Cross Her Heart: A Novel

by Sarah Pinborough

  A waiter takes us to our table and Simon orders bread and olives and some sparkling water. I sit, happy to be off my trembling legs, and glad the lighting is soft.

  “How did Ava’s last exams go?” he asks as a waiter hands me a large menu. The words all shimmer on the surface of the card as if they might slide off at any moment.

  “Oh, good—I think.” I sip some water. My throat is rolled sandpaper. “She’s sixteen. Getting a full analysis out of her is never going to happen. But she didn’t slam any doors and she seems happy enough.”

  “Is she going out to celebrate?”

  I nod. “And it’s the River Festival tomorrow, so I’ll barely see her. She has a good group of friends. I don’t worry too much.” The lie comes so easily. I worry all the time. All I do is worry. “It’s hard to know how much freedom to give her,” I continue. “They’re so grown up at sixteen and yet not grown up at all.”

  He glances down at his menu and I realize how dull this must be to him. “Sorry, I forget you don’t have children.”

  “No, I don’t. But I like hearing about yours.”

  “Why?” I try not to sound defensive.

  He smiles. “Because I like you, Lisa. I want to learn more about you, but you’re hard to get to know.”

  “Oh, there’s really nothing to know. I’m quite dull.” I try to make it sound fun and flirty but I fall short. Daniel. My heart aches with the weight of him.

  “I don’t believe it for a second. Still waters and all that.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  Thankfully, the waiter returns and I randomly choose the scallops and the sea bream and a glass of Chablis.

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” I say. “So only order a bottle if you’re prepared to drink the rest.”

  He laughs. “I have to drive to Kent tonight for a meeting at my Grainger House Hotel in the morning. No rest for the wicked. So, a single glass for me too. If I’m honest, I’m not a great fan of getting drunk either. I’m too old and too busy for the hangovers.” This sends a dual wave of relief through my nerves. He’s not a big drinker, and he won’t be trying to get me into bed tonight. It’s a ridiculous thought anyway, that he would want to have sex with me, but I still fear it. I haven’t been naked with a man for years. I haven’t been anything with a man for years.

  “So,” he says, and I know from his tone what question is coming. Some variation on “Tell me about yourself.” “You said you’ve been at PKR for about ten years. What was before that?”

  “Ava,” I say, simply. Oh God, where would I start? There is so much before that. Too much. A universe of existence. How nice it would be to be able to condense my life into a pat paragraph or turn the years thus far into a hugely entertaining anecdote. I can do neither.

  “Ah.” His eyes are full of quiet interrogation. Marriage, divorce, Ava’s dad, other boyfriends—all the information men are interested in. Things that boil down a woman’s relevance in relation to other men, rather than anything in and of themselves. The inside information comes later. Those talks are for the middle of the night, heads on pillows, faces only outlines in the darkness. That’s when people surrender their weapons to each other and hope they don’t end up stabbed in the night by them in the future.

  Our wine arrives, and I take a sip. He’s still waiting, expectant. “Someone once told me,” I say, “that the human body replaces its cells in their entirety over the course of seven years. So in essence we are all completely different people than we were seven years ago, and that person was different from the one seven years before. This makes me wonder why everyone is always so fascinated by other people’s pasts, because none of us are those people anymore.”

  He sips his own wine. “I’ve never heard that. Do you think it’s true?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I should probably google it, but if it’s made up, I lose the magic. I like to think it’s true.”

  “Me too. It’s a very liberating thought.” He looks at me then, properly. Two adults rather than a man and woman dancing around each other in the grip of chemistry. “I did some things when I was younger that I’m not proud of,” he says. “It’s nice to think maybe I can leave them behind with all those old cells.”

  “I won’t ask about the other yous, if you don’t ask about the other mes. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Life is a series of deals, that’s what I’ve learned. Most get broken. I just need this one to hold for the next couple of hours. After that, I’ll regain my sanity and we won’t do this again. We clink glasses. Dear God, but he’s sexy. A heartbreaker. What the hell is he doing having dinner with me?

  By the time eleven thirty rolls around and we’ve finished I’m almost completely relaxed and my smile is coming naturally. In fact, I’m enjoying myself so much I’m not sure I can stop smiling. We’ve talked about so many things without crossing the border into the past, I’m starting to think maybe it is possible to focus on the present and find it satisfyingly full. We talked about movies and TV shows we both loved or hated, pet peeves; I told him about Ava’s swimming and how bright she is and all the things I hope for her. He talked about the hotels and how his dream was to retire from the UK business in about five years and open a resort in the Caribbean—a small one focusing on diving and water sports and fine local food. The kind of relaxed place he could pretty much leave to run itself and spend his time on the water, or painting. Maybe even write a book. He looked embarrassed saying these things, but I thought they sounded wonderful.

  He offers me a lift, but I say I’ll get a taxi. He has a long drive ahead of him as it is. The restaurant orders one for me, and we go outside and wait in the cool summer night.

  He stays with me until the cab pulls up. “Can we do this again?”

  “Stand outside in the cold?” I smile. “Sure.”

  “Very funny. This. Dinner. Drinks.”

  Although the other D word, date, hangs in the air, I find myself nodding. “I’d like that.”

  He beams and leans forward. I turn my head sideways at the last minute and his lips land on my cheek. They’re soft and warm. “Good night,” I say. My heart is all panicked wings, but it feels good. “Drive safely.”

  “Have fun with Ava at the River Festival tomorrow.”

  “Ha!” I get into the car. “I doubt I’ll see too much of her.”

  “Well, have fun with Marilyn. I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

  The door closes and I sink back against the leather.

  “Good night?” the driver asks as we turn out on the main road.

  “Yes,” I answer, as I realize I can’t stop smiling. “Yes, it was.”

  19

  Ava

  The River Festival is one of the highlights of the town’s year. Everyone at school always bitches about how lame it is, but we love it really. Like us though, it’s changed over the years. Where it used to be a few stalls and games and maybe a canoe race, it now covers the fields on both sides of the river, the two old footbridges serving to connect them, one to go one way, one to come back. There’s a full funfair, several music stages, clowns and fortune-tellers, art displays, stalls to buy stuff, a huge café marquee run by the Women’s Institute that only the old people use, several beer tents, and loads of vans serving any kind of fast food you could want.

  We swagger through the crowds, hips thrust forward, glossy lips slightly parted, eyes locked behind our mirrored shades. The air is filled with the shrieks of kids and mums. The past couple of years I haven’t come down until about four, when the little ones are being dragged home, but after too much cheap wine last night, I—we—needed to get out in the sunshine to blow away the clinging cobwebs of hangover. The boys brought the wine and after a few glasses I didn’t even mind snogging Courtney. I told him my period was here—it still isn’t—but I gave him a hand job to get him off my case. Lizzie and Jack got off together but I think that was just the drink. Jack’s not her type at all. They’re all so immature anyway. I feel a fi
zz in my lower belly. A week until I meet him.

  “Let’s find somewhere down by the riverbank,” Jodie murmurs, “where we can laze in the sun for a bit. What do you think?”

  We all agree. None of our stomachs are quite ready for the rides yet. We’ll need some food and Cokes first.

  The boys are coming down later, but I’m glad of this time of just the girls. We’re not even sure we’ll meet up with them. After last night, Lizzie’s not keen, and I’m finding the glamour of their roughness compared to the KEGS boys is wearing off. We come from different tribes. Under the skin we might not be so different, but at our age it’s only everything on the surface that matters. We get up early and swim. They go to bed late and smoke weed. They watch football. We watch Glee reruns. Maybe it’s only sex that draws us together, I think as we wander closer to the river. Maybe it will be the same way with him. Once the lust wears off, I’ll be bored. It’s an alien thought. The girls make the boys seem immature, he makes MyBitches seem immature. One week. One week to go.

  It’s hard to keep the smile off my face. Me and Mum are almost back to normal today. Her weird mood of last week seems to have faded and she was almost glowing this morning, so her work dinner must have gone well. She gave me an extra twenty quid and for once I said I didn’t need it, but she insisted I take it anyway in case everything was more expensive this year. It made me feel warm inside. Close to her again. Me and her against the world, even as the world pulls me away. She’s still my mum. I do love her, cautious and careful as she is.

  Picnic blankets are everywhere, like quilt patches laid out for sewing. The festival is busy although it’s not officially being opened until one. These days people arrive well before eleven and if all the rides aren’t quite open, there are food and drinks and stalls to wander through. This year’s official guest is that hot guy from Hollyoaks who won Strictly Come Dancing last year and constantly seems to be in every magazine ever. It said in all the flyers he’d be signing pictures and doing photographs too. Lizzie wants one. We told her she could queue alone.

  We find a spot a little way from the families where the bank is a steep drop to the water and the kids can’t paddle, and I flop to the ground, the grass cool and ticklish against my bare legs.

  “I’m hungry,” Jodie says.

  “Starved,” Lizzie agrees. “We should’ve stopped at Maccy D’s. I’m also busting for a wee.”

  “I can’t be bothered to move,” I say. It’s true. I just want to sit and let my thoughts drift in the sunshine for a while. “But if you’re getting some food, I’ll have some.” I drag the twenty from the tight warmth of my denim pocket. “Whatever you’re getting. And a Coke. I’ll keep our spot.”

  “I got money,” Jodie says, getting her bearings before heading off toward the food vans, her tiny frame quickly lost in the sunshine. Lizzie drifts off in search of the Portaloos and Ange sits down cross-legged beside me as I lie back and close my eyes.

  “I could fall asleep,” I say.

  “I know what you mean.”

  “Wake me up when Jodie gets back with my food.”

  I open my eyes, and lie there looking up at the branches through my shades and thinking about him. Is it possible to love someone you’ve never met? Is that crazy? I know everyone always goes on about how you shouldn’t talk to strangers on the Internet, but this is different. For a start, I’m not a kid—it’s not like I’m Internet stupid. And second, he’s not weird. He’s wonderful. He makes me feel wonderful.

  I glance sideways. Ange is hunched over, absorbed in something on her phone, and her fingers fly over the keys. I haven’t heard any pings so she must have it on silent. Has she got secrets too? I wonder if it’s Courtney. I don’t mind her texting him, we’re all friends after all, but it’s weird if she doesn’t mention it. She hasn’t talked about anyone else and Ange is a talker. Maybe she does fancy him. Perhaps I should encourage them. If they got together, I might not look like such a bitch when me and him are out in the open.

  I take a deep breath and let out all the tension in my neck and shoulders as I close my eyes. I still have the dregs of a headache and so I let my thoughts drift like wisps of cloud on a clear day. The sun is hotting up and even in the breeze my skin doesn’t prickle. It’s a beautiful, perfect day.

  * * *

  At first I think the shrill noise is my alarm. I’ve dozed into a half dream of exams and school and being late, and suddenly this awful sound is cutting into my chase for the bus, and when I open my eyes and sit up, it’s a moment before I realize where I am. The festival. Saturday. No more exams. It’s not an alarm though, it’s screaming, and even though I’m bleary behind my sunglasses, and my mouth is dry, I find I’m on my feet. My heart races me awake.

  “Oh God! Someone! My boy! Ben! Ben! Someone, please! Do something!”

  I look around for Ange, but she’s gone, and I see the crowds gathering at the bank. An overweight man is pulling his shoes off. I look to the water. A small hand. Panicked splashes. A tuft of hair. Skin. Close to the other bank. The overweight man won’t get there. The currents are strong and there are weeds and his feet will hang too low and by the time he makes it across to the child he’ll drag him down as likely as save him.

  I have all these thoughts as well as Where the fuck is Ange? as I run the few feet to the bank and jump in, my legs pulled up under me like a bomb in case it’s shallow here. The shouts and screams muffle. The water’s fucking freezing and stinks and I can taste the dirt in my mouth but my strong legs straighten and kick out, cutting across the current that will drag the child to the weir. I break the surface and swim.

  20

  Lisa

  I’m still smiling. The sun is out and the weather glorious, and Ava was in such a good mood this morning it was like a glimpse of a future where my adult daughter and I are friends who talk and laugh together. It was lovely.

  Simon texted at breakfast to say how much he’d enjoyed our dinner and was not looking forward to spending this beautiful day indoors in meetings when he could be out having fun with me. When I read it I felt my usual knot of anxiety but then an overwhelming rush of excitement. It could be the weather, or the fact Ava’s exams are over, but I do feel better. I still have the fear, I’ll always have that, and I haven’t quite shaken off the anxiety of last week—it was not Peter Rabbit, and the song was just a coincidence—but I feel tougher, more resolute. I can learn to live in the present. Maybe allow myself to be happy again.

  “Here,” Richard says, and hands me an ice cream with two wafers in it. “I didn’t get us sprinkles because we’re grown-ups.” He winks at me, and I smile. The ice cream is already starting to drip down the side in the heat and I lick it from the cone.

  “Oh God, I shouldn’t,” Marilyn says. “I’ve put on two pounds somehow this month.”

  “Don’t talk rubbish.” Richard slides a strong arm around her waist. “You’re gorgeous.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she takes the cone. “Oh go on then.”

  Her smile is bright and I find myself imagining Simon and me on a foursome date with them. Would he put his arm around me like that? Protective and caring? Marilyn hasn’t asked how the dinner went—she must be keeping that private from Richard for me. For me or for her. She wants me to be happy more than anything and she knows me well enough to know how quickly I’m capable of closing myself off. Any more pressure on this to be a thing might make me run after all these years of being defiantly single.

  As it is, I’m bursting to talk to her about it. Maybe we’ll be able to sneak off later and I can tell her. Not that there’s much to say, but I just want to relive it. Get her opinion on him, on me, on everything. God, I’m like a teenager, all nerves and jittery excitement over a boy.

  “What the hell is going on over there?” Richard’s smile turns to a frown as he looks at something beyond my shoulder. “Down by the river.”

  I turn, as does the rest of the small crowd around the ice cream van. It’s like ripples in
water, the sense of something off, spreading from one person to the next. I squint, the brightness of the day too much. In the distance the riverbank is busy. Where people had been lying or sitting on blankets, they are now on their feet, all facing the other way. Mothers hold their toddlers close. I can feel it from here; the relief and guilt in the tightness of a grip that screams thank God it’s not my child.

  Child . . . river . . . girl gone in . . . has someone got the ambulance men . . . Jesus, where was the mother . . . what is wrong with people . . .

  The words drift back at us, like in a game of telephone, and suddenly I know, I just know, Ava is somewhere beyond all those people, she’s central to whatever has happened.

  I drop my ice cream as I start to run.

  “Lisa?” Marilyn calls after me, confused. I barely hear her through the wall of my panic. This is my fault, all my fault, and pride and falls and happiness and loss and I run and I run, pushing hard through people as I force my way to the epicenter. Please, God, let my baby be all right, please, God, let my baby be all right . . . My brain screams the prayer at a God I know isn’t listening and my eyes water with the kind of tears that come from terror.

  As I break through the final row of people, the first thing I see are the St. John’s ambulance men, big figures in green uniforms blocking my view. Sunlight flashes from the silver foil of a blanket and for a moment everything sparkles, distracting me, and then she stands up and I see her. My baby. Soaking wet but alive.

  I run to her, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her stinking hair. Oh God, she’s alive. She’s safe. My baby is safe.

  “It’s okay, Mum. I’m okay.”