About Last Night Read online

  Pip had been devastated by Dylan’s desertion (as she liked to call it). Desertion had a nineteenth-century ring to it, a hint of tragedy and drama that rather appealed to her. Saying, ‘when Dylan left me’ simply didn’t cover it in the same way and she never used the neutral form, ‘when we split’. Besides, to be accurate he didn’t walk out on them, he threw them out. He changed the locks when Pip and Chloe were out seeing off Pip’s parents’ plane; Mr and Mrs Foxton were emigrating to New Zealand that very day, Dylan’s timing being nothing short of sadistic. Pip came home from Heathrow to a note pinned to the door; it had the address of the lock-up where he’d stored all their stuff. Then before she could yell ‘lawyer’ he’d sold his apartment and left the country too. Unquestionably, Pip was a wronged woman.

  Her paleness and thinness testified as much. True, Pip had always had a tendency towards both physical traits. She was a poor cook and rarely got excited about food the way Steph did, plus she preferred holidays where she energetically marched across dark northern moors rather than lounging around the pool in Europe, so she had never had much opportunity to pick up a tan. But following the split, Pip plummeted alarmingly from the description ‘slim’ to ‘skinny’ or ‘scrawny’ and her pale skin was less likely to be described as porcelain and more likely to be noticed as ashen or pallid. Stephanie had watched her friend’s joie de vivre slip away with the inches and any hint of colour. She thought it was a tragedy. Pip was a natural beauty. She was five foot eight and had long tapering limbs. She had naturally blond, wavy hair and, as she’d always resisted the temptation to either straighten or colour it, it fell in a thick, healthy, undulating mass around her shoulders. She had wide, slightly slanting green eyes that shone out above her sharp cheekbones. Following her split from Dylan, it was impossible to ignore the fact that she bore a remarkable resemblance to a wronged pre-Raphaelite model, drowning in disappointment and regret. Divorce was sometimes thought of as a very modern disease, an epidemic of the twenty-first century, and yet a broken heart was the oldest ailment known to mankind. Well, certainly to womankind.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Steph assured Pip.

  ‘I didn’t know who else to call.’

  ‘Always call me, Pip.’

  ‘I just knew you’d be organised and you’d manage.’

  Stephanie glanced around her kitchen; her eyes darted from one micro-scene of domestic carnage to the next. Yes, normally she was organised. If anyone caught her at, say, eleven in the morning or two thirty in the afternoon, even 9 p.m., she definitely would be able to proudly wear the badge ‘organised’. But the times in-between, the times when her family spilt out into her domestic perfection, were rather more chaotic.

  Her family were all awake and up, waging war on her calm and pretty environment. Her three boys lolled around the kitchen in various states of undress and distress. Harry, her eleven year old, was increasingly unpredictable as he was battling with a premature onset of hormones. His voice was unreliable and as such caused him great embarrassment. One moment he sounded like the child she thought him to be, the next he’d say something in a deep and gravelly tone which would cause Steph to look around the kitchen in order to find the intruder. It was disconcerting for everyone. Alfie, her eight year old, was noisily stating his case for watching TV, specifically the episode of Phineas and Ferb on the Disney channel that he’d recorded the night before. Julian (her thirty-nine year old – husband, rather than child) was rather more keen on watching Sky news and the pair of them were robustly quibbling over the remote. Freddie, her five year old, was sitting under the table feeding Coco Pops to his guinea pig.

  ‘No trouble!’ Stephanie assured her friend.

  Although Chloe and Alfie were the same age they did not go to the same school. Alfie and Freddie went to Mansfield, a boys-only prep school, Harry attended St Joseph’s, the local fee-paying grammar school (a place hard-won and pricey) and Chloe went to the local state school, Woodsend Primary School. The school Stephanie and Pip had attended. Stephanie made a quick calculation in her head. Providing Pip dropped off Chloe in the next ten minutes as she’d promised (possible but by no means certain as Pip wasn’t the best timekeeper, even when she had a train to catch) and all the children could be herded into the Audi by five to eight then she could still deliver them each at the relevant schools before bells rang.

  ‘Does Chloe need a packed lunch?’ asked Stephanie.

  ‘Steph, that would be wonderful! She does and I was just about to start making one but if you could do it that would save me a few minutes. You’re an angel. What would I do without you?’ asked Pip, just as she’d regularly asked over the last thirty years.

  ‘You’ll never have to find out,’ replied Stephanie, just as she’d replied over the past thirty years. Then she rang off. Steph bent down and swooped up Freddie, firmly and fondly she plopped him back into his chair and instructed, ‘Eat your cereal at the table, Freddie, not under it and Coco Pops are not a good thing to feed to the guinea pig.’

  ‘But are Coco Pops good for me?’ Freddie turned his curious, open face towards his mother and waited for her reassurance.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied without thinking about the question, as she was too busy dashing around the kitchen picking up homework books, Pokémon cards and stray pens and then redistributing them in the appropriate rucksacks and pencil cases.

  ‘Other than the sugar content,’ muttered Julian drily.

  Stephanie made the decision to ignore her husband’s comment because if she gave it any thought she might consider it to be an undermining contradiction (at best) or an underhand criticism (at worst). Coco Pops was not always Steph’s cereal of choice for her boys’ breakfasts and she usually insisted that the children eat Bran Flakes or Weetabix but Freddie had not wanted to go to school today because he had a new teacher, a strict and demanding middle-aged woman who terrified Steph let alone her five year old. The last, beloved teacher had just moved out of the area and now taught at a different faraway school and so this morning Freddie had needed a bit of extra persuasion to eat any breakfast at all. Steph didn’t think there was any point in bothering Julian with this level of domestic detail. Besides, Julian was not a morning person and unlike his wife he had no designs on appearing to pass himself off as one. He was especially grumpy this morning; it was understandable, it was Monday and, hand on heart, no one liked Monday mornings.

  Stephanie remembered a time, over a decade ago now, when she used to have to reluctantly say goodbye to the weekend – which had been full of cinema visits, energetic walks in the countryside and long, boozy pub lunches – and face the morning commute on trains and tubes, it was always a trial. Besides which, Julian hadn’t even benefited from the rejuvenating powers of a family weekend. He’d had to work most of the time. He’d spent a lot of Saturday afternoon holed up in the room she liked to call her library and he called his den, answering emails and taking calls about some deal or other, he’d had his Sunday roast interrupted by a work call and then last night, just as Steph was beginning the process of ushering the children off to bed and anticipating a night in front of the TV (catching up on some drama or even the guilty pleasure of a repeat of a Friends episode), Julian’s boss had rung him again and Julian had spent another hour on the phone. On a Sunday evening! It wasn’t reasonable. He looked incredibly stressed and agitated after he’d taken the calls. Steph wasn’t sure what deal Julian was currently brokering but it must be big and important if the extra hours needed were any sort of indication. The man would be worked into an early grave. Stephanie sometimes wished that Julian would tell his boss where to stick his job and his inconsiderate demands on their family time but, then, she never had that thought when they were holidaying in the Maldives or when she was hosting a coffee morning in their – five bedroom, three bathroom, three reception room – house.

  Stephanie handed Alfie his school tie and as she did so she surreptitiously sniffed the top of Harry’s head to check he didn’t smell of anything oth
er than shampoo or conditioner. Harry was beginning to suffer with greasy hair and Stephanie dreaded the moment when angry hormonal spots would start to blister his smooth skin, skin that she still thought of as baby skin. With a sigh she turned her attention to preparing a packed lunch for Chloe. She’d make ham sandwiches, with tomato but no spread which was Chloe’s preference. She had a small pot of organic yoghurt (apricot), a packet of raisins and cranberries, an apple and a carton of Innocent smoothie. Stephanie prided herself on her healthy eating habits. Or rather, her dictatorial skills that meant her children and the children she knew ate healthily, although she wasn’t above sneaking a king-size Mars Bar for herself.

  Julian pushed his empty muesli bowl about twenty centimetres away from him (this was a habit of his that mildly frustrated Steph, she wished that, just once, he’d pick up the bowl and put it in the dishwasher, instead of leaving it for her to clear). But she was glad she hadn’t grumbled when Julian stood up from the table and commented in a jokey, good-natured tone, ‘You like that woman more than you like me.’

  How could she grumble at her husband for not clearing his breakfast bowl when she was prepared to go to lengths for her friend? He never complained about her continual invitations which meant Pip shared their lives. Pip and Chloe came round at least once a fortnight for Sunday lunch, they stopped by several times a week, they spent Christmas, Mother’s Day, birthdays and bank holidays together and last summer Pip and Chloe had even joined Steph, Julian and the boys on their family holiday in the south of France. When she gave it any thought, Steph realised that Julian had the patience of a saint, really he did. You didn’t often come across a husband who was prepared to share his wife’s time quite so generously. Not just her time but his money too, if she was going to be vulgar about it. The fact was, there was no way Pip could have managed to pay for a holiday since her divorce but Julian rented a large four-bedroom gîte – when they could have got away with three or even two bedrooms – then he’d practically insisted that Pip and Chloe come along to ‘fill the rooms that would just stand empty’. Stephanie smiled to herself, he was so generous. Yes, she’d married a good one. What a joy. What a relief. She often told herself how lucky she was.

  ‘Go on, admit it, if you were in a life or death situation and you had to choose between Pip or me, you’d pick her,’ he teased as he walked away from the table. He was looking around for his BlackBerry; he didn’t like it being out of reach or sight.

  Steph heard the smile in his voice and continued the joke.

  ‘Without hesitation, darling,’ she laughed. ‘As much as I love you, you simply don’t offer the right sort of advice when it comes to which shoes go with which outfit and you know absolutely nothing about removing stubborn stains from school shirts.’

  ‘Which is of course all you women ever talk about,’ added Julian.

  They both knew this wasn’t the case but were quite enjoying the silly, flippant banter. It was fun and a tiny bit flirtatious, which was an achievement on a Monday morning for any couple, it bordered on an absolute miracle for a couple who had been together nearly twenty years. Sometimes Steph thought that they both behaved as though they had an audience and a role to play in front of that audience, as though they were self-conscious participants on a reality TV show. No doubt their habit stemmed from the fact that they had been parents for eleven years and invariably there was at least one pair of sharp eyes and ears following and interpreting their every move and conversation.

  ‘That, and men,’ confirmed Steph. She kissed her husband on the lips.

  It was a brief, habitual sort of kiss. What it lacked in erotic passion it compensated for with genuine warmth. Sometimes, it seemed to Steph that Julian didn’t really notice her kisses anymore. Was she un reasonable to expect him to after all these years?

  From time to time it occurred to Steph that Julian didn’t seem to notice most of the domestic stuff that surrounded him. He didn’t know that Harry had not been picked for the grammar school football team (despite five consecutive years of playing for the A team for his prep school). He’d been offered a place as a sub in Cs but had haughtily refused the position. Harry had come home last Tuesday in a terrible mood and systematically stripped his room of all the Chelsea paraphernalia that he’d been carefully collecting for years. He’d melodramatically piled the annuals, posters, badges and caps into a cardboard box and dumped it next to the wheelie bin in the garden, insisting that as his ‘career was now so obviously over, there was no point in keeping this rubbish stuff’. Steph had simultaneously fought laughter and tears. Naturally, it broke her heart that her son was disappointed and felt rejected but on the other hand, his indignant tantrum had been quite entertaining. She’d long ago learnt to roll with the metaphysical punches that a child flung out when disappointed. She’d secretly retrieved the cardboard box while he was playing a game on his Wii. Her plan was to reintroduce the memorabilia once the first sting of disappointment had abated or when he was installed on the A team.

  Julian had missed that domestic drama because he was in Geneva at the time. In fact he missed most domestic dramas because of the time he spent in Geneva or Paris or Frankfurt or at the office in London. Julian was unaware that Alfie was especially argumentative this morning because he was irritated that on Saturday his mother had won a long-fought battle and had all his hair chopped short. Although only eight, Alfie had an acute sense of the impression he made on other people. Normally he wowed them. He’d inherited his father’s looks. The combination of his huge blue eyes, framed with long and thick lashes, and his curly surfer-length hair meant that he was perfectly suited to play Zac Efron as a child if the need ever arose. He was a star at his weekend Stagecoach class, in fact he managed to create quite a stir just walking along the high street. Stephanie found she was ever so slightly uncomfortable with the fact that her eight year old was so aware that he was already immeasurably cool; shouldn’t he still be simply concerned with climbing trees or riding his bike at a dangerous speed, rather than whether Crocs or Converse trainers looked best with his khaki cutoffs? Not that she’d insisted he had his hair chopped just to temper his vanity, the headmaster had sent out a note on Friday afternoon, reminding parents that pupils’ hair ought not to hang over ears or reach the shirt collar. While the note was ostensibly addressed to all parents, Stephanie was convinced that Mr Granger had Alfie in mind and so she had duly marched him off to the hairdressers.

  Julian hadn’t commented on the new crockery that Stephanie had bought (it was white with a silver rim around the edge and they used to have a brown set with a dense cream floral design). He would see these things, though, when he looked at the Visa statement at the end of the month. He might notice that trims for Harry and Freddie, Alfie’s chop and Stephanie’s highlights had totalled over £400 in the fancy London hair salon that she liked to go to. He would then certainly question whether Stephanie needed to spend £900 on a new dinner service. He’d comment that the old one was adequate, he might even ask was there any difference at all. Stephanie would then promptly point out that the brown set had a transient appeal while the white crockery was a classic. Then, most likely, he’d mumble as though he was affronted that she spent his money so freely. That was how these things normally played out. The truth was she knew he liked the fact that he earned so much and she spent so much, it was a way of showing the world that he was an effective hunter-gatherer.

  The kiss he’d never notice because that wasn’t on a bank statement.

  2

  Pip frantically ran to the platform, she took large strides, the soles of her shoes slammed painfully on to the tiled floor but she couldn’t think about that now as she had less than a minute to spare before the train departed. Pip only just managed to leap on to the train and collapse into the first available seat before the automatic doors swished shut behind her and the train started its speedy journey into London Waterloo.

  The moment she caught her breath she realised that the seat she’d chosen was
a mistake. Not only was she sitting next to a large, greying man who had inconsiderately taken up far more than half the seat, leaving her to perch precariously practically in the aisle (a target for anyone lugging bags from the door to their seat and back again) but he was wearing headphones. The distinctive, heartfelt tunes of Tina Turner were blaring out at a volume which meant that no other passenger could reasonably expect to hear his or her own thoughts. Pip had nothing against Tina Turner but the question, ‘What’s Love Got To Do With It?’ belted out in that slightly desperate, overtly mournful pitch, so early in the morning, wasn’t one she felt able to tackle. Besides which, she soon realised that she was also very close to the train loos.

  Somewhat predictably, whoever had last used the convenience had failed to bother to press the button that would close the door after use, that or the automated lock was broken. The door gaped open, treating Pip to a front-seat view of the actual pan. Why was there always something swishing about on the floor of public loos? Pip wanted to think that the liquid she spotted rolling around the floor was water, shaken from hands of people in a desperate hurry to leave the cubicle, but she couldn’t help but fear it was more likely to be a leak from the toilet or simply a matter of poor aim, a thought that was solidified as there was a faint smell of urine drifting into the carriage. Regrettably, Pip had an incredibly keen sense of smell. She was like a bloodhound, Steph would always say. On more than one occasion Steph had invited Pip around to her home to help sniff out something not quite savoury (a cheese sandwich carefully hidden in a jigsaw box or a stray trainer carelessly lost at the bottom of the music cupboard). There were a couple of things worth commenting upon there. One, Steph had a music cupboard, an actual and entire designated cupboard (not much smaller than Chloe’s bedroom) where Steph stored the boys’ instruments (two violins, a cello, a classical guitar, a flute and three recorders) and secondly, Pip loved Steph enough to sniff around her potentially toxic cupboards, if it helped. No greater love hath a friend.