Page 53 of The Fall-Out

‘Hold on,’ she went on, her voice husky and strained. ‘Hear me out. I know you’re busy and everything. But I could do with some company. I’ve been staring at the same four walls every night for the past week and I think I might be going a bit mad.’

You and me both, I thought. Except the difference here is, you were always a bit mad. We just didn’t see it.

Although the idea of Zara not having a glittering social life that involved going somewhere different every evening was so alien as to be almost laughable. It couldn’t be true – she must have loads of friends. And she hadn’t exactly held back when it came to turning up on an evening out with my friends – in fact, she’d seen them together more recently than I had. Perhaps she’d be able to tell me what had happened at that meeting – what had led to Rowan’s comment about them having been wrong about Zara – because it didn’t look as if anyone else was going to.

‘Okay,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘But I’ll need to check if Patch is going to be home. Can I text you?’

‘Sure. Do you still have my number from… you know, before? I’m sorry, I withheld it because I thought you might not answer if you knew it was me.’

Damn right I wouldn’t have. But in spite of myself, her admission of vulnerability touched me.

We ended the call and I fought my way out of the laundry basket. Then I texted Patch, telling him that he really, really needed to be home by seven, because I was going out. I didn’t tell him where and he didn’t ask; perhaps he assumed that I was meeting up with Rowan and the others to make up for the night I’d missed. To my surprise, he agreed, saying that his right hamstring had been playing up and his trainer had said to rest it for a few days, so a quiet night would do him good.

By now, the adrenaline from Zara’s call had worn off and my sense of urgency was replaced with scepticism – surely this was some sort of joke? But when I texted the number she’d given me, she replied straight away saying she was so excited to see me, and giving me the address of a bar in Covent Garden.

And so I found myself there at the appointed time. At least, I found myself pacing up and down an unfamiliar street, my umbrella protecting my blow-dried hair from the drizzle, damp soaking through the soles of my ancient suede boots, increasingly convinced that this was a joke – a trick to get me out of the house, or make a fool of me, or just waste my time.

Because Bar Chloe didn’t appear to exist. The door numbers either side of the one Zara had given me were there – a dance studio and the offices of a design agency – but in between them was what looked like a residential townhouse: a tall, white-fronted building with a few early petunias struggling in planters underneath the windows. The shiny black front door was closed, the three buttons on the entry panel were blank and I didn’t have the courage to buzz them and see what happened.

It was seven twenty-eight. I’d wait another ten minutes, I promised myself, then I’d go home and block and delete Zara’s number, as if she was a Tinder date who’d ghosted me.

Then I heard the click of heels on the pavement behind me and whirled around. Zara was hurrying towards me, her black trench coat shiny with rain, her glossy hair reflecting the street lamps.

‘There you are, Naomi. I’m so sorry, I should have warned you – this place is an absolute fucker to find. You’re in the right place, they just deliberately make it all mysterious.’

And she’d chosen it knowing that – knowing I’d feel out of place and foolish, my defences down before I’d even seen her.

Well, I wasn’t going to let my defences down, not if I could help it.

I forced a casual laugh. ‘If you know, you know, right?’

‘Exactly! And thanks to me, you didn’t know. What an idiot I am. Come on.’

She pressed the middle bell, said her name, and within seconds a buzz sounded and she pushed open the door. We stepped into a warm, brightly lit hallway, an Oriental rug on the wooden floor, gilt-framed paintings lining the walls. A handsome young man in a white dinner jacket stepped out of a doorway to meet us and Zara gave her name again.

‘Ladies. Good evening, and welcome to Bar Chloe. May I take your coats and show you to your table?’

Zara shrugged off her coat, scattering raindrops on the carpet, and handed it over. Humbly, I removed my shabby parka and relinquished it too. I glanced at her wine-red cashmere mini dress and over-the-knee suede boots and felt dowdy and out of place in my scarlet Primark tunic and leggings, which were similar on the surface to her outfit and yet as different as night and day.

I imagined her getting ready to meet me, turning and smiling in front of the mirror in that elegant apartment, knowing full well that she looked chic and put-together and I wouldn’t.

But I didn’t have time for in-depth style analysis.

The waiter said, ‘Come this way, please,’ and Zara and I followed him into a spacious, dimly lit room with a high ceiling and sage-green walls, hung with more pictures. Low, copper-topped tables were dotted around, velvet chairs in jewel colours surrounding them. There was a grand piano in one corner and lush potted plants in the corners. Soft music was playing and I could hear the muted hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. It was the sort of place I might have come to with Patch before the children were born, if we had something special to celebrate like an anniversary or a birthday – the sort of place I hadn’t been to for years and had never felt truly comfortable in.

And Zara must have known that too.

‘Your table, madam,’ the guy said to Zara, and we sat down.

‘Isn’t this fab?’ she said, smiling happily and crossing her legs. ‘My favourite place in London. Nothing bad ever happens here.’

There’s a first time for everything, I thought, picking up the printed menu card and studying it. The cocktails, which were called things like ‘Limerence’ and had descriptions like ‘Monkey 47, Amontillado, Clarified Yuzu’, were priced at north of twenty quid a go.

I realised she was looking at me expectantly, as if seeking approval.

‘It’s very glamorous,’ I said, in the same tone I used when I told one of the children that their nursery scribbles had all the promise of an early Picasso.

‘There are just so few places where you can have a good drink and a conversation, and sit in a comfy chair.’ Zara smiled confidingly at me – Look at us two old birds on our night out. ‘I can’t be doing with standing around slopping a shit cocktail down my front and being hit on by men who work in insurance any more.’

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