They had been happy in their short time together. They really had. And when she had been so cruelly taken from him, he had felt he would never love again. Never find anyone he would feel as one with. Anyone who could complete the missing part of his soul. Who could make him whole. Until he had met Allie, of course. Right from the moment he had first seen her, outside the school gates, he had known that something would happen between them, that they would connect. She had struck him as beautiful, kind and sexy. Despite himself, he had fallen for her. Hook, line and sinker. Hell, he had been harpooned.
He had realised one important thing. Since he had met Allie, the pain of losing Caroline had begun, very gently, to heal. He knew it would never fully go away. He didn’t expect it to. But now the hurt had released him, so to speak. Allowed him to feel for another woman, and feel that it was OK. It was time. And she was the right woman. Allie had filled the hole in his heart.
But now he had to make a decision. If her ex was back on the scene, would he be able to stay around and fight for her? Win her back? He placed the photo back into the drawer tenderly. Did he want Allie enough to fight for her? He sat down and rubbed his forehead, trying to massage away the confusion, the knots. He put Caroline, Melanie and Billy out of his mind for a moment and focused on Allie. Was he ready to win her back? He stopped rubbing his head and smiled. The answer was simple.
He would go to the ends of the earth for her.
Winning her back from an ex-husband, whilst justifying the remainder of his rather complicated private life seemed a tall order. But it would be a cinch. He would give her a bit of space, then phone her.
Chapter 8
Allie turned over and thumped the alarm clock hard. So hard, she hit her hand and let out a muffled howl.
“Ow! The last thing I need is a bandaged finger for the trip to France.” She rubbed her hand and muttered. “That wouldn’t be very chique…”
The throbbing in her hand subsided a little and she focused again on the luminous red numbers beside her bed. Seven o’clock already. She sat up and rubbed her eyes, as if trying to chase away images of last night. Mainly one of her, cuddling up to James on the sofa.
A tap on the bedroom door broke into her thoughts.
“There’s coffee and toast downstairs, if you want it!” James sounded alert. Chipper, even. Or just plain annoying to a woman with a hangover. “Can I come in?”
“Yes.” The door opened and his face appeared. He was smiling broadly at her. “How much wine did I drink last night, James?” she asked hesitantly, dreading the answer.
“Too much,” he said, leaning casually on the doorframe and gazing down at her. “I had to put you to bed, remember?”
“Oh no.” She glanced down at the oversized tee shirt she was wearing. There was a picture of a cat on the front, bearing the words ‘Posh Puss’. She scowled. “Couldn’t you have chosen something more…?”
“Sexy?” He shook his head, slowly. “That wouldn’t have been a good idea, given your state.”
She looked up at him, worried.
“What do you mean, ‘given my state’? What was I doing? I thought I just talked a lot, then dozed off. I wasn’t that bad, was I?”
He sat down next to her.
“Do you remember your main topic of conversation last night?”
She shook her head, breathing in James’ fresh, clean smell. Somehow, it reassured her. Whatever she had done, it couldn’t be that bad.
“I dread to think,” she said.
“Love. That’s what.” His grin grew wider. “How it happens, why it happens, who it happens with. The usual stuff.”
She shifted her position slightly.
“I just want to say that anything I may have said to you might not be the truth.” She coughed. “In fact, it definitely wasn’t.”
His smile was suddenly replaced by a more serious look.
“That’s a shame, Allie.”
“Why?” She could hear suspicion in her tone.
“Because it was interesting, that’s why.” There was a moment of silence as he seemed to take her in, as though he were seeing her for the first time. She met his gaze steadily. “You told me you had loved me, but you didn’t anymore,” he began.
“James, I….”
“You said that we had had our day, and that it was all over. Definitely all over.” She didn’t speak. “But I already knew that. Our relationship is over. And I’m sorry, because it was my fault. I ended it, so to speak.”
“Yes,” she said, quietly. “You did.”
He switched his gaze from her to the wall and scratched his head before continuing.
“You said it was interesting. Love, that is. That we had no influence over it.” He sighed. “You told me you now felt ready to love again.” He looked back at her. It was an unblinking, direct gaze. “You told me you loved Paul. And there was nothing you could do about it. If he didn’t want you, you would die.” He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek tenderly. “That’s what you told me, before you fell asleep.”
She felt her eyes beginning to water.
“I’m sorry, James.”
“Don’t be. I’m the one who should be sorry. You’re a good woman, Allie. I love you. I always will. But you’re well shot of a bastard like me. And I’m sorry for what I did to you. I know it sounds pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. I had no control over what I did. Given another chance, I would only do it again.” He tried to smile. The smile was thin this time. “You deserve better,” he went on. “And it looks like you’ve found it.” He kissed her on the forehead quickly. It was a tender kiss, devoid of passion. Then he took a deep breath. “Allie. Did you ever feel that strongly about me?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head.
“I don’t think I did.”
“Paul’s a lucky man.”
“James. What’s happening to you?”
His tone was serious:
“I think I’m growing up.”
Lunch had been prepared by James. It was a leisurely affair of salad, cheese and wine in the garden. Half way through the meal, Allie realised she had forgotten something vital. If she was going to France the next day, she would need more than a bar of soap and a flannel: she would need Euros. She had rushed out, leaving her unfinished meal on the table.
“I’ll be gone by the time you get back,” he had called after her. “I’ll go and stay with Mike.” Mike was an old school friend who lived locally.
As she ran down the hallway, Allie double checked what she had just heard: “So, when I get back, you’ll be at Mike’s?”
“When you get back from France, I meant. Not from the shops.” He laughed. “I’ll look after the house while you’re away.”
“You got my hopes up then!” And with that, she slammed the door.
When she got back, James had opened a can of beer and was sprawled out on the settee, watching the football. There was something reassuring about his presence. With a man in the house, Allie felt protected and safe. However, at the same time, she couldn’t help wishing that the man in her house could be Paul, and not James.
“Did anyone call when I was out?” she asked, sitting down next to him and putting her carrier bag onto the coffee table.
“I thought you just went out for Euros,” he muttered, not diverting his eyes from the match.
“James! Did anyone call?”
“Sorry, Allie.” He was still transfixed by the game. “Yes, someone did. They…. Go on my son! Yes!!” He leapt up and punched the air. “Yes! Well scored! England, you beauties!”
Allie had to smile. Such enthusiasm for a ‘friendly’. He hadn’t changed. His inability to concentrate on more than one thing at a time was a little like tunnel vision.
“Should I wait until half time for the rest of that sentence?” she said as she got up. “I’ll make myself a cup of tea. Then maybe you can tell me who called.”
“They hung up when I answered,” he said, looking at her now. Behind him, a
sea of red and white fans exploded onto the pitch. “But when I dialled 1471, the number had been withheld.”
“Oh.” She froze, her hand on the doorknob. “Maybe it was Paul.”
“Maybe,” he said, quietly. “But whoever it was rang back.”
“How do you know if it was the same person, if they didn’t speak?”
“They withheld the number again.”
“It could just be a coincidence. One could have been Paul, and one could have been my stalker.”
He smiled fleetingly. His blue eyes seemed icy in the warm afternoon light.
“Or,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “they could be one and the same person.”
“No way,” she retorted, more abruptly than she would have liked. “There is no way Paul is my stalker.” She turned away quickly and opened the door. “Don’t be daft,” she added, aware of him following her into the kitchen.
“Think about it, Allie. How well do you know him?”
As she put the kettle on, James took another beer from the fridge and sat down at the table. He opened it and took a swig before carrying on. “You’ve only just met him really, haven’t you? He could be a weirdo…”
She turned to face him, leaning back on the edge of the sink. The cool enamel felt good against her hot back.
“Now hold on a minute, James.” He gave her an expectant look. Her voice took on the irritated-yet-trying-to-be-patient tone it used to have just before they began to row. “I trust him. I feel I know him enough to say he’s not that kind of man.”
“But you thought your stalker might have been me,” he said. “Didn’t you, Allie?”
“I was joking.” She laughed suddenly. “I mean: if you want to go that far, then the only person who can’t possibly be my stalker is Jeremiah.”
“Why is that, then?” James looked thoughtful all of a sudden.
“Because he was here the other night when I had a phone call.”
James looked down, and Allie could see a faint flush on his cheeks and neck. When he looked up again, his eyes were cloudy.
“So how many of these calls have you had? And what was Jeremiah doing here?”
“How much beer have you had, James?”
“Enough.” His flushed complexion grew redder. When he next spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I’m your husband. I care what happens to you.” He took a deep breath. “I need to know.”
“Oh James.” Allie knew him well enough not to be too alarmed. Sometimes his bark was worse than his bite. “Jeremiah was seeing me back home.” She moved over to the kettle, which was filling the kitchen with steam. “And I’ve had a couple of calls. Two, to be precise. Nothing to worry about.”
James finished his drink.
“Promise me something, Allie.”
“What?”
“Be careful with this Paul bloke.” He put down the can and gave her a level stare. “And if this ‘stalker’ calls again, phone the police.”
“OK. OK.” She stirred her tea as she returned his gaze. “Don’t worry about me. I can look after myself. And I’m a good judge of character.”
He shook his head, smiling slightly now.
“Oh no, you’re not. You’re shit.”
“What do you mean?”
“You married me, didn’t you?”
Chapter Nine
Time slipped past in a blur of school runs, washing, packing and organising. Allie was vaguely aware of collecting the boys from school on Friday, and of having a conversation with Jeremiah, during which he reassured her he would be able to let her have his final version of the assignment once Liz was better. But it was as if these things had left no imprint on her consciousness. Her mind had not been on the mechanics of everyday life. The only thing she had been one hundred per cent sure of in the lead up to departure had been that she had kept an eye out for Paul at the school gate and had not seen him. It was as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. Despite James’ urging, she had been too proud to phone him. She had also noticed, with a sinking heart, that Melanie hadn’t been around either.
Now, as they stood in the chilly playground at an unearthly hour on Saturday morning, she decided that watching the bags being loaded and observing her sons was her best option. Anything was better than keeping a constant look out for Paul.
The coach was an enormous, silver, two-decked affair, complete with toilets and a television. She overheard Harry say that it was better than the new middle school teaching block. The children were wide awake, in spite of the early start, and were chattering excitedly in groups. Allie came to the conclusion that you could only gaze at your own offspring for so long, and her eyes were drawn again to the car park. Paul’s car was there, but where was he?
Suddenly, Miss Simpson’s sharp tone cut through the babble of voices:
“Right! Children, line up. We need to tick off your names!”
To Allie’s amazement, the children did as they were told quickly and quietly. Miss Simpson proceeded to take the register. After a few names, her smooth brow furrowed slightly.
“Where’s Billy?”
“Here he comes, Miss. With Mr. Richmond.”
Allie could feel her heart beginning to beat faster, and, despite herself, she glanced up. Billy was being led across the playground from the main building by Paul on one side and Melanie on the other. Visibly excited, he was jumping up and down as he walked, and Allie noticed Melanie’s eyes were swollen and red. Paul was looking at Billy, talking softly to him. Billy was smiling to himself.
“Is everything OK, Mr. Richmond?” Miss Simpson asked, cheerily.
“Fine thanks, Miss Simpson,” he said, keeping his eyes on Billy. “I think we’re ready to get onto the coach now, aren’t we, Billy?” As if in answer to his question, Billy pulled away from him awkwardly, ran the last yard or so towards the open door of the coach, and bounded up the steps. Paul smiled as he called after him. “You choose a place, Billy, and I’ll sit with you.”
Allie moved towards Melanie and put her hand on her shoulder.
“Shall I sit next to you, Melanie?”
Melanie looked at her for a moment, eyes full of turmoil, and then nodded.
“I’d like that. Thanks.”
Paul’s voice rang out: “Thanks, Mrs. Johnson. It’s probably a good idea if you mums stick together. This rabble look like they could turn nasty.”
A chorus of laughter erupted around them as the children piled onto the bus. Allie glanced up at Paul and saw he was grinning directly at her. She smiled back. It was as if nothing had happened since their last kiss. She could feel a warmth spreading through her body, and knew that despite any misunderstandings, nothing had changed in his desire for her, or hers for him.
“After you, ladies,” he said, stepping aside to let them pass.
“Thank you, Mr. Richmond,” replied Allie, aware of his eyes burning into her back as she got onto the coach.
The journey to France was quick and relatively painless, considering all the things that could happen with a group of young schoolchildren on a plane. They flew from Heathrow to Luxemburg, to avoid any possibility of last minute strikes by French air traffic controllers, then transferred onto another coach to take them to Nancy. Apart from a slight initial hesitation on Billy’s part, getting onto the plane had been problem-free. Only one child was sick on the flight, and the transfer at Luxemburg airport was easy, because, in stark contrast to London, it was the size of a small provincial station. One smooth coach ride later, along well-maintained, empty motorways, and they had reached their destination.
Nancy was a beautiful city. Ornate golden gates gave onto a large cobbled square, the Place Stanislas, which marked the centre of the old town. Four long, straight boulevards ran from its sides and ended in high stone arches, denoting its ancient boundaries. Formerly covered in trees and farms, the land beyond the gates now contained urban sprawl a la francaise: rich, baroque town houses in small neighbourhoods. Further out again, where in Britain you
would have found leafy, prosperous suburbs, there were hideous examples of misguided 1960’s architects with too much state funding and no idea of how people really wanted to live. High-rise blocks were grouped together, their gloom broken up by the occasional giant concrete rainbow or flower. Old televisions, fridges, bottles and cans were regularly thrown out of windows or tossed off balconies, by residents too depressed by their surroundings to care. There were two sides to this magnificent city, Allie explained to Melanie, as the coach chugged through the narrow streets. The suburbs area was not a desirable one.
“So, how long did you live here?” Melanie asked, pushing her long, thick hair back off her face.
“Five years,” said Allie, gazing out of the window at the familiar streets. “And it was a long time ago, although it doesn’t seem to have changed much.”
“So, you won’t be looking up any old flames while you’re here?” Paul asked. He was sitting in front of them with Billy, and had turned to look at Allie through the gap in the seats.
She felt her colour rise.
“There’ll be no time for that,” she said. “Will there?”
He laughed.
“Not really. This mob will take some looking after.” His eyes twinkled. “But I’m sure we’ll all manage to get some ‘grown up time’ at some stage.”
“Retail therapy was what I had in mind,” Melanie said. “If we’re allowed, that is?”
“I’m sure that can be arranged.” Paul’s eyes were still on Allie. He held her gaze. Allie was aware that, from where Melanie was sitting, she couldn’t see him, as her area of vision crossed to where Billy was, next to Paul. His voice was low:
“And you, Mrs. Johnson: what kind of therapy were you thinking of?”
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