‘Oh, I’m used to that, Madeleine,’ I say and pass her a cup.
Madeleine puts her cigarette down, sips her tea, then smiles broadly at me. ‘Not drinking yours, I see?’
‘You were right about the bitterness,’ I say. ‘It’s not to my taste.’
Chapter34Cocktails
Sunday, 1 December
I’ve known for some time that Tor is hiding something. She’s been curiously absent from several events, deeply unhelpful with Cait and a little more spiky than usual. I ask if we should get a drink in town, and even though it’s a Sunday, she jumps at the idea, insisting that we should meet alone, which is quite out of character as I’m not important enough for one-to-ones.
According to the website, the Filthy Fours cocktail lounge is ‘a celebration of mixology known for its undeniably zany interior with downward-growing trees, hammocks galore and cosplay bar staff’. As far as I can determine (and I don’t claim to be an expert), it’s an underfunded pantomime serving sweetened cocktails in a draughty warehouse with music at a volume to make your ears bleed, but the youth seem to like it.
‘How’s Cait?’ says Tor, dressed as though she’s been at an event at Kensington Palace. ‘Sorry to have been so out of it. I’ve been so busy with the building work.’
‘Did you hear they found Owen’s body?’ I say.
‘Bloody hell! Owen! That’s quite gruesome, isn’t it? Burnt to death. How awful.’
‘Yes, but it means Cait can move on now.’
We order negronis and talk about nothing in particular. I sense she has a secret as Tor is extremely tense – tightly crossed legs, suspicious glances and rudeness to the waitress.
By the third negroni, Tor’s legs uncross, her arms reach across the back of the velvet banquette, and words start to tumble from her expensive veneers and plumped lips. In order to master the role of the confidante, it’s important to model vulnerability yourself and reveal your own weaknesses.
‘We all have problems, Tor,’ I say. ‘We often hide them away. I know I do. Stephen and I don’t have sex any more.’
‘What, never?’ She looks at me momentarily like a vulture might regard roadkill, then she quickly smiles. ‘Same.’
We laugh, but only for a moment. Her face quickly sharpens as she catches herself in the mirror. I start to put the pieces together – new face, new clothes, new diet, sexless marriage.
‘Are you and Lawrence OK, besides the lack of bedroom activity?’
‘As well as anyone, I imagine,’ she says. ‘He’s deeply committed to his constituents. I don’t know how he does it.’
I listen carefully, but there’s no resentment there, no gibe or aside or tone. If anything, she’s far too kind to that portly self-indulgent Tory who has twice had to pay off junior advisers after some indelicate HR issues.
‘I’ve been worried about you,’ I say. Tor is naturally suspicious and deeply uncomfortable talking about feelings as with most of her milieu.
‘Me? Why?’
Now is the key moment. She can take the bait or close it down.
‘In the summer, you seemed happy and full of the joys of life, and now, you seem really on edge.’
‘I thought I was hiding it well.’
I sit back and open my hands. ‘I’m here for you. I’m a good listener.’
‘Lawrence is having a midlife crisis. He’s taken up with someone again,’ she says. ‘But that’s not the problem.’
‘So, what is?’
‘I’m having a midlife crisis too,’ she says. ‘He’s called Zac and he’s twenty-six.’
I lean forward, unsure whether I’m jealous or feeling just a little salacious. ‘A toy boy?’
She nods. ‘It’s embarrassing, I know, but deeply, deeply satisfying. The energy of the man.’
