‘We need to talk—’
‘No, we don’t. I don’t want to speak or look at you for a long time. Perhaps never again.’ As I say it, I realise I mean it. I was furious at him for the insider trading – at first I thought, briefly, about walking away. But I never truly considered it. Now this, this is different.
He nods, mutely. I can’t bring myself to look at Katie. ‘I can’t believe I wasted so much time on you. Either of you.’
And then something occurs to me, something almost too horrible to vocalise. But I have to say it, have to know. I turn to Katie, still not looking at her, but in her vague direction. ‘You didn’t drink anything,’ I say. ‘On the train. I saw. You had a glass of wine, but you didn’t drink it. You haven’t been drinking at all, actually.’
Silence. She’s going to make me say it out loud. I can see even now how she crouches over in her nakedness. Trying to hide it from me: what I saw earlier when she was in her underwear, but couldn’t understand at the time, because I was too drunk, because it made no sense. It’s no Christmas paunch. Katie isn’t the sort of person to get a Christmas paunch.
‘You’re pregnant.’ When she doesn’t respond, I say it again, louder. ‘You’re pregnant. Say it, for fuck’s sake. You’re pregnant; it’s his. Oh my God.’
I see Julien’s mouth fall open. So he doesn’t know yet. It’s a small victory, at least, to see how appalled he looks.
‘Manda,’ Katie says, ‘It was an accident … I’m s—’
I put up a hand to stop her. I will not cry in front of them. That’s all I can think. Miranda Adams never cries.
‘You’re welcome to each other,’ I say, while the grief and rage courses through me like acid. The pregnancy is so much worse than the affair, somehow. The sense of the theft is so much greater. It’s like Katie has stolen it directly from me. That thing inside her should be my baby.
‘I’m getting the early morning train back to London,’ I say, and I’m proud that there’s only the hint of a catch in my voice. ‘There are some things I need to do. Something I need to set right – a secret I’ve kept for far too long. Julien, I think you know what I’m talking about?’
His eyes widen. ‘You wouldn’t, Miranda. You wouldn’t do that.’
But I would. ‘Oh wouldn’t I?’ I smile – I know it will unnerve him even more. ‘You think you know me so well? Well, until just a few minutes ago I thought I knew you. But it would appear that I was wrong. What’s to say you know me so well, in return? Want to find out how little you understand me?’
‘It would destroy you, too.’
I put a hand to my lips, a pantomime of deliberation. I am almost enjoying this, making him squirm. It is a very tiny compensation. ‘I don’t think it will, actually. I’ll explain it all to them, how you even tried to trick me, at first. It will be a bit embarrassing, yes, and I suppose there might be some small penalty for not doing it sooner. But I won’t be the one losing my job. I won’t be the one going to prison. That will be you, just in case you’re unclear. You will be the one going to prison.’
His mouth is set, grim.
‘It’s a pretty big offence, isn’t it? Especially in this post credit-crunch world. You think any jury would hesitate to convict you? You’re a Fat Cat Wanker Banker. They’d take one glance at your smug face and tell the judge to throw away the key.’
I’m not even sure insider trading cases have a jury, but it is enough to see the look on Julien’s face: the fear. Katie looks completely baffled. So this is one intimacy he has not shared with her. Lucky girl.
He comes towards me again, and this time I put my hands up, to stop his words landing on me, affecting me. To show him that I will not be swayed.
‘It would ruin both of us, Manda.’
The short, affectionate version of my name – as though he thinks it might soften me.
‘Don’t you ever call me that again,’ I say. ‘And yes, when I divorce you, I suppose there will be less coming my way, once they finish with you. If that’s what you’re referring to. But at least I’ll have a clear conscience.’
And I’ll have got my revenge.
KATIE
So this is The Truth. The one I could never have told in that game.
It had been a really long week. I’d had two nights of sleeping in the office. They actually have these little rooms called ‘sleeping pods’ where you can grab a couple of hours’ rest. No – in case you’re wondering – that’s not the company looking after its employees, it’s simply in order to keep them close, to wring as much work out of them as possible. My mind felt numb. The case was over, I was going home – except that nothing was waiting for me there beyond a fridge with some curdled milk in it, if I was lucky, and a prime but utterly uninspiring view of the very square mile I slaved away in daily. And silence. The silence of a single woman with nothing for company but a bottle, or two, of wine.
It was ten o’clock. Too late to call anyone, scare up some plans. In my early twenties there would have been more of a chance of that. People might have been busy, but invariably it would have been something I could join at late notice. A house party – Samira was always throwing them – or a night out clubbing with Miranda, a big dinner with the gang. Now everyone had plans that took place in smaller numbers, usually twos or fours, and were arranged in advance, didn’t welcome a last-minute interloper. Maybe I could have called Miranda, but I wasn’t sure I had the energy for her. For all that perfection. For her to make me her project, as she always did – has always done – and tell me what was wrong with my life.
So I could go home and sit with my bottle of wine in my empty flat, or I could do it in a bar, and perhaps pick someone up to bring home. This was my replacement strategy, you see, for the nights out and house parties and dinners of our twenties. I suppose in a way it was more efficient: at least you didn’t have to make conversation.
Of the two options open to me, the second was infinitely more appealing. I could take someone home, and for a couple of hours the flat would have life and noise in it. So I walked into one of my regular spots in the shadow of St Paul’s. The barman knows me so well that he started pouring me a large glass of Pouilly-Fumé before I’d even sat down – which is either thoughtful or depressing, depending on which way you look at it.
I sat down on the stool and waited for someone to approach me. It usually didn’t take too long. I’ll never be Miranda-beautiful, of course. This used to depress me. It’s not easy growing up in the shadow of a friend like her. But of late, perhaps only really since I turned thirty, I have learned that I have something that seems to intrigue men – my own particular attraction for them.
There were a few people around the bar: groups of co-workers, probably, and a scattering of Tinder dates – but it wasn’t packed. Only Tuesday evening, so not a proper night out. Perhaps I had been overly confident about my chances. There was only one man sitting along the other bar, perpendicular to me. I’d vaguely noticed him as I sat down, though he hadn’t glanced up, and I hadn’t actually looked properly at him. I could tell even from the hazy outline in my peripheral vision that he was ‘youngish’ in the way that I am ‘youngish’, and attractive. I don’t know how I knew this without properly looking, it must have been some animal sense. And that same sense told me that there was something despondent about him, hunched-over.
And then both of us looked up at the same time, to get the barman’s attention. I saw, with a shock, who it was.
‘Julien?’
He looked surprised to see me, too. I suppose perhaps it shouldn’t have been all that shocking, considering we both work in the City. But there are still thousands of bars and thousands of people, and I would have assumed Julien was at home with Miranda, anyway. This was one of the first things I mouthed to him. ‘Where’s Miranda?’