Page 43 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Yeah. Thought I’d have a quick look,’ she says.

‘I’ve checked it already, love,’ I tell her. ‘There’s nothing to see⁠—’

‘No, Mum,’ she says, handing me her phone. ‘He’s been tagged in a picture. Look.’ I study the post in which Dom is standing in a garden, flanked by two other men. One has an untended beard, the other – with spindly legs and lank, straggly hair – is smoking a roll-up.

‘I wonder when this was?’ I muse.

‘Not sure,’ Marnie says, ‘but it was posted two days ago.’

‘How weird.’ I study the picture more closely. Again, this seems to be a different Dom: not the cocky new boyfriend at Niko’s, nor the showy mixologist at Eva’s or the angry man on his phone, marching along with a bouquet. This Dom is dishevelled with sweatshirt sleeves pushed up, hair not quite as neat as I’ve seen it, wearing washed-out jeans and a grubby apron. The garden is badly overgrown, and there’s a dented dome-type barbecue that looks as if it might have been dragged out of the undergrowth for the occasion. A white plastic chair and table are sitting askew in the long grass and behind them, a sagging wooden fence is missing several slats.

‘This can’t be Dom’s place,’ I tell Marnie. ‘He has some big riverside house in Chiswick⁠—’

‘And that looks like a patio set from Argos,’ Marnie observes.

‘It does.’ At least he’s not a Superdrug gift card man, I’ve reminded myself, in an attempt to force myself to feel warmer towards Dom. I can’t see him as a white plastic garden furniture man either.

‘Someone called Nigel Rider put it up,’ Marnie adds, and navigates to his page. ‘Oh, his profile’s public. Look!’

I lean in as we study the new photo together. Clearly having been taken at the same barbecue, this time it’s just of Dom, beaming at the camera, tongs in hand. The caption reads: Another of Dom’s famous BBQs!

I look at Marnie and set her phone on the table. Although I’ve been itching to tell her about Sam’s and my Boggis Road excursion, I’ve held back in case she’d fear that her mother had lost it. ‘So that is his place,’ I say.

‘Seems like it. Unless he does his famous barbecuing in other people’s gardens?’

‘But who does that?’

Marnie pours our tea and sips from the white china mug I keep for her here. I love it that she has ‘her’ mug at my place. ‘No one, Mum. No one does that.’

I blow over my hot tea, trying to make sense of this snapshot of what appears to be another man’s life. ‘He did say he’s having his garden landscaped,’ I remind her. ‘Maybe that’s why it looks a bit of a state?’

‘That doesn’t look like the garden of a big riverside house.’

‘No,’ I murmur, ‘I guess not.’

‘D’you think you should say something to Eva? Or just show her the picture and see what she makes of it?’

‘But then she’d know I’ve been digging about.’ And so what if he’s been grilling some sausages and his lawn needs a mow? I reflect. Sam would say we should leave it, I’m pretty sure of that – although we haven’t been in contact since he was at that exhibition. That’s nearly a week ago, which is unusual for us. However, each time I’ve gone to message him, I haven’t known what to say. How was Lucy’s thing? It hardly felt necessary to ask him about it, and I have a feeling that he might not have mentioned it if I hadn’t called that day.

Plus, he could message me, I’ve reasoned. I’ve always assumed we share everything, Sam and Eva and me. But now it seems that we don’t. Not since that night at Niko’s when Dom marched in, and suddenly everything felt different.

After Marnie has left, I feel scratchy and restless and don’t quite know what to do with myself. Normally, I’d allow myself a little browse on Vinted. But I’ve broken up with it now, since that replacement skirt arrived and turned out to be not at all how it looked in the photos. Instead of being a subtle pastel shade, it’s a garish Barbie pink. Is my ancient phone distorting colours now? Or is it my eyes?

At least my beloved painting is back in its rightful place, with Gideon safely returned to his sub-bed home. Curled up on the sofa, I pour the dregs of the now cooled tea into my mug, while navigating to Nigel Rider’s Facebook page. There’s the photo of tong-brandishing Dom. Another one too – so similar that Marnie must have assumed it was a duplicate, posted by mistake. But it’s not quite the same, I can see that now. In this one, Dom’s expression has altered, and he’s pulling what’s clearly meant to be a comical frown. The caption, too, is different. Another great night with D and G!

D and G? My heart turns over. Who’s the G? A housemate? Dom hasn’t mentioned living with anyone and he doesn’t seem like the house sharing type. Eva is certainly under the impression that he lives alone.

I reread the caption as if the answer will reveal itself to me, merely through the intensity of my stare. I really want to message Sam now – but I stop myself, because it’s Friday night, and he’s probably gone to another gallery opening or God knows what. And that’s fine, of course. That’s great for him, to be stepping out with a new artsy friend!

What I need to do, I decide – wishing now that I was drinking wine instead of cold chamomile tea – is to stop being so emotionally involved in my friends’ lives. We’re not kids any more, and is this really the behaviour of a supposedly fully-formed adult? Obsessing over her friends’ choice of romantic partners and what they’re doing with their lives?

It’s not as if we have to be in each other’s pockets – or are even really the Knitwits any more, I tell myself firmly as I take myself off to bed. Eva, Sam and I are three independent people all living our own lives. And what’s so special about Dom’s famous barbecues is no business of mine.

25

WEDDING COUNTDOWN: 21 DAYS

Sam