Love me? I couldn’t believe it. Nor could anyone else when it became general knowledge that Matthew and that dumpy little Poppy with the wild auburn curls were going out. Sandra, who’d been in our group and had never liked me for some unknown reason, was particularly vociferous in her disapproval. ‘I can’t think what he sees in her,’ I overheard her telling another student.
And then, almost three years later, she and Matthew had got together …
The two of them had broken my heart. And although Matthew had said he was sorry and that he felt terrible and so on, Sandra had acted as if she hadn’t done anything wrong.
Of course, that was only part of it. I’d never told Stuart the full story. I wasn’t sure he’d understand. I’m not even certain that I do myself.
‘Now, while we’re on the subject,’ continues the casting director, bringing me abruptly back to the present, ‘I was rather impressed by your profile in that write-up. I’m involved with a new production that’s going to be filmed in the south-west. It’s a sort of Mamma Mia meets Les Mis. Devon and Cornwall are becoming the hot spots. We’re looking for some extras – accommodation will be provided – and I was wondering if you might be able to help.’
He leads me to a corner and calls the waiter to give us each a glass of bubbly. I knock it back, partly out of politeness and partly because I’m still in shock from seeing Matthew. I’ve had far too much to drink now to drive home. I’ll have to take a taxi, even though it will cost a fortune.
‘Great,’ he says, when we’ve finished running through some of my clients. ‘Put it all in an email, would you? We’ll talk on Monday.’
He stands up. I’m aware that the room has emptied. ‘Looks like everyone’s left early because of the weather,’ he says, pointing at the window. I suddenly realize it’s white outside. The threatened snowfall has arrived.
There’s no sign of Matthew now. I’m both relieved and disappointed. Part of me was pleased that he’d seen the new me: the slimmer one who can get away with wearing her daughter’s black leather trousers. The woman whose ginger hair is now described as ‘Titian’ by her hairdresser. The new Poppy who runs a successful business.
The wife whose husband isn’t interested in making love to her any more.
I press Stuart’s number, to tell him I’m on my way home. There’s no signal. ‘Try the foyer,’ suggests one of the waitresses.
I make my way down to the bright, tinselled area with its glittery HAPPY CHRISTMAS banners and a giant snowman bobbing in the middle. Stuart’s phone goes straight to his messaging service. Thanks to the landscape lights outside, I can see that the snow has settled thickly. I ring one of our local taxi companies. Even though it’s not in their area, they might come out. As a family, we’ve used them a few times. ‘Sorry,’ says the man. ‘We’re up to our eyes cos of the weather.’
I google for more options but the answer is the same. If I were the swearing type, I’d make my feelings clearer out loud. But when you’re the mother of two teenage girls, you have to set an example. I’ve become used to holding it all in. Not to mention keeping my balls in the air. Doctors’ appointments; washing machines flashing on overload; client contracts; making sure Melissa and Daisy are on top of school coursework deadlines; turning up at photographic shoots to reassure nervous clients … It never stops! And now this.
A couple of other guests are talking about getting rooms for the night here. The thought of having space of my own to mull over the shock of seeing Matthew again and get my thoughts straight is tempting. Then I’ll be able to go home and continue acting out the part of wife and mother just as I’ve been doing for years. I make my way over to the young man on the desk with a sparkly red-and-green SEASON’S GREETINGS sign suspended, Damocles-like, above his head. ‘Sure – we can help.’
He quotes an eye-watering price, inflated, no doubt, by the weather and season.
‘I’ll take it,’ I say, telling myself I’ll put the cost down on my company expenses sheet. There are also, I notice, toothbrushes and paste on the counter for sale. I didn’t bring any clean underwear but what the hell. I’ll just get up early in the morning and go straight home. Armed with my purchases, I head for the stairs. I always prefer walking to using a lift. So much healthier! But as I take the first step, I hear a voice. I look over the bannisters and see a sofa in the space below. Matthew is sitting there, his head bowed over a phone. His voice is low but clear.
‘I’m so sorry, Sandra. Like I said, it’s snowing. There aren’t any cabs and … you know I’d come home if it were possible. You’ve got someone with you. No. Don’t say that …’
I draw back. The voice sounds like Matthew’s. Yet at the same time, it doesn’t. This is a Matthew I’ve never heard before. It carries a desperate, humble, wrung-out-through-the-mangle timbre.
I stand still. Not sure what to do. Then curiosity gets the better of me and I peer over the staircase again at the figure beneath. Matthew is no longer speaking into his mobile. He is crying. I’ve only once seen him do that. I’d been crying too then – in fact, my sobs had drowned his, proving, or so I’d thought at the time, that my grief was bigger. I shiver and blank the memory from my head as I’d taught myself to do all those years ago.
I must have made a noise because he now looks up at me. I walk down to join him. It seems the right thing to do.
‘Poppy!’ Instantly an ‘everything’s fine’ expression replaces the one of horror on his face. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak more earlier on.’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘You were clearly in demand.’
He looks at me questioningly, as if wondering whether I’m being sarcastic or understanding. I don’t know myself. There’s a distinct air of tension between us. I’m suddenly reminded of how hard it was to read Matthew’s mind when we were younger.
‘I would suggest we chat now,’ he says. His tone is light. Almost deliberately so. ‘But I’ve been trying to get a taxi home. Seems there aren’t any.’
‘I had the same problem so I’ve decided to stay.’
‘Really? That’s a good idea.’ He looks as though he’s going to touch my arm in a friendly way but stops. I’m both relieved and disappointed. ‘Listen – why don’t we meet in the bar?’
No, I think to myself. Absolutely not. ‘Actually, I’m a bit tired.’
‘Come on, Pops.’
Once more I freeze at the use of Matthew’s old name for me. Stuart had called me that in the early days of our relationship and I’d stopped him.
‘We’ve got so much to catch up on and …’
There’s a choking quality to his voice.
‘… and I could really use some company right now to talk about something that’s going on in my life.’
I hesitate.
‘Please, Pops.’
His hand does touch my arm this time, squeezing it lightly. His eyes are pleading.
‘One drink,’ I find myself saying, despite that Are you crazy? voice in my head. But those tears of his had shaken me. What was wrong? I have to admit that I was curious.