Cover Story - 60

Bel waved and watched from the back seat as Connor surrendered a brown duffle bag to the driver, a suit in a cover held by the hanger in his other hand. Bel was quite stomachachey with gratitude.

‘Hello,’ he said, climbing in next to her, ‘mind if I hang this up?’

‘Pass it over,’ Bel said. ‘Room by me.’

‘No trains for Lady Macauley then?’

‘The hotel’s in the middle of nowhere! One of those posh spa and golf places. We’d be on trundlers.’

Connor smiled in an indulgent way.

‘Who do your family think I am?’

‘They have all your real biography except for the part where we’re “early days, having fun, nothing too serious yet” level dating,’ Bel said.

‘Got it. Your mum is Bridget, your brother is Miles and his girlfriend is Yasmin?’

‘Wow. Doing better there than some actual boyfriends I’ve had.’

They started talking shop about the Mayor scoop fallout and Bel was surprised how fast the two-hour journey went. The car deposited them on a gravel drive that circled a dribbling fountain feature, in front of a vast edifice of Grade II listed Jacobean grey stone.

Verity was marrying at 4.30 p.m., making the timings civilised.

They bumped into her mother, Miles and his girlfriend straight away, lounging on re-covered Chesterfields in the Great Hall, all sipping Buck’s Fizz.

‘God, you’re not mucking around,’ Bel said, looking at her watch.

‘They were complimentary! Did you want us to throw them back in their faces?!’ Miles said.

She submitted to a hug from the rangy Miles, then Yasmin and her mother.

‘Sorry to say these piss jobs are the Macauleys, Connor.’

‘I recognised the attitude to free alcohol,’ Connor said, shaking hands in turn. ‘Hi I’m Connor, great to meet you.’

Bel had to look away a little, feeling a pressure on her chest that must come from the fact it was a deception. A necessary, small one, but a deception nonetheless.

She’d thought of explaining the backstory of Connor attending, and decided it would achieve nothing other than her family not knowing how to treat him. Her mother quite possibly objecting to use of a decoy in case their hosts found out.

‘You catch up with your family, I’ll do the check-in,’ Connor said, ‘It’s in your name, right?’

Bel nodded as he excused himself.

‘Well I never,’ her mum said, ‘Lovely manners and drop-dead handsome? Hang on to this one, Isabel.’

Bel already knew what her fib about their ‘split’ would be: ‘ he hates the north and we couldn’t make the distance work.’

Bel felt cheered by the sight of her family: today wasn’t the easiest, but she had sound loved ones around her.

A porter led them to their room. Much deep pile carpet, the shade of a hamster, frilly pelmet floral curtains over fifteen-foot-high windows, Regency striped sofas facing off across a mahogany coffee table, and a canopied four-poster bed, in a space the size of a tennis court. Sharing a bed was still sharing a bed but Bel felt secret relief that, in this acreage, she and Connor were hardly on top of one another.

‘It’s like Balmoral . Before you call me Paris Hilton, I think they upgraded us,’ Bel said, after the door closed.

‘Oh I know they did. It was a woman on the check-in desk and she wanted to talk about how on earth I wasn’t married, because I “looked like I’d be married”,’ Connor said, and winked.

‘Blurgh,’ Bel said, but she was laughing. ‘What does “looking married” entail?’

‘It entails an Executive Suite. All right if I have first shower, then you can take longer at your leisure?’ Connor said, pointing to the en-suite bathroom.

‘By all means,’ Bel said.

She added the burble of the boiling kettle and Murder She Wrote, volume low, to add to the off-stage sound of running water. It didn’t feel uncomfortable to share with Connor, Bel thought, but the not-uncomfortable had to be diligently maintained. With that in mind she opened her case, hung her dress up and made sure her knicker cache wasn’t on display.

After a few minutes, there was a knock at the bedroom door. Bel looked over at the closed door to the bathroom and thought, well, Connor wasn’t going to exit unclothed anyway so she was clear to answer it.

Bel was taken aback to see Tim: coordinated in chocolate-brown suit with pearl-grey tie and pocket square. Kind eyes, blonde-brown hair and neat beard. Their colouring was similar enough they sometimes got mistaken for siblings.

His expression was neutral.

‘Afternoon. Can I have a word?’

‘Afternoon! Sure.’

Bel had a hopeful premonition that they might be about to make friends at last. Despite the sniping, she’d really like a burying of the hatchet. Bel wanted a redemption arc and a way to be around each other.

She stood aside and Tim passed her. She recognised his aftershave, a Proustian waft of Mont Blanc Explorer, and for a second it was as though the last year never happened. She pictured herself as Tim’s date today, the you next entreaties. Time folded back on itself and, for fifteen seconds, they’d never separated.

‘I wanted to let you know I’m here with Rhiannon. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months.’

‘Oh yes, I know? From Instagrams. That’s nice. Rhiannon’s great.’

‘I didn’t think you were on there anymore?’

‘I’m not. Shilpa told me.’

Tim’s eyes widened: ‘Oh right, of course.’

Bel genuinely couldn’t tell if he was having her on. Of course Shilpa would tell her. She supposed male thinking might not have got that far. She’d assumed Tim had wanted her to find out that way to inflict pain, but if this was the general intention, Verity’s wedding was more painful still.

‘Yeah, Rufus is with Nicky. He’s a lot happier,’ Tim said.

Bel didn’t expect that jab.

‘Good for him. That was the idea.’

‘Whose idea, Shilpa’s? No it wasn’t.’

‘You think she divorced so they could both be unhappier?’

‘I think she wanted one so she could be happier, sure.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with that. Women don’t owe men staying in unhappy marriages.’

‘Hah, sure. Funny that she isn’t though, eh?’

‘What?’

‘Happier.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Stuff Rufus says about her response to Nicky. She unfollowed him.’

Bel’s apprehension increased. This didn’t feel like an amnesty. More of a build-up.

‘Probably for the best. All I know is she wishes them well,’ Bel said.

‘That’s a lie, but then you’re very comfortable with those.’

Bel took a moment to catch up with the savagery, as it was spoken as if casual observation.

‘Erm … what?’

‘Why did you come off social media right after we split up?’ Tim said. Oh. This was why Tim was here: settling scores.

Bel was sweating now, her underarms hot. There was no shower running and Connor could hear everything.

‘Needed the head space and I realised it worked well for the Manchester job.’

‘You didn’t get offered that job until months later. Another lie.’

‘I said I “realised”.’

‘You also changed your mobile number?’ Tim said.

Oh God. Now, today …

‘Yes. I was getting loads of spam callers and as I’d deleted my apps I thought, fresh start …’

‘Lie number three. Racking up.’

‘What is this? Why are you having a go at me?’

‘It wasn’t an “Anthony Barr” that made you do all that?’

Bel’s heart was pounding so hard it must be audible. Had Anthony contacted Tim? Despite knowing Bel had the video? Was this his coup de grâce?

‘What? No!’

‘You weren’t shagging this bloke when we were together?’

Time momentarily ground to a halt for Bel in the stark horror of receiving this long overdue, assumed-never-arriving, j’accuse.

‘No?!’

‘Yeah, I’m afraid fucking muggins here finally worked it out, Bel. Couldn’t understand why this random guy was the first view on my Stories for months, turned up as visiting my LinkedIn too. Got stalker vibes, but why would a man I didn’t know stalk me? Then he’s sending me a weirdo message trying to find your new number. I couldn’t place where I knew the name from at first. You were shagging him when we were together and ghosted him, right?’

‘No and no.’

‘Who is he then?’

‘An ex-colleague who developed a thing about me.’

‘Developed a thing, without you doing anything to encourage a thing?’

‘Yes.’

‘While we were still together?’

Bel licked dry lips. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail. ‘Overlapped slightly, yes.’

‘Why not tell me about him?’

‘We were splitting up, it wasn’t your worry.’

‘Haha. I’ve lost count of the number of lies we’re on now. Is he why you moved to Manchester?’

‘Of course not.’

‘“Of course not” from someone intimidated enough to change their mobile number. No one does that without a reason, Bel. They don’t do it because they’re getting PPI calls. You must think I’m an actual div.’

‘Why are we doing this on your sister’s wedding day?’

‘We didn’t do it at the time, did we? When I was crying my heart out, trying to work out why one day we were suddenly done, no discussion. When I asked you, swearing on your mother’s life, to tell me if there was anyone else …’ Tim paused. ‘Oh. Wait. You said there wasn’t anyone because you’d dumped him by then? You were playing word games with me when I was having the worst day of my life?’

The most shameful episode of her life, in turn, and Tim was absolutely right in all details. Bel hard-swallowed while her skin crawled.

‘I’m so sorry I hurt you. But it wasn’t due to—’ Bel said.

‘Don’t bother carrying on lying. All those months I knew you were off with someone else and when I begged for the truth, you let me think it was all in my head,’ Tim said. ‘Bel Macauley, this firebrand journalist doing her big exposés of wrongdoing that end other people’s careers, lying your tits off in your own life. Nice. You’re the fakest person I’ve ever met.’