Chapter 38

The Stage'sloos are modern and plush, with streaked black marble flooring, green and gold leaf wallpaper, gleaming white ceramic bowls and shiny stainless-steel taps. Very instagramable, as Georgia would say.

I turn on the tap and pump soap into my hands from the silver dispenser. Apart from the wobble I had just now about Tom having a hand in Frank's disappearance and his hatred of him, I really have enjoyed tonight, and I know I'm ready to go back to work. The door swings open and two women totter in, their strong perfume flooding the toilets. They stagger behind me towards the cubicles, calling each other Babe and discussing the evening in a slurry tone – it's so sick in here – doesn't Craig scrub up well – Miranda's a total bitch, isn't she? – those fillers and Botox make her look like Frankenstein.

Their voices fade as they lock themselves inside the cubicles, their heady perfume still hanging in the air. They'll have the hangover from hell in the morning and regret everything they said about poor Miranda.

‘Any news about the house?' one of them yells as I rinse my hands. ‘I was gonnou ask you before but forgot.'

‘Josh wants to knock it down.'

‘The price?'

‘Nah, the shed.'

Giggling to myself, I shake the excess water off my hands, then immerse them into the gap of the dryer to the backdrop of a flushing loo and the clatter of doors swinging open, followed by a flash of the women teetering towards the basins. On close inspection, they look older than I thought – probably mid-forties.

‘Liam still wiv that girl?' the woman with spidery eyelashes asks her pink-lipsticked friend, and my heart spasms. Liam. Did I really need reminding? I was having such a lovely evening.

‘He was gonna dump her on Valentine's Day,' the friend replies, sliding up next to me and smearing more pink lipstick all over her mouth. ‘But didn't want her to think he was doing it to avoid buying her a present.' I stifle a laugh that is charging up my throat as I fish out my lip-gloss from my handbag. ‘They're still together, though. He brought her round the other day.'

‘What's she like?'

‘Quite shy. Liam told me off after she left – said I was rude to her.'

‘Oh, you couldn't be rude to anyone. What did you do?'

‘I know,' she exclaims, and then, ‘Sorry, babe,' she says to me after she unsteadily nudges me on the elbow, causing my lip-gloss wand to slide along my cheek. ‘I went upstairs and left her on her own while Liam popped out to get us a takeaway. I said hello first, though.'

‘Some people are so bleeding touchy, aren't they,' Spidery-Eyelashes says as I wipe the gloss from my cheek with a tissue, taking off a line of foundation with it and leaving a red blemish in its place. ‘Liam needs reminding who picks up his manky socks and washes his dirty boxers. I'm glad I haven't got kids.'

Traffic starts building up in my mind as the door closes, shutting out their voices and drunken laughter. I think about my time with Liam. Like Pink-Lipstick-Woman's namesake son, he was a total slob around the flat – socks and underwear discarded on the bedroom carpet, cupboard doors left open, wet towels all over the bathroom floor. Cleaning up after him became a way of life. Pressing my lips together, I drop the lip gloss back into my handbag as a blur of faceless women swim in and out of my vision. God, what did I ever see in Liam? I wish I'd never responded to his message on Instagram. I wish I'd blocked him.

I do a little shiver, catching sight of a middle-aged, fair-haired woman checking herself out in the mirror before moving to the hand dryer, her back to me. Lost in thought, I didn't register her sliding up in her long, red cardigan. Combing a hand through my hair, I dash behind the red-cardiganed-woman, hoping she'll hold the door open for me. ‘Thanks,' I cry in anticipation. The door slams in my face. Why are people so bloody rude?

Back at our table, I find the unsmiling waiter clearing up. ‘Sorry,' I say, ‘did you see where my husband went?' Perhaps, he's gone to the loo, too.

The waiter gestures towards the door with his head. ‘Just left, madam.'

I inwardly scream. Why did Tom leave without waiting for me to return? I specifically told him not to pay until I got back. I wasn't gone that long and, for a change, there was no queue in the ladies. I go to leave and then, ‘Did he leave you a tip?'

The waiter runs a cloth over the table. ‘It's okay, madam,' he says over his shoulder.

I knew it. I can't believe how mean Tom is sometimes. Admittedly, the waiter was a bit miserable but who knows what battles he's fighting. I fish around in my handbag for my purse and hand him a five-pound note.

‘Thank you so much, Madam,' he says, smiling for the first time this evening. I race across the restaurant. ‘Don't forget your doggy-bag,' he calls out, but I'm gone.

There are a few patrons hogging the pavement as I slip out into the cool, evening air. My eyes flit around the street wildly, searching for Tom, and then I spot him, about thirty feet away near a taxi bay. He's standing in front of a group of revellers, talking to a couple who look like they're killing time, waiting for their cab to arrive.

I start walking. Stop. Crane my neck for a better view as the group of revellers bundle into a waiting cab. The man is about Tom's age, maybe a bit older, late-fifties, wiry long hair but balding at the top. He looks like he's come straight from work in his dark suit and white shirt, tie loosened, round belly hanging over his trousers. My eyes dart to the woman, who has her back to me. I know her. I'd recognise that long red cardigan anywhere. It's the woman from the toilets who slammed the door in my face just now.

Tom is laughing at something the man is saying now and the woman is looking at her watch, shuffling impatiently on the pavement in her red stilettos, that match the colour of her cardigan. The lady in red. Wasn't that a song? I frown, her profile looks familiar. We know them, obviously. I think they're Linda and Theo's friends. We met them at one of their many parties. I should go over and say hello. I go to move when a taxi pulls up. The round-bellied man opens the door, then turns and yells out, ‘Cheerio, Tom.'

I watch as the woman folds herself into the backseat of the cab. When she looks up, I see her face properly for the first time and everything stops. The rowdy group behind me cheer. A bus pulls up next to me, wheels screaming. Maybe it isn't her. Maybe my vision is playing tricks on me. I have had two big glasses of red. That's equivalent to about five drinks, isn't it? I start walking fast, wishing I'd worn my flats instead of these three-inch heels. Tom has his back to me now, one hand in pocket, the other pressing his phone against his ear. I'm a metre away when the cab pulls away and just then the woman glances out of the window, giving Tom a polite nod and tight smile, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it's her. Mrs Anderson. Daisy's auntie.