Page 24 of The Girlfriend

I T THREW HER INTO TURMOIL. WHEN SHE’D LEFT FRANCE, THERE WAS something she didn’t quite trust about Cherry, but she’d never really expected to find anything out.

Now it was real. Cherry had lied to her boss to get time off—she’d lied to them, too, or been economical, at least, with the truth, and Laura felt hurt.

She’d been manipulated. She was reminded of the scheming Cherry had done to get her job.

And then there was the money. Cherry had seemingly cheated Daniel out of a hundred pounds, so it raised the dark, uncomfortable question: Was Cherry a gold digger?

There had been no one to talk to. Laura had considered bringing it up with Howard, but it had been a long time since she’d confided in him about anything. Izzy was still in France and it wasn’t the sort of thing she could discuss on the phone. So she’d left it to brew and fester in her own mind.

Daniel was due home later that day, and as much as she’d been looking forward to seeing him, she was now also slightly dreading it.

They’d spoken on the phone a few times and things were more or less back to normal between them, but now she had this thing and she didn’t know what to do with it.

His return home was only for a few days, as he was moving out into his new flat the following week.

Laura had arranged a BBQ for close family and friends to send him off.

It would be the first time she’d see Cherry since the holiday.

Cherry, who now infiltrated her mind every minute of the day, winding around like a creeper and making her uncomfortable, uneasy.

* * *

The nightmares had come back, out of the blue, dark thoughts that she’d tried to bury.

They had started before Daniel was even born.

She’d dream she’d had another baby, but had forgotten all about him, only remembering three days later that she’d left him in the wardrobe in a pram.

Panicked, she’d pull him out, neglected, near starving, and he’d look at her, wide-eyed and confused, not knowing why he’d been abandoned.

Guilty relief would swamp her, relief she’d got to him in the nick of time, but somewhere in the back of her head, she knew she’d do it again, she’d let him down again.

And so she did, because the nightmare was recurring.

Later, when she really did have her baby, she’d have black thoughts, visions; and panicked “what-if’s” would attack their way into her head, leaving her standing by, terrified and vulnerable, until she could gather herself enough to shake her head and force them out.

She’d be walking him down the street in the pram, and as a car passed, she’d suddenly see nothing but its wheel and imagine Daniel whipped beneath it, his head crushed and mangled in the metal.

She’d be in the shower and see him falling from an open window that she’d mistakenly left open, his tiny body lying inert on the paving below.

A knife in the kitchen would become a gruesome blade that she would put out of sight, even though he was happily cooing in his bouncy chair.

Worst, she would hear on the news about a young child snatched and she would plummet into nightmarish visions of Daniel calling for her, screaming out, confused as to why she didn’t come and finally broken when he realized she wasn’t ever coming for him.

She would start to hyperventilate and have to get up, walk around the room to expel the images.

They had been dark hours, nights, months, but they had gradually lessened as the years progressed, although they never disappeared completely.

If Daniel was late coming home from school, or later, when he was at uni, and she heard of a car crash on the M11, her imagination would start breeding ideas, one horrific thought morphing into another at rapid speed, until she forcibly stopped them, telling herself he had just got talking to some friends (which he had) or hadn’t been driving to or from Cambridge on the day of the accident (which he hadn’t).

* * *

Movement in front of her made her look up and she saw Alison and Sean, the drama powers from ITV, had arrived at La Galette, the restaurant they’d picked for lunch.

It was in Upper Ground, not far from their HQ, but still they were nearly fifteen minutes late.

Alison’s PA had called to offer a girlish apology: “They’re so sorry!

” However, she had managed to make it sound anything but.

Sean came in first; with arms outstretched, he took her hands as she stood. “Laura, we’re so sorry. Got held up with Helen at the last minute.”

Helen was the comptroller of ITV, and the rumors were she was fond of summoning people to her office in a very headmistress-like way, something that won her no love amongst her staff.

“Don’t worry about it,” said Laura affably. She’d met Sean a couple of times before and liked him, felt he had a nose for a good script and wasn’t afraid of speaking his mind.

“We only managed to get away by saying we had to see you,” said Alison.

Laura was sure that Helen didn’t give a flying fig whether or not they had a lunch date with an independent producer, and the false bolstering of her ego made her slightly nervous—as if she shouldn’t trust anything Alison said.

As well I shouldn’t, thought Laura wryly. Nothing had changed there.

As they took their seats, she wondered what had briefly unsettled her, and it wasn’t Alison’s throwaway flattery—it took more than that to put her off balance—it was this uncertainty with Cherry.

She had to put it out of her mind for the next hour or so; this lunch could be pivotal to the future of her company.

Sean looked at her through his dark-rimmed square glasses. “ Thank you so much for coming, Laura, and thank you for Pillow Fight. I’ve seen two episodes now and I love them.”

Laura said she was glad, while Alison sat with a magisterial smile, as though she had been the one behind it all and without her neither Laura nor the series would be what they were.

“Yes, we’re really pumped,” he said, beaming. Sean was younger than Alison and liked to speak on a more informal level; he worked in television because it was “fun.”

“Has Helen seen it?” asked Laura.

“Not yet. It’s in her schedule for next week. But we think . . . Well, it’s obviously still too early to say for sure, but we’ve got great hopes for it.”

He meant ratings, Laura knew. They wanted a big hit.

“And Sasha is amazing. She’s going to be a big star when this comes out. Like I say, we’ll have to wait on Helen and the first couple of weeks’ overnights, but Alison and I would like to see a second series.”

Laura smiled; this was great news indeed. “That would be fantastic.”

“Alison says you might have a couple of other things to talk to us about?”

She did. The first one was the private school. She’d sent an abridged version of the writer’s treatment on ahead of the lunch. As she launched into the pitch, she watched their pleasant faces remain static and knew they weren’t biting.

“We like it,” said Sean, “. . . like it a lot. It’s just we have something very similar already in development.”

It was the kiss of death. Laura left the fully developed treatment that she and the writer had worked so hard on in her bag.

That was the nature of the business: Something you got excited about, and spent a lot of money and hours of time on, could be quashed in one idle sentence.

It felt more of a blow than usual, but she had to move on.

There was also a book adaptation for which she’d gotten the interest of a British star who was currently on an HBO series, earning ten times what she could in the UK, but who was desperate to get back to the UK, Laura knew, because she missed her family so much.

They remained lukewarm over that one too, citing that their core audience probably wouldn’t identify with the romantic novel as much as BBC viewers, perhaps, would.

“It feels a bit gloomy,” said Sean. “What we loved about Pillow Fight was the suspense, the way the lead character tricked her best friend and ended up getting her man.”

Alison was nodding along in agreement and then they were both looking at her expectantly.

She had one last idea up her sleeve. It was a crime drama, and one or two of those on ITV were nearing their sell-by date, so there would be an appetite for a replacement.

This one Laura liked, for the lead character was a formidable lady detective who had come out of retirement to avoid being saddled with her grandchildren while her daughter went (out of necessity) to work.

She’d rather help pay for child care than have to do it herself.

To her surprise, they liked it, and they spent the next half hour batting around some story details and who might make a good lead.

“Can you get us a treatment?” said Sean. “I think this one could really go somewhere.”

Laura said she could, and lunch continued pleasurably amidst various intruding texts and calls.

* * *

She arrived home to find a rucksack in the hall and had barely got her jacket off before Daniel came through and swept her up in a hug.

“You’re home!” she said, delighted.

“So are you. Just in time for a glass of Chablis and some quiche and salad. I’ve made dinner.”

She ruffled his hair and followed the delicious smells coming from the kitchen, opened the oven door and was blasted with heat. Inside was a large mushroom quiche. “You made this?”

“Hmm.”

“Fibber. It looks suspiciously like it’s from Vincent.”

“Okay, busted. It survived the flight well, eh?”

They compared tans and news on Izzy and Brigitte as they set the table and served up dinner. “So, how was the rest of your trip?” asked Laura. “Did you get much studying done?”

“Yep. Loads, in fact.” He smiled. “I think it picked up once Cherry left. Although we did seem to spend quite a bit of time Skyping.” He suddenly lit up as if he’d just realized something. “We never seem to run out of things to say to each other.”

He is completely in love with her, Laura thought, trying to keep her smile in place as her heart stuttered in dismay.

“That’s nice.”

He looked at her quizzically and she knew the response had been inadequate.

“She’s a great girl. . . .”

“But?” he prompted, eyes sharp.

“It’s just . . . you’ve only just met.”

“And?” he prompted again, and his tone had an edge of defensiveness this time.

Now was her chance. Should she say something? Dare she? How could she not?

“I’ve just noticed . . . she’s someone who . . . You’ve helped her quite a bit since you’ve been dating.” She felt herself begin to blush. God, this is a hideous insinuation.

“‘Helped her’?”

“Financially.”

His face seemed to stall in an expression of incredulity.

“Whoa, whoa, are you trying to tell me you think she’s some sort of . . . gold digger ?”

The blush flooded her face.

“Seriously?”

“I’d just noticed one or two things.”

“Such as? Mum, she’s not asked me for a thing. What was it? I paid for her flights, yes, but the clothes . . . Is that what this is about? They were a birthday present. If anything, she spent more on me when she bought the . . . my painting,” he added.

The awkwardness intensified with the unresolved, ugly specter of the slashed painting .

Laura held up her hands. “I’m sorry, but there’s something about her I just don’t trust.”

“Why? You don’t even know her, not really.”

What could she say? Confess to snooping around in their room and her amateur detective work at the office?

“I feel like I got to know her quite well . . . over the holiday,” she said lamely.

He looked at her and she tried to uphold her statement with a smile.

“Mum. Do you like Cherry?”

His frankness threw her. Her hesitation gave away her answer and he knew it.

“I’m grateful for your concern, but there’s no need to worry. Mum, we’re dating, and I hope we will continue to do so for a long time. I’d like you to be happy for me.”

“Okay.” It was a small squeak of a word, meaningless really.

“Now, what about this BBQ tomorrow? You didn’t have to, you know.”

Should she affirm how much she liked Cherry? Reassure him? How could she, when she didn’t—and now the subject was difficult between them. And she had liked her—she’d wanted to know her and even be close to her.

“Can I do anything to help?” he asked.

“No thanks. It’s all under control.”

“Right.” He pointed to her empty plate. “You done?” She nodded. “I’ll just fill the dishwasher, then I might pop out.”

She knew where, and he knew she knew. She nodded, covering up the pang, the unfamiliar distance that was suddenly between them from his not saying Cherry’s name. She couldn’t bear it, her son becoming estranged from her.

She watched as he took away the plates, the tightness in her chest intolerable.

Maybe she was wrong about Cherry. After all, Daniel was an intelligent person; he would’ve had a hunch if something wasn’t right.

She’d been stewing alone with her thoughts for two weeks, and paranoia had a nasty way of escalating things.

Maybe there was some other explanation and she was on the verge of some awful, embarrassing mistake.

The tension suddenly lessened. Perhaps this could all be easily solved.

Cherry would be at the BBQ the next day; Laura would try to speak to her.

Hopefully, there would be a chance to clarify things and she could put her mind at rest.