You’d think people would be wary of spilling to a writer. You’d think they’d know that we’re essentially birds of carrion, picking over the corpses of dead affairs and forgotten arguments to recycle them in our work – zombie reincarnations of their former selves, stitched into a macabre new patchwork of our own devising.
Tom, if anyone, should have known that. But it didn’t stop him. He was speaking now, his voice a bored drawl that didn’t disguise the fact that he was clearly still angry with his husband. ‘… What you’ve got to understand is that Bruce gave James his first big chance, he directed him in Black Ties, White Lies back in … God, what, we must be talking seven, eight years ago? And maybe – I mean, I don’t know – I never asked what went on, but Bruce wasn’t exactly renowned for his professional chastity. We weren’t together then of course. But naturally Bruce feels that James owes him a certain amount, and maybe equally naturally James feels that he doesn’t. I know that Bruce was pretty angry over the business with Corialanus and the fact that Eamonn sided with James … And then when those rumours got round about him and Richard, well, there was only one place those could have come from. Bruce swore he never sent that text to Clive.’
He carried on, a stream of names and places that meant nothing to me, and plays that had only the sketchiest impression in my own cultural landscape. The politics flowed over me, but the point was clear: Bruce was angry with James and had a past with him – of whatever kind. Bruce had not wanted Tom to come to this hen night. Tom had come.
‘So anyway, fuck him,’ Tom said at last, dismissively. I wasn’t sure if he was talking about Bruce or James. He walked across to the sideboard where a cluster of bottles stood: gin, vodka, the pathetic remnants of last night’s tequila. ‘Want a drink? G&T?’
‘No thanks. Well, maybe just a tonic water.’
Tom nodded, went out for ice and limes, and then came back with two glasses.
‘Bottoms up,’ he said, his face set in lines that made him look a good ten years older. I took a sip and coughed. Tonic there was, but also gin. I could have made a fuss, but Tom raised one eyebrow with such perfect comic timing that I could only laugh, and swallow.
‘So tell me,’ he said, as he drained his own glass and went back for a refill, ‘what happened with you and James? What was last night about?’
I didn’t answer at first. I took another long sip of my drink, swallowing it slowly, thinking about what to say. My instinct was to shrug it off with a laugh, but he would get it out of Clare or Nina later. Better to be honest.
‘James is … was …’ I swirled the drink in my glass, the ice cubes chinking as I tried to think how to phrase it. ‘My ex,’ I said at last. It was true – but so far from the whole truth that it felt almost like a lie. ‘We were together at school.’
‘At school?’ Tom raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Good lord. Dark ages. Childhood sweethearts?’
‘Yes, I guess so.’
‘But you’re friends now?’
What could I say? No, I haven’t seen him since the day he texted me.
No, I’ve never forgiven him for what he said, what he did.
No.
‘I … not exactly. We sort of lost touch.’
There was a sudden silence, broken only by the sounds of Clare and Flo chatting next door, and the hiss of a shower upstairs. Nina must have given up on trying to phone Jess.
‘So you met at school?’ Tom asked.
‘Sort of. We were in a play together …’ I said slowly. It was strange to be talking about this. You don’t bring it up much as an adult: how you got your heart broken for the first time. But Tom was the next best thing to an anonymous stranger. I was highly unlikely to meet him again after this weekend, and somehow telling him felt like a release. ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I was Maggie and James was Brick. Ironic, really.’
‘Why ironic?’ Tom said, puzzled. But I couldn’t answer. I was thinking of Maggie’s words in the last act of the play, about making the lie true. But I knew that, of all people, Tom would know what that meant if I quoted the line, he would know what Maggie was referring to.
Instead I swallowed and said, ‘Just … ironic.’
‘Come on,’ he said and smiled, his tanned cheek crinkling. ‘You must have meant something.’
I sighed. I wasn’t going to tell him the truth. Or not the truth I’d been thinking of. A different truth then.
‘Well, I was supposed to be the understudy. Clare was cast as Maggie – she was the lead in almost every play we ever did, right from primary school onwards.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She got glandular fever. Missed a whole term of school. And I got pushed on stage.’ I was always the understudy. I had a good verbal memory and I was conscientious. I felt Tom looking at me, puzzled about where the irony in that lay.
‘Ironic that she should have been the one to get together with him, and now she is? Is that what you mean?’
‘No, not exactly … It’s more just ironic given that I hate being looked at, being watched. And there I was in the main role. Maybe all writers prefer being behind the page to being on stage. What do you think?’
Tom didn’t answer. He only turned to look out of the great glass window, out into the forest, and I knew he was thinking of his remark the night before: of the stage. The audience. The watchers in the night.
After a moment I followed his gaze. It looked different to last night: someone had switched on the external security lights, and you could see the blank white lawn stretched out, a perfect unbroken snowy carpet, and the sentinel trees, their trunks bare and prickly beneath the canopy. It should have made me feel better – that you could see the blank, unspoilt canvas, visual evidence that we were alone, that whoever had disturbed the snow before had not come back. But somehow it was not reassuring. It made it feel even more stage-like, like the floodlights that illuminate the stage, and cast the audience into a black morass beyond its golden pool, unseen watchers in the darkness.
For a moment I made myself shiver, imagining the myriad eyes of the night: foxes with their eyes glowing yellow in the lamplight, white-winged owls, frightened shrews. But the footsteps of this morning had not been animal. They had been very, very human.
‘It’s stopped snowing,’ Tom said unnecessarily. ‘I must admit, I’m quite glad. I didn’t really fancy being snowed in here for days on end.’
‘Snowed in?’ I said. ‘In November? Do you think that could really happen?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Flo’s voice came from behind us, making me jump. She was carrying a tray of crisps and nuts, and clamped her tongue rather sweetly between her teeth as she set it carefully down on the table. ‘Happens all the time in January. It’s one of the reasons my aunt doesn’t really live here in winter. The lane gets impassable if you get a big dump. But it never snows as heavily in November, and I don’t think it’ll happen today. There’s no more forecast for tonight. And it looks pretty, doesn’t it?’
She straightened up, rubbing her back and we all stared out of the window at the black lowering trees and the white snow. It didn’t look pretty. It looked stark and unforgiving. But I didn’t say that. Instead I asked the question that had been nagging at me.
‘Flo, I meant to ask, the footprints going out to the garage this morning – was that you?’
‘Footprints?’ Flo looked puzzled. ‘What time?’
‘Early. They were there when I got back from my run at about eightish. Maybe before, I didn’t look going out.’
‘It wasn’t me. Where did you say they were?’
‘Between the garage and the side door of the house.’
Flo frowned.
‘No … it definitely wasn’t me. How odd.’ She bit her lip for a moment and then said, ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I might just lock up now – that way we won’t forget later.’
‘What do you mean? You think it could have been someone else? Someone from outside?’
Flo’s cheerful face looked suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Well, my aunt had a lot of trouble when she built this place – there were a lot of planning objections, local people didn’t like the fact that it was a second home for a start, and there were quite a lot of complaints about the style of the build and the site.’