Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  ‘But people will see it for what it is, surely? The library, I mean. It’s a bribe.’ Matthew, the handkerchief tucked into his sleeve, is now making them both tea, reaching for two mugs on the shelf above the sink.

  ‘Of course. But that doesn’t change the fact they want the library. You should have seen all the teachers at the public meeting I went to, Matthew. Outnumbered Maria’s customers – no problem.’

  ‘But you’re not giving up, Geoffrey?’

  ‘Of course not. We’ll fight as best we can. But it’s all right for me. I’ve got this place. My own home. It’s Maria and Wendy I’m worried about.’ Geoffrey takes his mug and signals with his hand for them to move into the sitting room where in the corner stands a large box – which, on closer examination, is from Geoffrey’s friend in Bath. Matthew screws up his face, not understanding. It must be the first parts for the Steinway. But why hasn’t he told him? Brought them straight to the shop? They’d been waiting for weeks. And then, as Geoffrey blushes, the penny begins to drop.

  ‘You’ll keep the Steinway, Geoffrey? Whatever happens?’

  ‘Well – I’d like to, of course I would. But one has to be realistic. It’s a question of practicalities. My friend’s very kindly offered to take it on if… ’

  ‘Oh, Geoffrey – no.’ Matthew puts his tea down and stands.

  ‘I will support Maria and Wendy as best I can. But if it goes the wrong way, I will probably just do a bit of freelance piano tuning. If I lose the shop, I mean.’

  ‘But you could bring it here. The Steinway. To the house. Do it up here.’

  ‘If I had the room, yes. But we have to be realistic.’

  And now Matthew does a complete spin on the spot, his mind turning also, desperately trying to work something out.

  ‘No. No, stop – Geoffrey. You are not giving up that piano. You hear me… ’

  Then he is pacing, mind whirling as he speaks, examining the furniture and trying to take in the scale of the room. The doorways. Trying to picture the piano. Hang on. The sitting room has an arch through to the dining area at the back, with french doors onto the garden. And with the legs off the piano…

  ‘It could come in through those doors.’ Matthew is estimating the measurements in his head. Yes. There is a back alley with parking behind the terrace. ‘Have you got a tape measure?’

  And soon he is working it all out. Drawing a plan on paper. It would be a tight squeeze, sure. Geoffrey would have to put some furniture in storage. But if they imagined the piano at an angle. Took out the door frame, maybe. Here look, Geoffrey, this way – he is pretty sure it would fit.

  And then Geoffrey can finish doing up the Steinway whatever happens with the council. Yes?

  Geoffrey’s face is at first difficult to read, glancing around the room. At the door. At Matthew, who is sketching out access and layout plans on a piece of paper. For a moment he has to take a very deep breath.

  ‘You are probably the only one who realises, Matthew. That it is losing the Steinway which has been on my mind more than anything.’

  ‘So we don’t even contemplate it, Geoffrey. We fight the council. And if we lose, we find some other way.’

  So that, as Matthew carries on taking more precise measurements from the room, demanding some more paper, please, Geoffrey has to clear his throat as he watches him.

  ‘What you were saying before. Matthew. About your situation.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t feel qualified to advise you. I wish I did. But your mother.’ He bites his lip. ‘The one who brought you up, I mean.’ Slowly passing the clean sheet of paper now. ‘Seems to me she did a very fine job, Matthew.’

  34

  Kate sits and watches the seagulls on the rooftop of this unfamiliar café waiting for their chance. The locals, wise to them, lean over their food or opt to eat inside, but soon enough a holidaymaker comes unstuck. In shock and then outrage as a gull tries a cheeky swoop for their plate of fish and salad. Kate can hear the inevitable mutterings about hygiene and why isn’t something done about this? and before long there is a heated discussion with the owner of the café as the customer tries for a refund.

  It’s a coastal café. We have seagulls.

  But I can’t eat it now.

  I’m sorry. We don’t do refunds…

  Kate looks away to the ocean. Cups her hand around her mug of tea. She is trying to work out how long since that awful scene when Toby left. Two weeks? Or – God. Is it three already? So much has happened.

  Last night she had a dream about their trip to Paris, and when she woke and turned to the empty space beside her, Kate for just a moment felt almost as if she was back there. In the hotel, waiting for him to come out of the shower. So happy.

  They went to Paris to celebrate the pregnancy. ‘Our very best cliché,’ Toby said in a café as she began eating for two. Mussels and frites. Beautiful little custard tarts with strawberries and cream.

  ‘Are you sure the mussels are safe? In your condition?’ Toby had fussed from the beginning, and she had liked that. Being fussed over.

  They had gone to the Louvre to see the Mona Lisa but had run out of time and missed it. Kate was at the early stage of pregnancy when she needed the loo every five minutes. By the time she had queued, they had closed admissions for the painting.

  They had gone instead to another café for yet another custard tart.

  ‘You realise I intend to get very, very fat,’ Kate had joked.

  And now, in this very different café, which is not a patch on Maria’s, Kate cannot believe that she is the same person who once ate custard tarts in a café in Paris. Smiling. Happy. Fussed over.

  And she has no idea what she will say to her husband. The terrible and escalating guilt now over the madness of the episode with Mike. Should she tell Toby today? Does she owe him that? Yes, she does. Of course she does.

  And then she thinks how very much it will hurt him and feels a lurch deep in the pit of her stomach.

  Why am I such a terrible person?

  She narrows her eyes. Two weeks since Toby left? No. Kate turns back to watch the customer and café owner still in disagreement over the ruined food when something terrible dawns.

  No. It really must be three weeks.

  And then there is this completely unexpected shudder right through her body. A wave of cold dread as something new begins to take shape.

  She fumbles for the diary in her bag. Oh my God. Flicking through the pages.

  When she was working, Kate used to be meticulous about counting the weeks. Ringing the date in red felt tip. She suffered bad pre-menstrual syndrome so needed to prepare. Every month. Headache tablets. Hot bath. Brace yourself, Kate. She was regular as clockwork, so it was just about getting her head into the right place. A trial – the bad stomach cramps and the awful feeling of something crushing her skull – but it was never more than four days. Doable. Just.

  But since Daniel? Since the world caved in? She seemed to have a permanent headache and stomach trouble now, taking painkillers most days, so she had stopped using the diary. Instead she was in trouble with her doctor – nagging her to cut back on the headache tablets, warning they could affect the liver, apparently.

  Kate had to flick back two months to work it out properly. Now that she did not keep a record, she had grown used to just waiting for the worst.

  Oh my God. She checked a second time. No. That couldn’t be right. She took out a pencil and was more careful. Two weeks. Three weeks… Five?

  No.

  So her period was – Jesus Christ. More than a week overdue. Ten days. And she was never overdue. Never…

  ‘Hello, Kate. Would you like another drink?’

  She looks up and cannot speak. Toby is dressed in her favourite shirt of his, and she takes this in first of all. That he has deliberately put on her favourite shirt – the gesture at once kind and also terrible.

  ‘Sorry. Are you all right? I know this is difficult.’ He looks nervous. Eyes afra
id. ‘I’m very grateful, for you agreeing to meet me. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to go to Maria’s. Is this place OK?’

  ‘Yes. It’s fine. Sorry. Another tea. Thank you.’ Ten days? It can’t be. No. It would be the stress of everything. That was all it was…

  Kate watches him move inside, queuing at the counter, her heart pounding. She stares at the shape of his back. The broad shoulders. Can picture him at a different counter, ordering coffee in Paris. So many years watching him queuing for her – always glancing back once in a while to catch her eye. To smile. Though not today.

  When he returns, it is awful. Awkward. She has nothing to say; is instead fighting panic. The urge to bolt.

  He talks again about how sorry he and Mark were for getting involved in the Millrose Mount project. That they would never have done so if they had any idea that Kate’s friends were involved. He is trying to speak up for them at council meetings and will share any news that may be helpful.

  Kate glances at the newspaper he has put down on the table. The front page has two stories.

  One headline questions whether the new Tory leader Maggie Thatcher will ever be prime minister. A woman. Could it ever really happen?

  The second story is on the missing star cellist Josef Karpati.

  He has apparently very suddenly just vanished. Did a runner from a live TV show, to the amazement of the host, his agent and everyone involved. No one knows why. Today’s story is a summary of the cat-and-mouse game now under way as the tabloids thirst for the first picture.

  Have you seen Josef? Reward for first photo…

  ‘Do you remember we saw him at the Albert Hall?’ Toby is looking into her face. So difficult when he does this. Tries to link them to a happier time. Before. The Albert Hall. Paris. It is meant well, and yet it always makes her want to cry because it feels surreal that she was ever that other person. Happy.

  ‘Yes. Of course. He’s amazing. So – what’s the word?’

  ‘No one has any idea. Not even his agent. Just went AWOL for no apparent reason.’

  ‘I suppose it can’t be easy. In the spotlight all the time.’

  ‘I miss you, Kate.’

  She looks back into his face now and is having to fight really hard not to cry.

  ‘I miss you. And I still love you. But I have something truly awful to tell you, Kate, which is why I invited you here, and I have no idea how to say it.’

  Kate feels her heart thumping even harder.

  ‘I was going to write a letter but that felt cowardly. I have been a complete idiot, Kate. So I’m just going to say it. I would have preferred to come to the house, but I know you didn’t want that.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘I slept with someone else. A one-night stand. It was nothing. It meant absolutely nothing, I mean. Just sex. I was drunk, and very low, but that’s no excuse. It was just this stupid, stupid thing, and I feel such a complete arse. And I have been going over and over it in my head. Whether even to tell you. And the thing is – I know you want us to separate, but I don’t. I don’t want anyone else, Kate. That’s not what it was. And I’m more sorry than I can ever explain. What I want – what I’ve always wanted – is for us to make it through this. And I realise this is the most stupid thing I’ve ever done. And it’s just going to make everything worse. Make you hate me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who.’

  ‘Of course it does. Is it someone I know?’ She can’t believe the hypocrisy of how angry she feels. How jealous. How deeply, deeply shocked. Hurt too. How she is already picturing them. Her. Them.

  She looks again right into his face and is thinking of the madness with Mike. Feels the words beginning to form…

  But they do not come out of her mouth because she is thinking again of the hypocrisy. Also the diary. Ten days over… Of the terrible, terrible possibility.

  And so, in panic, with everything swirling around and around in her head, she does a cruel thing for which she will later feel terribly ashamed. She does not tell him her own truth. The matching shame. The irony of her own betrayal. Her own madness.

  Instead she stands up and says that she cannot talk to him. That it is too much, Toby.

  She goes home and she collapses on the small chair in the hallway, alongside the packing boxes. Giddy. Stunned. Tears streaming from her face so that Martha hurries from the kitchen.

  ‘What is it, Kate? What on earth’s happened?’

  ‘Oh, Martha. I’ve been such an idiot.’ Her voice barely recognisable. Black spots on the periphery of her vision.

  ‘I think I might be pregnant.’

  35

  Five days later, and with no sign still of her period, Kate is sitting in the little waiting area on the second floor of Alyesborough Council offices, fidgeting with leaflets from a stand. It’s a shared building with Social Services and the leaflets offer helpline numbers for all manner of difficulties. The noticeboards are similarly bright and bursting with offers of sympathy and support, and the irony is not lost on Kate. Toby always telling her, right throughout their marriage, that she is very good at helping others but not so good at helping herself.

  At last there is a click of the office door and a woman with a neat suit and perfect bob is standing, stretching out her hand. Warm smile.

  Kate forces a smile back but inside is wishing she could have cancelled. The problem is it would have looked flaky. And she is looking quite flaky enough, professionally.

  ‘Kate Mayhew? Hello – I’m Emily. So good of you to pop in. I’m sorry I’m always so difficult to pin down, but you of all people will know how it is.’

  Emily’s office’s is very like Kate’s old office. A clutter of files and folders signalling the overstretched, hand-to-mouth, crisis-to-crisis lifestyle that she found at times so overwhelming.

  And misses so much.

  Toby doesn’t understand why she would ever want to go back to it. After the cruelty of their own experience, he thinks that she should retrain. Try something completely different, something more cheerful. But this is what Kate knows. Where she feels useful.

  Yes. What she misses.

  ‘Sorry for the mess.’ Emily is walking over to the window, where there is a coffee machine perched on the deep sill. ‘Would you like a coffee? It’s fresh.’

  Kate can feel herself frown and does not know what to make of the instinctive response. For, to her surprise and confusion, she finds that she would like a coffee. And yet she could not touch coffee throughout her pregnancy with Daniel. So what does this mean? Is this good news? The news she has lain in bed waiting for?

  ‘Yes, please. Milk, no sugar.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, Kate, I very nearly had to call and cancel. But I know that it’s been difficult for you, so I thought we could have a quick chat now and book another slot after Christmas. When things have hopefully calmed down a bit here.’

  Kate now accepts a mug, sniffing the coffee, again to test her reaction, not knowing what to think. Also wishing that Emily had cancelled. Let her off the hook.

  ‘It’s all gone a bit chaotic because we’ve just taken on responsibility for birth mother searches. Did you know? Were you briefed in your old office?’ Emily is now sitting.

  ‘Couple of round-robins on it. I think they were arranging a seminar but I left before… ’

  ‘Yes. Well, between us, it’s the usual cock-up. A much bigger caseload than anyone predicted. No extra resources. Huge backlog… blah, blah. I’m still putting the full team together but it’s definitely caught us out. I’m having to be hands-on myself.’

  ‘Right.’ Kate tries her drink and is surprised. It tastes OK.

  ‘Got a couple of heart-wrenching cases.’ Emily sips her own coffee. ‘To be honest, I was all for it. The right to search, I mean. Our first case was wonderful. Couple who were just sixteen when she gave up the child. They married later and went on to have three other children together. Always regretted giving up their first. She
was waiting for the new law… the daughter who was adopted. All very touching. But we have some other much trickier cases.’ Emily sighs. ‘I have a bad feeling about a few of them. Chances are some of the mothers just aren’t going to want to know. Huge ask, emotionally.’

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine.’ Kate is still thinking about the coffee.

  ‘No. Anyway. Let’s not talk about that, let’s talk about you. So,’ Emily opens a cardboard folder in front of her, ‘your letter said you would like to get back to work over time. Maybe a transfer here?’

  Emily’s smile is now changing as she reads the notes in front of her. Kate feels her stomach flip. Knows exactly what the file will say. Not just the awful thing that happened. But the shopping arcade. The reason she was signed off sick.

  Kate is aware that her hand is beginning to tremble and so leans forward to place her mug on the edge of Emily’s desk.

  No one would ever pretend that social work was anything other than challenging, but Kate had always been very good at her job. Steady. Great instinct. Could trust her gut feeling – which was why the whole terrible business of the arcade was such a shock to everyone.

  She had never liked the big arcades, actually, and normally avoided them – all those bright lights and the appalling lift music – but that day she had forgotten her umbrella. Couldn’t face the high street. Had nothing to do and so spent a lot of time just wandering about. Window shopping. Trudging from bookshop to bookshop.

  She saw the mother for the first time on the ground floor outside one of her favourite bookshops. One little boy of about three, a bit older than Daniel would have been, and a girl – maybe eighteen months – in a pushchair. The older child was playing up – refusing to walk nicely alongside the pram – and his mother was losing her patience. Red in the face. Loud voice.

  Kate watched them for a while. The little boy was wearing a denim jacket, she remembered. A proper tiny version of a man’s Levi’s jacket. Quite expensive, it looked. All the right details, with contrast stitching.