Anyway. Not the point. I write on it, Are you really OK? Love, Becky xx, and pass it under the cubicle wall.
A few seconds later it comes back, and Steph has written underneath: No. Not really.
Knew it.
I write, Let’s go and talk. In your car? X, and send it back. Almost at once comes her reply: Yes, please. Thanks. X.
* * *
—
Twenty minutes later, I’ve heard more about Steph’s life, her husband Damian’s life, and their last toxic holiday in Cyprus than I could ever have predicted. To be honest, it’s shaken me up a bit. Marriages should be like Sellotape. They should be all safely stuck down. But they’re not—they peel off in the steam, and sometimes they never stick properly again.
Suze had a wobble with Tarkie in the States, and I feared the worst. Then there was Jess looking all bleak the other day…and now this. Apparently, Damian won’t listen to reason or do counseling. At first he said there wasn’t another woman—but then it turned out that there was. They work in the same company. He’s in the IT department and she organizes events. They had to go to Manchester for a conference, and it all kicked off in the Malmaison Hotel. (I feel I know slightly too many details about this, but I don’t want to interrupt Steph when she’s opening up her heart.)
We’re parked in a side road, and Steph keeps talking, then breaking off to check in a paranoid way if anyone’s watching us. Her main concern seems to be that no one must know. Because then Harvey might get to know. And what she really wants is for Damian to realize he’s being an idiot and come home and for Harvey never to know a thing about it.
“I mean, I suppose Damian’s right,” she says, staring miserably out of the window. “I’m not much fun these days. I don’t crack a lot of jokes. If we go out for dinner, chances are I’ll fall asleep at the table.” She heaves a great sigh. “But it’s hard, you know, doing the school runs and getting to the office on time, and I’ve had this mega project at work….” She rubs her forehead as though trying to massage away her thoughts. “We moved into our house six months ago, and I still haven’t chosen a paint color for the bedroom. Or even unpacked all the boxes. We rowed about that and he said I’d turned into a misery. And he was right.”
I feel a swell of fury at this guy, making someone as hardworking as Steph feel crap. I caught sight of him at school the other day and discreetly sized him up—and I wasn’t impressed. He was dressed in the faded jeans he always seems to wear and was constantly on the phone. He wasn’t even looking at Harvey, who was clutching his hand. Plus he’s got a really annoying laugh. I mean, who does he think he is?
“Steph, you’re not a misery, he’s a bastard!” I say fiercely. “You’re amazing! You’re strong and positive and always there for Harvey. Anyway, who has time for fun? We’re all too busy making pictures out of spaghetti!”
I’m trying to make Steph smile, and at last she gives a kind of half laugh.
“I’ve got three boxes I haven’t unpacked since I moved out of my flat in Fulham,” I tell her, for good measure. “I’ve got no idea what’s in them. And if your husband wants the boxes unpacked, why doesn’t he do it?”
Steph gives another half laugh, but she doesn’t answer the question, and I don’t feel I know her well enough to delve any deeper.
“What about your mum?” I venture. “What does she say about all this?”
“I haven’t told her,” admits Steph, after a pause. “You’re the only person I’ve told, Becky.”
“Tell her!” I say impulsively, even though I don’t know anything about Steph’s mum.
“Maybe.” Steph bites her lip, then musters a smile. “I’d better go. You must have to go too. Thanks.”
“I didn’t do anything,” I say, a bit helplessly.
“You did.” She leans to give me a quick, tight hug. “I appreciate it, Becky. Let me drive you to work.”
Steph drops me at the gates to Letherby Hall and I hurry up the tree-lined drive to the main house. As I enter the gift shop, I’m all ready to explain away my delay to Suze—but instead it’s Tarquin, her husband, who greets me.