evening. I have nothing better to do, though, I tell myself. I may as well sit here as anywhere. At twenty-five past, just as I’m resigning myself to the fact that it might be a long wait, a taxi pulls up outside our door. I actually gasp out loud and fling my hand over my mouth, like an overacting heroine in a silent movie. I find myself looking around to check no one has heard me.
Thankfully, everyone else is concentrating on eating their lunch or walking their dog, relieved to be away from their workplace for an hour’s fresh air. I hold my breath, waiting for her to emerge. I have no idea what I’m going to do. Run over and accuse her? Demand that she gives me answers? Sing the chorus of ‘Jolene’ right in her face? Punch her and run away? All of the above? The door opens. I can hear my heart beating. There’s a second’s pause and Jack climbs out. For some reason, I hadn’t even considered this an option. That he might be the one to hide the evidence. He looks so … Jack. Not like a man who has been living some kind of secret life. He’s never been what you would call classically good-looking, but a happy accident of individually imperfect features resulted in something very attractive. I’ve always thought so, anyway.
His nose is a bit too long, his eyes a smidge too close together, his lips a little thin. The combination – along with the violet blue of his irises and the dark brown of his hair – gives him a kind of wolf-like quality. A sort of better-looking Baldwin brother. Without the anger-management issues. He’s obviously told the driver to wait because the cab doesn’t move, engine ticking over, meter running up. Jack runs up the steps to our front door. I pull my hat down over my face and allow myself to look at the upstairs window. From here, I can see the living-room bay and the spare bedroom. There are flat white sheers over both to preserve our privacy but I think I see one of them flap in a Jack-created draught as he – I imagine – runs around like a whirlwind, gathering up anything incriminating. I know he can’t have long. He’s never been one for extended lunch breaks. He likes to be seen to be conscientious while all his colleagues are sinking glasses of red at the local bistro.
Sure enough, the front door slams open and there he is again, suitcase in one hand, two carrier bags in another and half a dozen girly outfits on hangers slung over his shoulder. The taxi driver chooses just that moment to examine something fascinating on his fingernail, so Jack staggers down the steps alone, goes back up to pick up something he’s dropped, then wrestles with the car-door handle. I can practically hear him huffing with frustration. Safe in the knowledge that he’s not going to be expected to carry anything, the taxi driver springs to life and gets out and opens the door for him, and he half tumbles in, throwing the suitcase in front of him. Despite everything, my overwhelming urge is to call out to him, to let him know I’m here. To hurtle across the street and throw myself into his arms. It hits me like a ton of bricks that that is never going to happen again.