Page 72 of The Fall-Out

I put my feet up on the bench and hugged my knees, watching Clara run across the grass then plop down on her bottom and start pulling up daisies with her chubby little hands. If only my life could be as simple as hers was, I thought, with love guaranteed and heartbreak solved by a spoonful of gelato.

‘Nome?’ Rowan asked. ‘Don’t you think?—’

‘I should speak to Zara? Yeah, I know I should. But I’m…’

‘Scared?’

I nodded.

‘Look, I’m not saying you’ve done anything wrong.’ Rowan turned to look at me, pushing up her sunglasses. There was only kindness and concern on her face. ‘But at the same time, you need to own what’s happened. There might be consequences. Zara probably won’t take this well and putting off speaking to her isn’t going to make it any easier.’

‘But she—’ I began, and then I stopped myself. The suspicions I had about Zara’s own behaviour towards Patch – more than suspicions, now, more like a cast-iron certainty – would change everything, if I were to disclose them to Rowan and the others.

But I couldn’t do that. I’d made a promise to her, and I didn’t break promises to my friends. And besides, if the truth got out to the wider group, it would be only a matter of time before Patch found out. He’d be hurt – more than hurt – and I didn’t want to be the cause of that. Also, what if he were to probe me and discover how long I’d known about Zara’s infidelity without having told him? I didn’t want that, either.

Zara’s secret would have to remain a secret. There was simply no alternative.

‘But she what?’ Rowan persisted.

‘She’s in Paris,’ I said feebly.

‘She’s coming to London on the second Wednesday of next month,’ Rowan said firmly. ‘She told Kate and Kate told Abbie and Abbie told me. Put it off until then, if you want. Speak to her when we’re all there. What’s she going to do, bite you?’

I giggled nervously. ‘I guess not.’

‘Exactly. Big girl pants on, and just do it. It’ll be okay.’

She hugged me and kissed my cheek, her lips smelling of coffee, and a few seconds later Clara ran over and jumped on the bench with us and we all had a cuddle in the warm sunshine.

Despite Rowan’s assurances, I felt more and more anxious as the next Girlfriends’ Club meeting approached. Patch was offshore again, so we could only communicate through text and brief phone calls and I didn’t want to burden him with my worries about Zara. Every time my phone rang or vibrated, I felt a leap of excitement and hope that it would be him, then immediately a lurch of fear that it would be her.

Rowan was right, I told myself. The sooner I’d spoken to her and cleared the air, the better. I might not get her blessing for Patch’s and my relationship, but at least we’d all be able to move forward. Our friends would be there, on hand to support me and comfort Zara. In time, I thought in my rare moments of optimism about the whole thing, we’d all be able to look back on this and laugh.

Still, as that Wednesday approached, I found myself as nervous as if I was going to a job interview – or had a performance appraisal at which all my shortcomings would be laid bare and judged. I longed to seek reassurance from Patch or Rowan, or even pre-empt the evening’s confrontation by messaging Zara. But I couldn’t think what I would say to any of them. All I could do was wait, resolve to turn up and take whatever punishment Zara was going to dish out to me.

By seven thirty, I was at the appointed meeting place – a busy Central London wine bar with glass tables, tubular chrome chairs and face-brick walls hung with abstract artworks in lurid shades of purple, green and orange. It was a venue we’d never visited before and, fighting my way through crowds of noisy City office workers to reach the bar, I hoped we never would again.

I eventually managed to secure a bottle of rosé, five glasses and a tiny bowl of olives that I parsimoniously calculated cost about 50p each, and made my way back to our table. There I sat, my glass dripping with condensation and my palms damp with sweat, and waited.

Rowan was first to arrive. She hurried in, pausing at the entrance and glancing around with worry in her eyes. All the way from across the room, I could read her thoughts: I’m late. Am I too late? I half-stood and waved to her and she hurried over, relieved.

‘Oh, thank God. Bloody Paul was late picking Clara up; I was worried I’d abandoned you.’

‘It’s okay.’ I managed a nervous smile. ‘The others are even later.’

‘Now, you need to stop worrying, okay?’ Rowan splashed wine into her glass. ‘It’s just the Girlfriends’ Club, right? Zara’s your friend. Even if she takes this badly, it’ll be okay. You’ll get through it.’

‘I hope so.’ I realised my hands were shaking, and took a big gulp of wine.

And then I saw them: Kate, Abbie and Zara, arriving together. Abbie was wearing faded skinny jeans and trainers. Kate was in one of the tailored shift dresses she wore when she needed to impress someone at work. Zara was wearing a silk scarf-print mini dress that showed off her slim, tanned arms and legs, outsize black sunglasses obscuring most of her face.

As soon as I saw the three of them, pushing shoulder-to-shoulder through the glass door, laughing, the sun bright on their hair, I thought, They’ve been talking about me.

Rowan must have seen the alarm on my face. ‘It’s okay, Nome. We’ve got this.’

As I watched, they exchanged a few more words, laughing again. Then Zara headed to the bar and Abbie and Kate came over to join us. We all exchanged hugs, just as we always did, but something felt different – wrong.

Before anyone could launch into the usual chat about how everyone’s day had been, how glorious it was to see sunshine after weeks of rain, the excitement of the forthcoming London 2012 Olympics and all the rest of it, I felt the need to set out my stall.

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