“Can I take a message?”
“Who am I speaking to?” she asks, and it’s clear she wants an answer.
“My name is Lessa, I’m a friend of his.”
“A friend who keeps his phone?”
There’s nothing I can say to this, so I just wait for her.
“Are you…” She starts then tails off and I can hear the upset in her voice. “He told me about you. You’re the one who had a baby.”
He told her about me? Despite everything, I can’t help a small smile. “Yes.”
“Look. I don’t like games, so I’m just going to come out and ask. He told me there was nothing between you. Was he lying to me?”
What kind of relationship do they have that he needed to reassure her? My smile drops and my heart turns over painfully. That’s not a friendship, not if she’s worried he’s cheating on her.
“No, we’re just friends.” I say for the hundredth time it seems today. First to Laura, then Clive. And now to this Janey, a woman who clearly has a claim on him.
My beautiful daughter rescues me with a cry.
“Sorry, I have to go. I’ll tell him you called.” And I hang up.
“Thank you, baby.” I kiss her head and go back to feeding her.
If life was complicated a minute ago, now I would gladly go back to just complicated.
I have no right to be surprised; he told me he used to have an active sex life before he came here. And he also told me he reconnected with old friends when he went to Amsterdam. Clearly, she was one of them.
Now I think of it, there have been several calls he didn’t take in front of me. Several times we’ve been together and his phone dinged with a message which he glanced at then decided to deal with later. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time.
“Hello?” The front door slams.
“I’m in here.” I call just as he makes it into the kitchen. Pausing inside the door, he averts his eyes while I quickly drape a towel over my bosom.
He’s always been incredibly respectful, always giving me plenty of privacy. But even though he keeps his face away, he can’t hide his expression which is troubled.
“Is that MP gone?” Brandon never calls Clive by his name.
“Yes, on the last ferry.”
His relief is almost audible in the long exhale; he goes to the drinks cupboard and pours himself a cognac.
“Where did you go?”
He turns to face me. “So, what does he want?”
I’m not ready to answer, not with everything else. “You left your phone.” I hand it to him.
He doesn’t take it; he’s still waiting for my answer.
“Congratulations,” I say, trying not to sound upset.
He raises his eyebrow with a question.
“Two people called for you. Harry Gruppen from the orchestra press office. And…” My mouth clenches not wanting to speak that name.
Say it, say it, he’ll know from the call record anyway.
