27 May
Laurie
Lucille knows perfectly well that Tuesday is one of Oscar’s Brussels days, so why she’s pressing our door buzzer is anyone’s guess. For a second I consider pretending I’m not home. I don’t though, because she probably watched me come in a few minutes ago; or more likely has a spy-cam in here watching my every move.
‘Lucille,’ I say, my face wreathed in welcoming smiles when I open the door – at least I hope it is. ‘Come in.’
Instantly I feel crass for inviting her into her own flat. After all, it’s her name on the deeds. She’s far too polite to say it though, even if the haughty look as she passes me suggests otherwise. I sweep the empty coffee cup up off the table, glad I ran the hoover round before work this morning. Oscar keeps trying to get me to agree to a cleaner, but I just couldn’t imagine telling Mum that I was paying someone to clean up after me. HRH Lucille flicks her critical eye around as she takes a seat. God, what do I say to her?
‘Oscar isn’t home today, I’m afraid,’ I say, and her face falls.
‘Oh.’ Her fingers flutter to the fat, buttery pearls she always wears. ‘I didn’t realize.’
Sure. She has his engagements in her organizer written with a special green pen she uses just for him. ‘Cup of tea?’
She nods. ‘Darjeeling, please, if you have it?’
Normally I wouldn’t possess such a thing, but someone gave us a selection of different teas as a wedding gift so I just smile and leave her to her own devices for a moment while I check. Ha! Yes, I could punch the air, I have Darjeeling. I know full well that she only asked for it because she thought she’d catch me out, and the sense of victory I feel is unbecoming. I wish it wasn’t this way between us; perhaps now is a good time for me to try and make some headway. While I wait for the tea to brew, I put the sugar bowl and milk jug – more wedding presents – on a tray with two teacups and add a plate of shortbread.
‘Here we go,’ I say, bright as a button as I take the tray through. ‘Milk, sugar and biscuits. I think I’ve covered everything.’
‘No, no and no, but thank you for the effort.’ Lucille’s eyes are a different shade of brown to Oscar’s, more amber. More snake-like.
‘This is nice,’ I say, sitting on my hands so I don’t fidget. ‘Did you need Oscar for anything special?’
She shakes her head. ‘I was just passing this way.’
I find myself wondering how often she’s just passing; I know she has a key. It wouldn’t surprise me if she let herself in when there’s no one home. The thought disconcerts me. Does she search for proof that I’m a gold-digger? Go through our mail looking for maxed-out credit-card statements or search my drawers for evidence of a shady past? She must be spitting tacks that I’m clean.
‘I imagine you find it lonely here during the week?’
I nod. ‘I miss him when he isn’t here.’ I feel a wicked urge to tell her I throw wild parties to fill my time. ‘I just try to keep busy.’ As if to prove my point, I pour her tea. No milk, no sugar.
She takes a ladylike sip and winces as if I’ve given her battery acid. ‘A little less time in the pot next time, I think.’
‘Sorry,’ I murmur, privately thinking that the most alarming part of that sentence was ‘next time’.
‘Admin, isn’t it? For a magazine? Sorry, you’ll have to remind me what you do.’
I sigh inwardly at her abruptness. She knows exactly what I do, and for whom. I’ve no doubt she’s checked it all out online. ‘Not exactly. I’m a journalist on a teen magazine.’ I know, I know. I’m hardly at the cutting edge of journalism.
‘Have you spoken with Oscar today?’
I shake my head and glance up at the clock. ‘He normally calls after nine.’ I pause, and then in the spirit of offering an olive branch, I add, ‘I can ask him to call you tomorrow, if you’d like?’
‘Don’t trouble yourself, dear. I’m sure it’s burden enough having to call home every day without adding to his list.’ She puts a little peal of laughter at the end, as if I’m some harpy wife who needs to learn her place.
‘I don’t think it’s any trouble to him,’ I say, offended despite myself. ‘It’s hard on us both being apart, but I’m proud of him.’
‘Yes, I expect you must be. It’s a pressured job, especially managing an overseas team.’ She smiles. ‘Although Cressida tells me he’s marvellous to work under.’
Cressida works out there? She wants me to ask her what she’s talking about. I swallow the question, even though it burns in my throat. To mask it, I pick up my teacup and sip the wretched tea. It tastes of cat piss. We assess each other across the glass coffee table, and then she sighs and looks at her watch.
‘Goodness, is that the time?’ She gets to her feet. ‘I should be on my way.’
I jump to my feet too and see her out. As I kiss her papery cheek by the door, I dig deep and finally find my balls. ‘Well, this has been an unexpected pleasure, Mum. We should do this more often.’
I don’t think she could look more horrified if I’d called her a whore. I genuinely think she’s going to slap me.
‘Laurel.’ She inclines her head formally and glides out of the door.
Once she’s definitely gone, I dump the piss-tea in the sink and pour myself a large glass of wine instead. How such a bitter woman raised such a sweet man is a mystery to me.
I sit down on the sofa, feeling very alone. Lucille came here for one reason and one reason only: to make sure I’m aware that Oscar is spending half the week in Brussels with his far more suitable ex-girlfriend. His ex-girlfriend who he didn’t think to mention was now working under him.
The one person I’d love to pick the phone up and talk to now is Sarah. I almost try her number, but what am I going to say if she actually answers? Hi, Sarah, I need someone to talk to because I’ve discovered that my husband is spending too much time with his ex? I somehow doubt she’d be a sympathetic ear. Instead I reach for my laptop and open Facebook. I’m not friends on there with Cressida, but Oscar is, and it’s a moment’s work to hop on to her page from his. Much of it’s set to private, aside from the few posts she wants the world to see, shots of her sophisticated lifestyle in Brussels. I click through until I find one of her in a group outside a bar, Oscar laughing beside her at the table.
Oh, Oscar.