Page 41 of The Temp

I look up at an unsmiling waiter, who’s just arrived at our table, pen hovering over notepad. ‘Are you ready to order, guys?’ he says, throwing a glance at the entrance as it swings open.

The evening flies by and the conversation flows. We talk about Daisy and how brilliant she’s been, especially with Georgia. Then we swiftly move on to our heavy workload, agree that life is short, we’ve got to slow down, spend more time together. But when Tom quizzes me about Frank and Zelda, my heart freezes. I tell him, hastily, that they’ve decided to call it a day, and he nods, says he wasn’t right for her and then he says something odd. ‘I hope the bastard rots in hell.’ I shoot a glance at him as he smiles up at a waitress, who is clearing our table. ‘Can we please have a doggy-bag for this,’ he asks, pointing at my barely touched plate.

‘Bit harsh,’ I hear myself say, as the waitress disappears into the depths of the pub, long braids snaking down her elegant back. If I didn’t know him better I’d think Tom might have something to do with Frank’s disappearance. I imagine Tom waking up in the middle of the night and reading the note I left him – Gone to Zelda’s. They’ve had a fight. Won’t be long – furiously throwing on his clothes, grabbing his car keys, turning into Zelda’s road right on cue as Frank stumbles onto the street. Frank hailing him down, bleeding, asking for help – clambering into his car, complaining how we left him for dead, relaying what happened at the gym, saying I was gagging for it – Tom’s hands tightening around the steering wheel, like they sometimes do when we’re having a full-blown row, calling him a liar before hitting the brakes and tossing him out onto the pavement, leaving him to bleed to death.

‘I mean, he was so bloody full of himself, wasn’t he?’ Tom clarifies, snapping me out of my terrifying reverie. Wasn’t he? Past tense.

‘I imagine he still is.’ I laugh lightly into my glass so that he can’t see the alarm on my face. ‘But yes, he was,’ I take another sip. ‘Is,’ I say, tongue slightly slurred. I’ve had enough. It’s time to go home before I say something I shouldn’t.

‘Man’s a complete knob. Good riddance to bad rubbish. I just hope he doesn’t manage to get back into Zelda’s good books. She did seem besotted with him.’ I take another sip of wine, hating myself for thinking my husband was capable of such a despicable act. ‘Zelda will meet someone else,’ Tom affirms, and I’m sure I see a glint of darkness in his eyes.

Chapter 38

The Stage’s loos are modern and plush, with streaked black marble flooring, green and gold leaf wallpaper, gleaming white ceramic bowls and shiny stainless-steel taps. Very instagramable, as Georgia would say.

I turn on the tap and pump soap into my hands from the silver dispenser. Apart from the wobble I had just now about Tom having a hand in Frank’s disappearance and his hatred of him, I really have enjoyed tonight, and I know I’m ready to go back to work. The door swings open and two women totter in, their strong perfume flooding the toilets. They stagger behind me towards the cubicles, calling each other Babe and discussing the evening in a slurry tone – it’s so sick in here – doesn’t Craig scrub up well – Miranda’s a total bitch, isn’t she? – those fillers and Botox make her look like Frankenstein.

Their voices fade as they lock themselves inside the cubicles, their heady perfume still hanging in the air. They’ll have the hangover from hell in the morning and regret everything they said about poor Miranda.

‘Any news about the house?’ one of them yells as I rinse my hands. ‘I was gonnou ask you before but forgot.’

‘Josh wants to knock it down.’

‘The price?’

‘Nah, the shed.’

Giggling to myself, I shake the excess water off my hands, then immerse them into the gap of the dryer to the backdrop of a flushing loo and the clatter of doors swinging open, followed by a flash of the women teetering towards the basins. On close inspection, they look older than I thought – probably mid-forties.

‘Liam still wiv that girl?’ the woman with spidery eyelashes asks her pink-lipsticked friend, and my heart spasms. Liam. Did I really need reminding? I was having such a lovely evening.

‘He was gonna dump her on Valentine’s Day,’ the friend replies, sliding up next to me and smearing more pink lipstick all over her mouth. ‘But didn’t want her to think he was doing it to avoid buying her a present.’ I stifle a laugh that is charging up my throat as I fish out my lip-gloss from my handbag. ‘They’re still together, though. He brought her round the other day.’

‘What’s she like?’

‘Quite shy. Liam told me off after she left – said I was rude to her.’

‘Oh, you couldn’t be rude to anyone. What did you do?’

‘I know,’ she exclaims, and then, ‘Sorry, babe,’ she says to me after she unsteadily nudges me on the elbow, causing my lip-gloss wand to slide along my cheek. ‘I went upstairs and left her on her own while Liam popped out to get us a takeaway. I said hello first, though.’

‘Some people are so bleeding touchy, aren’t they,’ Spidery-Eyelashes says as I wipe the gloss from my cheek with a tissue, taking off a line of foundation with it and leaving a red blemish in its place. ‘Liam needs reminding who picks up his manky socks and washes his dirty boxers. I’m glad I haven’t got kids.’

Traffic starts building up in my mind as the door closes, shutting out their voices and drunken laughter. I think about my time with Liam. Like Pink-Lipstick-Woman’s namesake son, he was a total slob around the flat – socks and underwear discarded on the bedroom carpet, cupboard doors left open, wet towels all over the bathroom floor. Cleaning up after him became a way of life. Pressing my lips together, I drop the lip gloss back into my handbag as a blur of faceless women swim in and out of my vision. God, what did I ever see in Liam? I wish I’d never responded to his message on Instagram. I wish I’d blocked him.

I do a little shiver, catching sight of a middle-aged, fair-haired woman checking herself out in the mirror before moving to the hand dryer, her back to me. Lost in thought, I didn’t register her sliding up in her long, red cardigan. Combing a hand through my hair, I dash behind the red-cardiganed-woman, hoping she’ll hold the door open for me. ‘Thanks,’ I cry in anticipation. The door slams in my face. Why are people so bloody rude?

Back at our table, I find the unsmiling waiter clearing up. ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘did you see where my husband went?’ Perhaps, he’s gone to the loo, too.

The waiter gestures towards the door with his head. ‘Just left, madam.’

I inwardly scream. Why did Tom leave without waiting for me to return? I specifically told him not to pay until I got back. I wasn’t gone that long and, for a change, there was no queue in the ladies. I go to leave and then, ‘Did he leave you a tip?’

The waiter runs a cloth over the table. ‘It’s okay, madam,’ he says over his shoulder.

I knew it. I can’t believe how mean Tom is sometimes. Admittedly, the waiter was a bit miserable but who knows what battles he’s fighting. I fish around in my handbag for my purse and hand him a five-pound note.

‘Thank you so much, Madam,’ he says, smiling for the first time this evening. I race across the restaurant. ‘Don’t forget your doggy-bag,’ he calls out, but I’m gone.

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