He shook his head. ‘No. She did suggest it and wanted to exchange phone numbers, but I didn’t think it was a good idea.’
‘Did you tell her that?’
‘I just avoided doing it at the end, hoping she wouldn’t notice. I wanted a clean break, Mum. I don’t particularly want to see her again. You can’t go back, can you? That’s why I don’t go along to those school reunions. It’s just upsetting because, good or bad, we’ve all grown older and moved on.’
‘No, and you’re right, it’s not a good idea. I expect it was nice to see her again but leave it at that.’
‘She’s meeting her husband and the kids off the London train later in the week and they’re all spending a few days here with her mother before they go back home. But she’s not going to be introducing me to them and I don’t particularly want to see them either.’
‘Be honest. You don’t want to see him. The pilot.’
‘Well, no I don’t.’
‘In case you get jealous?’
‘Have you been listening? I’m over it, Mum. It’s taken a long time and I have to admit I’ve thought about her more than once, but I’m over it now. And I’m married too.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she told him with a smile, very nearly tempted to tell him, after all this time that she, and perhaps more importantly his sister Lucy, had never liked Chrissie, manipulative being the one word that sprang instantly to mind. ‘So just forget it and concentrate on making Nicola happy.’
Chapter Thirteen
HE WAS NOT cut out for this cloak-and-dagger stuff, Matthew thought, as he lurked in the station. Lurking was not something he was comfortable with. He had checked the board and the time, and people were starting to arrive to pick up passengers from the imminent London train, which was on time according to the board.
He was skiving. Well, not exactly, but it felt like it. He had a meeting in an hour and nobody questioned him leaving the office. He was putting in a lot of extra hours lately because of the work he had secured over in the South Hams for their millionaire client. It was exciting stuff and he had been given very nearly a blank canvas to work with, his brief being to come up with something spectacular for a large barn conversion. It might prove to be a tussle with the local planning department, but he loved a challenge like that and the ideas were coming at him thick and fast.
So, he ought not to feel guilty about taking a little time off. He never meant to come here to the station but it was as if he couldn’t help it and he had found himself walking from the centre of town through the subway under the roundabout towards the station. It was chaotic as usual as stations always are, which was good because it meant it was easy enough to merge into the background. What he did not want was for Chrissie to spot him, because although if that happened he would claim he was meeting a client, he knew she would not believe that.
Fourteen years might have passed, but she could read him like a book as he could her. There were so many things they had not said to each other in the café, but they were both thinking them because memories such as the ones they shared could never be completely erased. After the shock of meeting her again, he had seen through the constant chatter, the idyllic life she was supposed to be leading, and seen it for what it was worth.
Chrissie was not as happy as she was making out.
He had not been strictly honest with his mother for, since the meeting in the café, he had thought about Chrissie quite a bit, thought of what might have been if she hadn’t moved away at such a critical stage in their relationship. Yes, he knew they were kids themselves at the time – although of course they thought they were grown-ups – but he also knew that it had meant something and that she would always have a place in his heart. And although he thought he had put the whole sorry business to the back of his mind, it had resurfaced like an unexploded bomb when they met again.
Just for the briefest moment it was as if she had never changed. She was now a woman, a mother, but underneath it all she was still the girl he had loved once upon a time, once upon a time being the crucial point because, as they chatted, or rather as she chatted and he listened, he realized with something of a shock that he no longer did. Love, that teenage angst type of love, was gone. Too much had happened and there was far too much water, a great gush of it, under the bridge. She was the same but somehow quite different. And so was he.
She had indeed chatted non-stop, rummaging in her bag halfway through, looking for photographs but suddenly zipping it shut.
‘They’re in my other bag,’ she said, shoving this one down on the floor.
She blushed as she said it and he knew that was not true, for he had caught a glimpse of some photographs before she shut the bag. She probably had second thoughts about bringing him up to speed on her life by showing actual photographs of her family. It was best that they remain in shadow. He did not carry any photographs on his person, he noted in some surprise, deciding that he should at the least have one of Nicola tucked away somewhere, but then men were not like women. They didn’t produce photographs at the drop of a hat.
‘What’s your wife like?’ Chrissie had asked and he had given a careful description as if he had been asked to do so by the police. Kept it to appearance only, nothing about her character, her quick temper, her slow attention span, the way she was already picking faults with the cottage that she had once considered perfect, the way she was putting off the question of children. They were still young, loads of time, but nevertheless he noticed a caginess there, an unwillingness to discuss it, and he felt they should have some plan for the future in place. Look at Chrissie, a year younger than he and she already had her family. Her eyes lit up when she talked about her children, whose names he had now forgotten.
He could not remember what he ate in that café that day, but he did remember in vivid detail the way they exited into heavy rain, forcing them to shelter in a doorway with just her small red umbrella keeping some of it at bay. She was not fooling him completely. He had noticed a sadness that ought not to be there, not in a woman who was supposedly so content, and he was uncomfortable because he thought he also detected a softening in those eyes when she looked at him.
‘Is everything all right? You can be honest with me,’ he asked, having to squeeze closer as somebody else, half-drenched, shot into the doorway with them.
‘Of course everything’s all right. Why shouldn’t it be?’ she said, lips pursed, those grey eyes casting him the quickest of glances. ‘Sorry this has happened. It did cross my mind that you might still be around but I thought it unlikely because you always said you meant to move away once you left university,’ she said, speaking low, mindful of the person squashed near them.
It seemed like a criticism and he corrected her swiftly, saying that, although he had considered a job in London, this one had turned up and he had seized the opportunity. Perhaps, during the course of the conversation in the café, he might have exaggerated the importance of his position but after all the stuff about her husband and the fancy house and so on he had felt a need to do that.
‘God, this is like the tropics,’ she went on as the rain upped a gear.
It was like the tropics and the torrential rain ended a few minutes later as quickly as it began. And would you believe a watery sun came out. People emerged, shaking themselves like dogs, and walked by along the glistening pavement and they did too.
At the end of the street, their ways parted and they said all the right things, how nice it was to catch up and so on, but there were no farewell kisses. Faintly discomfited, he watched until she turned the corner.
He never expected to see her again.
And here he was, at the station, lurking like a seedy private eye. His mother was right, because he was just being plain nosey and he did want to see what this bloke, this bloody fantastic bloke who had given her such a good life, looked like. Chrissie had arrived at the station last minute and looking harassed. She was casually dressed, wearing the tight jeans that she seemed to favour and
a skimpy cream top looking like a vest with something printed on the front of it. It was shapeless, thin material, and her bra straps, black at that, were showing. He never thought much about women’s clothes but it did occur that Nicola would never ever wear a top that showed off her bra straps, nor would she wear a black bra under a light top. Nicola was like her mother, always beautifully turned out, and he realized that he took that for granted, never complimented her much on it.
Chrissie, without the benefit of the chunky sweater she was wearing before, was very slim, painfully so, and he wondered why on earth she had had her hair cut in that way when it used to be so gorgeous: long and a little curly. The husband, whose name he did remember – Marcus – wouldn’t enjoy running his fingers through that ragged crop. He felt a stupid and irrational dislike of the man he did not know, the man who shared his bed with Chrissie, the father of her children.
He should forget this now and go before she spotted him, but it was as if he was rooted to the spot and he remained there. She was scanning the arrivals board and standing alone and he made sure he was half-hidden in the shop doorway, although she was much more concerned with looking towards the barrier now as the board read that the train had arrived, and a few minutes later the first trickle of passengers filtered through.
Within minutes, they were flooding through, the seasoned travellers just making their way steadily, the rest being met. There were hugs and cries of delight all around and he felt a stupid lump in his throat as he watched a young couple rushing towards each other and embracing, the man holding the girl tightly as if he was never going to let her go again.
And then, Chrissie was waving her hand and he saw a grumpy-looking man coming towards her accompanied by children. He was of average height but solidly built and was wearing jeans and a short-sleeved blue shirt and he had the confident swagger of a long-haul pilot. Matthew managed an inward smile, wondering quite why he was being so unjust to the pilots of the world, who were probably without exception great guys. This pilot was OK-looking, but losing his hair, Matthew noted with some satisfaction. As they approached each other, it was a surprise that there were no good-to-see-you hugs, at least not from him to her, although she dipped down to put her arms round the children.
He ducked back into the shop doorway as they passed by. The son, eight or so, looked very like his dad, with the same dark hair, the same sulky expression. The little girl, a redhead like Mum, was a couple of years younger and she was holding her mother’s hand now and chattering away nineteen to the dozen – definitely Chrissie’s child. To his surprise, they looked a bit scruffy, not the sort of people who lived in a house worth a million but that could be something to do with the travelling. Nobody looked at their best after a long train journey.
It was difficult to pin down quite why, but they would never qualify as the perfect family, if there was such a thing, for even as they passed close by, he heard the man saying something sharply to Chrissie and saw the look on her face. For a minute she looked, not exactly scared, but like a teenage girl told off by her dad, chastened but a touch defiant. It must be something to do with what she was wearing because they stopped a moment and, with face flushed, she adjusted her top and the bra straps as her husband looked on.
He could be completely out of order here of course and it was just a feeling but Matthew harboured no satisfaction in the knowledge that the wonderful marriage, the fabulous husband, was all in her head and that it wasn’t as great as all that. He hoped it wasn’t as bad as it looked and that it was just a normal up-and-down sort of relationship: but then wasn’t his exactly the same?
He watched as they disappeared into the crowd, waiting a while to give them chance to get away before he emerged himself. He used the time to go into the shop proper to buy a newspaper and a bar of chocolate. And, as he paid for them, the woman across the counter smiled at him and he smiled back as he pocketed his change.
It was suddenly as if a great weight lifted off him.
Chrissie, the girl of old, was gone and that was finally that. His mum was right and it was high time he let boyhood fantasies go.
This time he would not pursue her further, he would not allow her to invade his head again as she had done time after time because she was the past and Nicola, his beautiful gorgeous wife, was his future.
Just now, as the sun broke through the clouds, and he hurried back to the office, the future seemed rosy.
Chapter Fourteen
NICOLA WAS HOME first and she was in a good mood. Her parents were back and the holiday had gone well, her mother said, with no major problems as her father had so pessimistically predicted.
She had talked on the phone with her mother and, as they were free on Sunday, they were going over to have lunch with them. Matthew had seen his mother recently and all seemed well there too. Matthew had a big commission at work and was working all hours, at the office and here at home in the little second bedroom that they had turned into an office. They both needed a break, but just now was not the moment.
Quickly, she unpacked the grocery shopping and laid out the things she needed for dinner. She was making an effort tonight, actually cooking it herself rather than relying on the good old standby, M&S. After all, she had something to celebrate and maybe before long there would be even more to celebrate.
At work, Emma had finally done it. She was moving – hurrah! – back up north, dragging her partner with her, and Gerry Gilbert had hinted as strongly as it was possible to hint that the job was hers for the taking although, worryingly, they were advertising it.
She needed this promotion, which would up her salary considerably, although annoyingly Gerry seemed as concerned as ever that she might let him down by going on maternity leave any time soon.
What was wrong with the man?
Had she not made it perfectly clear?
Dismissing him, she concentrated on the job in hand, peeling and chopping vegetables and finding she was actually rather enjoying it. She had a bottle of strong Aussie wine – sod it, it would do them no harm once in a while – and a bought lemon cheesecake to follow the main course.
She was sweetening Matthew up, preparing him for what she was planning this weekend. On impulse, she had arranged to view a house, a proper house, which seemed on paper to fulfil most of her requirements. It was deeper into Devon, better for both of them from the commuting angle, and it was in a village setting which meant there would be near neighbours. It was the very last house in the village, on the way out – or the way in: whichever way you looked at it. It was a solid, dependable sort of property, which would probably go to a London buyer as a second home used only sparingly, which would be heresy. It needed to be the main home, the family home, the forever home and just the thought of it was exciting and suddenly everything was looking rosy.
She had done some boring sums and concluded that, once she got Emma’s job, the increase in her salary would be significant and they would easily be able to afford an increase in mortgage payments. However, Matthew was boringly inflexible about spending money that they did not actually have so a little seduction this evening would not go amiss either.
Hence the wine.
The phone rang, the landline, as she was making the final preparations for the meal. She had texted Matthew and was planning that everything would be ready about half an hour after he arrived home.
Wiping a hand on the tea-towel she was carrying, she picked up the phone and chanted her number.
‘Is that Mrs Walker? Nicola?’
She did not confirm that, immediately thinking it was one of those infuriating calls about cavity-wall insulation or the like, but the woman did not sound as if she was in a call-centre environment and the next words confirmed it.
‘I will keep this brief, but you must tell Matthew to stop harassing me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to ring you but it would be a waste of time talking to him about it. You know what men are like.’
She was stunned into silence but only for a moment. �
��What the hell are you talking about? Harassing? My husband does not harass anybody,’ she said, wifely hackles rising.
‘Doesn’t he? Then why was he stalking me at the station the other day? Ask him that. My husband is a pilot with a very short fuse and I warn you that if I were to tell him, he would take a very poor view of it. I am very happily married, Mrs Walker. We have two children at private school and we live in a beautiful part of the country and our house is worth in excess of a million.’
‘Who are you?’ Nicola was tempted to replace the receiver. A crank call, that was what it was. But the woman called her Nicola and talked about Matthew so she did not hang up. Her hands, though, felt suddenly clammy and she could not quite believe what she was hearing.
‘My name is Chrissie. I knew your husband a long time ago when I lived in Plymouth but we lost touch when I moved away.’
She knew instantly who it was. It was the Chrissie girl in the photograph. The redhead.
‘You two were schoolfriends?’ she said, remembering what Paula had said as she tried to make sense of this.
‘You could say that, although it was a little more than that.’ The laugh was annoying. ‘I take it he hasn’t bothered to tell you that we met up the other day. Your husband and I met in town and it didn’t take long for me to realize that he has never got over me, not completely, and I couldn’t believe it that after we said goodbye he then had the effrontery to follow up that meeting by coming to the station where I was meeting my husband and children off the train. Knowing he was there watching us took the edge of what was a very private reunion. He should be thankful that I chose not to mention this to my husband, as he would be incensed. He is a very jealous man.’
‘Now just a minute … I haven’t a clue what you are talking about …’
‘Ask that husband of yours. I just want to tell you that I will not take kindly to it if there is any repetition in the future. Thank you and goodbye.’
A Close Connection Page 12
