Between You and Me

by Carol Mason

  I place the tea towel back on the hook. ‘Maybe I could still see the kids from time to time.’ I don’t even know if it truly would be a good idea, or how it would work; I find myself clutching at some sort of straw. But there’s not even a split second’s contemplation before he shakes his head.

  ‘No way,’ he says. ‘It’s not happening.’ He turns and walks away. I hear him proceed down the hall to the cupboard, the opening of the door. I follow and watch him take out his dog-walking shoes, then bend and tie his laces.

  When he straightens up, his eyes are glassy with tears. ‘You’ve made your choice,’ he says. ‘We will live with it. Don’t worry about them. They’re young. Especially Toby.’ He seems to compose himself and sends me an ice-cold stare. ‘In time they’ll forget you ever existed.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Three months later

  I wheel my suitcase along the concourse, following the signs to the underground. My phone burrs. A FaceTime call. I click Accept.

  ‘Home safe and sound?’ My parents’ heads are locked together.

  ‘Just walking through Gatwick now. Flight was a bit late.’ I try to juggle my phone, my handbag, a water bottle and the gloves I just unearthed from my bag so we can look at each other.

  ‘We miss you already,’ my mother says. ‘Can you not turn around and come back?’

  The phone bobs as I walk. I am not a lover of airports and my mission is to get through them as fast as humanly possible. ‘Christmas. Remember? Isn’t that what we agreed?’

  ‘Only two months away,’ my dad says. ‘We’d better start writing our grocery list.’

  ‘Tesco’s Christmas pudding and Marks & Sparks mince pies,’ my mother chirps up. ‘That’s two of them already.’

  I smile. ‘I’ll do my best to oblige.’

  ‘Are you going to be okay?’ She suddenly turns serious.

  It’s a very odd question. I know I’m going to be okay, but I don’t feel okay. I’d hoped that five days in Spain could have resulted in some seismic shift in my spirits, but that may have been over-reaching. ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say.

  They both look at me like they want so badly to believe me, but can’t.

  I tell them I should probably go because I’m coming up to an escalator and need both hands free. ‘Text you tomorrow.’ My feet stop. I hold their faces steady before my own. ‘I love you,’ I tell them.

  Then I click off before I have to look at their worried, disenchanted expressions for a moment longer.

  My flat overlooks a small street that’s sparsely dotted with the sort of high-end niche shops that always look empty, and you’re never quite sure how they manage to stay in business. On one corner is one of those civilised upper-crust neighbourhood pubs that regularly has what looks like the same half-dozen guys drinking beer outside. I can look down on to the tops of their heads, watch their breath dispersing into clouds in the cold air. And on the other corner is a small church surrounded by a cluster of trees that have lost their leaves.

  When I come home after a series of busy shifts – Foundation Year 2 having brought different challenges that come with being a fully registered doctor – I’m grateful that nothing else is expected of me once I walk through my front door.

  But then I’m just alone and . . . lost.

  There is no one making my breakfast after a long night shift. No one to talk to about my day, or bounce my concerns off. At first it’s a bit of an odd luxury to be able to take a basket around Tesco on a Saturday and pick out food for one. But coming home, eating alone and then going to bed on my own is utterly bewildering at times. I can’t quite get my head around the fact that I had a marriage that lasted barely eight months. I keep thinking that as the previous narrative wasn’t making me happy, this one should feel more promising. But the graph still feels pretty flat at the moment.

  So, I try to keep myself busy. On Halloween night I meet Sophie at the Pig’s Ear for dinner: a potent night for me, because it’s also the night Joe proposed, one year ago. No fanfare. Just a dinner he’d prepared. A candle. And a question.

  ‘Where’s Charlie this evening?’ I ask, as we’re shown to a table in the quiet little dining nook upstairs.

  ‘His dad’s in town. He took him out for a steak.’ She smiles. ‘We didn’t really feel like staying home and having all the trick or treating.’

  ‘No,’ I say. Tonight was the one night I was actually hugely grateful to be living four storeys up in an attic – even one I can barely afford.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she asks, once we’re stuck into a bottle of wine.

  ‘I’ve no idea to be honest. It’s still really, really strange. Considering I was a long time single, and a very short time married, I thought it would be way easier to snap back to the me I used to be . . . I might have been a little deluded.’

  ‘But no regrets?’

  I shake my head, shrug. ‘Not really.’

  ‘There’s a lot of very great guys out there, you know. For when you’re ready to get back on the market.’

  I snigger at that awful expression. ‘Believe me, meeting some other man is the very last thing I can see me wanting to do for a very long time!’

  ‘You never know!’

  ‘But I think I do. Though I’m particularly looking forward to trying out my chat-up line.’

  ‘What’s that then?’

  ‘Hi, I’m Lauren! I just got out of an eight-month marriage!’ I say it perkily.

  She grins in friendly despair. ‘The right person won’t be fazed by that. Or maybe he’ll have got out of one himself!’

  ‘True,’ I say. But at this point I really could not care less.

  ‘So . . .’ she says. ‘The big news, if we can call it big . . . We’ve been talking about using a sperm bank.’

  ‘Wow!’ I must look amazed. ‘This is news!’

  ‘It’s just conversation right now. It’s not like we’d be doing it tomorrow. But maybe in the next year or two . . .’

  ‘The paediatrician who does want children after all!’

  ‘Maybe. Or maybe the paediatrician who would like to keep her options open.’

  ‘I get it,’ I say, wondering what my options will be in that, or in any other, regard.

  ‘I’m not sure I would go down that route if push comes to shove. It still feels a bit like a science experiment to me. A bit cold . . .’

  I scrutinise her. She turns a little flat again. I tell her that once she’s looked into her little baby’s face I can’t imagine she’d find anything cold about it at all.

  When we leave, she hops in an Uber but I feel like walking. Even though it’s cold I walk all the way along the King’s Road to Sloane Square, to the spot in front of the church where I usually catch the number 452 bus up to High Street Kensington. My contact with Joe over the last three months has been almost non-existent – a quick email asking for my full address, no explanation as to why he needed it but I suspect it might have something to do with formalising the separation. A text with no content, obviously sent by accident; when I responded ‘?’, it got no reply.

  As I approach Peter Jones, I need to cross over to the bus stop, but out of habit I find my feet wanting to veer towards the Tube that will take me to north London. I stand there in a bizarre paralysis, not quite knowing who or what I am anymore, or even where I live, before my brain forces me to get my bearings again.

  On the top deck, as the bus takes us along Sloane Street, I stare into other people’s beautiful living rooms, glimpsing other people’s perfect lives – a gaggle of gorgeous girls dressed as ice sculptures spilling out of a doorway, rushing down some steps to their waiting taxi; off, no doubt, to some glam party.

  I’m lost in sad thoughts when my phone pings.

  A text. From Grace.

  There’s no message, just a photograph.

  Toby dressed as Edward Scissorhands, pulling a funny face at the camera.

  I beam.

  When I get home, the flat is dark except for the str
eet light pouring through the window. I can hear male laughter coming from the pub. I walk over to the window and peer down at what looks like the same clutch of locals who are also eschewing Halloween for a more civilised Saturday.

  I don’t feel like going to bed, or watching telly. There’s a glass of white left in the fridge. I pour it, then throw myself down on the sofa and kick off my shoes.

  I’m just pulling Toby’s picture up again when another text pops up.

  Happy Halloween! You never wrote back. Hoping, therefore, that this is not out of line. Just wanted to say hello. Mel.

  Just as I’m rereading it – I did completely forget to write back to him – a photo pops up. A sexy guy with a beard, longish greasy hair, and a guitar strapped over his shoulder. A big, endearing smile.

  I stare at the moving dots that follow.

  Beard is real. The rest a pale imitation.

  I find myself grinning from ear to ear. Imitation of . . . ?

  Jackson Maine.

  Huh?

  A Star Is Born.

  Ah! The movie! I chuckle. Of course! More than a passing resemblance!!!

  Clearly!

  I’m sitting here thoroughly amused, trying to think what to say next, but then he’s typing again.

  Relationship ended July. Dad died Sept. First ‘outing’ as something other than a sad, single guy. How is your night?

  Before I can reply he sends another picture of a group of guys all in varying degrees of Halloween dress-up, and looking like they’re having a good time.

  Sorry to hear this! I type. Sorry about your marriage, and your dad. That’s rough. Then I add, My night is fine.

  I try to decide if I should divulge anything else, but something stops me; it doesn’t exactly feel like the time or the place. Instead I say, Hope your evening is at least pleasantly distracting.

  I think he’s not going to reply, but then the dots appear again.

  Not bad. Anyway, sorry to appear out of the blue and . . . uninvited . . . Just thought of you and wanted to say hello.

  I scroll back up to his picture. The broad smile, and twinkling eyes.

  Hello, I reply.

  EPILOGUE

  I step out of my car. The winter ground crunches beneath my feet. I lock the door, pop my keys in my pocket and look both ways before crossing the road. The sky is thick with clouds, the kind that promise snow. Up ahead, half a dozen dog walkers congregate, hands stuffed into pockets as their mutts bark and frolic. Normally when I go for a walk, I pop in my earbuds and listen to an audiobook. But today I’m on a mission and head towards the playground, looking out for two faces.

  I spot them over by the small duck pond, walking past the weeping willow that, oddly, hasn’t yet let go of all its leaves.

  Grace sees me and waves. She’s wearing a long, dark green puffa coat and a black crocheted tam hat. Her hair falls in glossy honey tones as she leans forward and says something to Toby, who promptly lets go of her hand and runs to me.

  ‘Lauren!’ He wraps my legs in a bear hug.

  Lauwen. I have missed how he says my name.

  ‘Well, hello, little man!’ I crouch down to eye level, pop a kiss on his cheek, smooth a chunk of hair back from his brow. ‘Did you get new glasses? I love the electric blue rims!’

  He nods. ‘I broke my others in the playground at school.’

  ‘He got into a little fight,’ Grace says quietly. ‘But everything’s okay now.’

  Before I can ask anything else, she says, ‘We don’t have all that long. Dad is taking us for brunch.’

  ‘Let’s go over to the swings,’ I say. And then, as we start walking in that direction, I ask her, ‘How is he?’

  ‘Dad?’ She sighs a little. ‘He’s fine . . . Well, he’s not really fine. But you know him; he never says very much. He’s not all that easy to understand.’ She sends me a brief, downcast smile.

  I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t.

  Toby runs towards the swings the second they come into view. Joe has no idea we are doing this. Meeting. Our little secret. Toby has been sworn to not tell. Apparently, he loved that.

  ‘I don’t really want to go to for brunch,’ he says. ‘Maybe we can stay here instead?’

  I step behind him as he climbs on to the seat, give his back a gentle push. ‘How’s your swimming now, Toby? Can you hold your breath under water?’ I picture Joe and him in the pool together and find myself enjoying the memory.

  He kicks out his legs. His running shoes have tiny cute reflectors on the heels. ‘Yes!’ he says. ‘I can hold my breath for fifteen minutes.’

  ‘That’s fantastic!’ I beam at Grace. ‘A world record.’

  I ask him what he’s learning in school but he doesn’t really want to talk about school. Grace tells me she wants to go to Tuscany to stay at her friend’s villa over the Christmas holidays and her mum is fine with it but Joe doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

  She pulls out her phone, shows me a picture.

  ‘Nice!’ I stare at the big white house set behind a row of cypress trees. ‘If your dad wins, and you can’t go, do you think I can go in your place?’

  ‘Dad is not going to win, I promise you!’ She grins, and the topic has a way of making me feel oddly transient and disengaged from all of them. ‘Can we walk a bit? It’s freezing.’

  We manage to coax Toby off the swings and venture down to the pond again. ‘What are you going to do for Christmas?’ she asks, after we have trod on a while in companionable silence.

  I don’t tell her that I’m trying very hard not to think about Christmas. That, frankly, I’d prefer the holiday just evaporated. Instead, I say I’ve booked a ticket to go and visit my parents in Spain. And that I have to be back for work in the New Year.

  Her phone pings and she stops walking. ‘Hang on.’ She rips off her gloves and then her thumbs fire a reply. ‘We should get going,’ she says, when she looks up. ‘We can meet for longer next time, if you like. Maybe when it’s less cold.’

  I don’t ask her what excuse she gave in order to come here. Or if that was her dad on the line.

  ‘I can drop you off near home,’ I say, realising that actually, I can’t, because I don’t have a car seat for Toby any longer. One of the last things I handed over to Joe as I left.

  ‘It’s not a long walk.’ She looks slightly doleful. ‘We’re fine.’

  I watch her take hold of her brother’s hand.

  ‘Lauren,’ Toby says, when we emerge on the main street again. ‘Are you going to come with us to brunch?’

  I look down at him and smile. ‘Not this time.’ I kneel in front of him again, pull his coat up so the collar sits snuggly around his ears. ‘Stay warm, little guy, and I’ll see you again soon?’

  ‘Okay,’ he says, glumly.

  ‘Bye, then,’ Grace says, holding my eyes for a beat or two. I watch them turn and walk along the street.

  I stand there for a while staring at their backs until they stop beside a car.

  A white Lexus.

  Joe emerges. I witness this tall, attractive figure in jeans and a dark three-quarter-length coat. Someone I used to love. He strides around to the passenger side; Toby clambers in the back, then Grace jumps in next to her brother. After Joe has settled Toby into his car seat, he walks around to the driver’s side again and gets in.

  I try to turn away from what I’ve just seen and start walking in the direction of my own vehicle. I focus hard on my feet hitting the pavement, a sense of loss throbbing with each step.

  I haven’t got far when the white Lexus rolls up beside me and stops.

  The passenger door opens and Joe leans across. He looks at me earnestly, smiles. And then with a hand, he indicates the empty seat.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Some people say that if you work hard, and you sit down to write every day, inspiration will always come; the key is discipline and routine. I don’t believe this. There are days when you think yourself into a box and you can’t see your w
ay out of it anymore – it’s almost like nothing exists outside of it and your world becomes small. You start to doubt you have a story worth writing.

  This is when I generally step away and try to get on with living my life. It might be for a day, or a week. I may meet a random stranger by the beach, have a conversation in a coffee shop, witness something, overhear something . . . This is where the magic happens. My story – my belief in it – will suddenly be ignited.

  I am grateful for every little thread of inspiration, no matter how offbeat the manner in which it arrives, and to everyone who helped Between You and Me take its eventual shape. Thanks, in particular, to my editor Sammia Hamer and to Arzu Tahsin for their patience and support, to the amazing team behind the scenes at Amazon Publishing, to my agent Lorella Belli, my friend Catherine for a timely pep talk, and friends Robyn and Andy Stroud who shared some crazy tales of raising children, given I don’t have kids of my own.

  Thanks to everyone who has bought, read, reviewed or recommended my books. I am truly grateful for this career.

  And thanks, as always, to my husband, Tony, and my mother, Mary, for their never-ending support of all I do.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Carol Mason was born and grew up in the north-east of England. As a teenager she was crowned Britain’s National Smile Princess and subsequently became a model, diplomat-in-training and advertising copywriter. She currently lives in British Columbia, Canada, with her Canadian husband, a rescue dog from Kuwait and a three-legged cat. To learn more about Carol and her novels, visit www.carolmasonbooks.com, her Amazon author page at www.amazon.com/Carol-Mason/e/B0045AP0NI or follow her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/CarolMasonAuthor.

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