‘Pretty much. My bloke often stays over but we don’t live together.’
‘Why not?’ She stirred sugar into her tea and smiled to soften the question.
I sighed. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest.’ I thought about it. ‘I like my own space too much, I think. I’ve lived on my own for a long time and I don’t want to give that up.’
‘Sounds like you don’t love him,’ Scarlett said.
I laughed awkwardly. ‘That’s what he says. But it’s not true. You can love someone without wanting to spend every minute of your life with them. Like Joshu with you. He loves you, but being free to do his own thing matters to him too. I’m a bit like that, I suppose. But my bloke, Pete, he’d like us to live together and for me to give up work so I can devote myself to him. Which I definitely don’t want to do.’
Scarlett pulled a face. ‘Too right. I see what you mean, about having your own space. And I suppose if Joshu was around twenty-four seven, I’d get stir crazy. It’s going to be weird enough when the baby comes along.’
‘How are you feeling about that?’
‘Pretty cool. You know? It’s like I spent all my life watching people fuck up with their kids. I’m the greatest living expert on what not to do to your kids. I’m gonna be a good mum. I’m gonna bring this kid up proper. And nothing’s going to stop me.’ And I believed her.
She delved into her shoulder bag, pulled out a scrunched-up bundle of pages torn out of various brochures and catalogues, and spread them out on the table. ‘This is the cot I’m having,’ she said, flattening a brightly coloured photograph and pushing it towards me. As she went through her purchases, it dawned on me that she probably didn’t have anyone else she could do this with. The girls she went out on the razz with didn’t have the attention span; Joshu didn’t seem bothered about the practical details of their life as parents; and she had no matriarchal family figure to turn to. I was the nearest thing she had to an auntie or a big sister. I couldn’t help feeling that, if I was the answer, Scarlett was definitely asking the wrong question, since I’ve never felt I had a maternal bone in my body.
Still, watching her enthusiasm was infectious, and in spite of myself I began to engage with the debate over buggies and car seats. We were flicking back and forth between cot mobiles when the alarm on her phone went off. Startled, Scarlett began to gather her papers together. ‘Ah, shit,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to go. I’m modelling maternity wear at some charity do up Knightsbridge. Scummy mummy meets yummy mummies.’ She shoved the papers in her bag. ‘This has been great. I’ve had a fucking fantastic time.’ She stood up, hand in the small of her back, groaning. ‘Bloody back. This doesn’t get any easier.’ She gave me a hug. ‘Can I come again?’
I returned the embrace. ‘Of course you can.’
We were halfway down the hall, nattering about when we’d see each other again, when the front door opened. Pete took a step inside then stopped dead. His face gave nothing away. That was never a good sign. Scarlett stepped back and somehow in the narrow hallway I managed the introductions. Pete grunted in response, but Scarlett either didn’t notice or didn’t care. ‘You got a good one there, mate,’ she told him as she squeezed past him to the door. ‘You want to take care of that one. See you, Steph.’ And she was gone, leaving only a whiff of Scarlett Smile in the air behind her.
It would be fair to say that Pete wasn’t best pleased by my new best friend. He seemed affronted that I would want to be pals with someone I’d come to know through ghosting them. No, that’s not quite true. If it had been a politician or someone else with status and power, he’d have been happy to include them in our circle. But all he could see was the Scarlett Harlot and all that went with that image.
‘People make judgements about us by the company we keep,’ he said patiently, as if he was explaining to a child. ‘I don’t want them misjudging you because you’re choosing to be with her. Everybody knows she’s racist and homophobic and thick as a brick—’
‘And they’re wrong. That’s not who she is. It’s who she’s chosen to portray.’
He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter whether they’re right or wrong. What matters is how people view her. They think she’s a contemptible slapper. And that should be enough to keep you away from her. You’ve got nothing in common with her, Stephanie.’
‘I like her.’
‘I like Reginald D. Hunter, but I don’t want him in my kitchen.’
‘Who’s the racist now?’ I tried to sound light-hearted, but Pete didn’t see the funny side.
‘Don’t try to be clever,’ he said, going to the fridge and taking out a bottle of beer. ‘I’m only thinking of you.’
I knew that was a big fat lie. He was only thinking of himself. Concerned that people would judge him because of the company I kept. But I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. It would only end with bad feeling and I hated to see the hurt in his eyes when he was upset. ‘I’ll make sure your paths don’t cross in future,’ I said.
Evidently I hadn’t managed to sound conciliatory enough. ‘The easiest way to make sure our paths don’t cross is not to invite her here again,’ he grumbled, walking past me and settling down on the sofa, remote in hand. ‘What’s for dinner?’
‘I didn’t know you were coming over,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some spaghetti carbonara.’
He grunted. ‘That’ll have to do then. Come here and give me a cuddle before you get stuck in. It’s been a long and weary road, getting this mix right.’ And that was that. Looking back, I wonder whether he thought I’d agreed to dump Scarlett. It never occurred to me that he’d read me so wrong.
12
While I was working on the first draft, Scarlett and I met up once or twice a week. Mostly we got together for lunch in town, but she did come back to the house a couple more times. By now, we both knew we were going to be pals. But there was business to be done too. The plans for the wedding were rattling on, including the selling of the exclusive stories. In spite of Georgie’s entirely reasonable protestations that I wasn’t a journalist, Scarlett had insisted I was the only writer she would talk to. So as well as sorting out the book, I had to write a big magazine piece and a newspaper special about the bloody wedding.
It was like wrestling cats. Neither Scarlett nor Joshu seemed to have the slightest interest in talking about their love, their wedding or married life and parenthood. In the end, I drove out to the hacienda when I knew they’d both be home and corralled them in the Western-themed living room, where I forced them to give me enough quotes to cobble something together.
While I played at being a journalist, Scarlett was reading the first draft of the book. We were up against it now, since Stellar Books wanted simultaneous publication with the wedding. Thankfully, Scarlett liked what I’d done, only asking for a few minor changes where I’d misunderstood what she’d been trying to say in her Scarlett Harlot persona. By the week of the wedding, the book was at the printer and the articles were with their respective publications. I had fulfilled my end of the professional bargain.
That only left the personal stuff. My invitation had been for both Pete and me. I’d dithered over whether I should even tell him about it. He’d probably be working. And he wouldn’t want to come anyway. In the end, I decided not to mention it. I realise I was taking the coward’s way out, but I just wanted to enjoy the day without feeling crap about myself. I knew there would be lots of photos in the press, but I reckoned I could stay out of the front line. Nobody would be interested in me when there was a whole raft of C-list slebs to choose from.