by Frances Pye
twenty-five
“Amy! Where did you get this?” Mara stood in her shabby living room, a cardigan draped around her shoulders against the chill of the evening, and looked down at the wad of notes her friend had just handed her. She had hideous visions of the old lady robbing a bank in order to help her. Amy had no savings as far as Mara knew; there was only her weekly state pension, and she practiced the strictest economies to make ends meet.
“I sold Archie’s clock. To a nice man from that antiques emporium in the High Street.”
“His retirement clock? You can’t do that.”
“I already have.”
“But he’d turn in his grave.”
“He was cremated, dear.”
“You know what I mean. He loved that clock. You told me.”
“I was glad to have an excuse. It’s been annoying me for years. All that chiming.”
“But it was his. Your husband’s.” Mara shook her head and tried to give the money back. “I…I can’t accept this.”
Amy ignored the outstretched hand trying to hand her the cash. “Yes you can, dear. I’ve got lots of other things to remember Archie by. And it’s not a loan, so none of your scruples about borrowing. It’s a gift.”
“Amy. It’s too much. You must spend this on yourself, not give it to me.”
“What would I buy for myself? I’m an old woman. I’ve got what I need. It’s for you. And the girls.”
“I don’t know….” Mara looked at the money, more cash in one place than she’d seen since her call-girl days. She knew she should refuse it, knew that Amy shouldn’t be giving her all this, but she so wanted to say yes.
“No more arguments, dear. If I want to give you a present, I will. Put it away now and you can arrange to see a lawyer as soon as possible.”
“Amy. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say nothing. Come on, put it in your purse.” When Mara showed no signs of moving, Amy made her slow way across the room to the table beside the front door where Mara had left her black leather bag, a hand-me-down gift from one of her clients the previous Christmas. The old lady picked it up, brought it back, and opened it for Mara to put the notes inside. “There you are.”
Mara was still flabbergasted by Amy’s gift. “No one’s ever, ever, ever done anything like this for me. How can I thank you?”
“No need. I was pleased to do it. But I do want to talk to you for a moment.”
“Of course.”
“Sit down, dear. I’ve been thinking about you and the girls. What you should do. The money will be enough for now, but there’ll be other problems, other emergencies. Winter’s coming, you know, and your heating’s broken.” Amy hesitated. “I don’t know how to put this quite….”
“Please. Anything you think might help.”
“You can’t manage all on your own, dear. You’ve done marvelously but it’s too much to ask. You and the girls and this rickety house. I think…I think it’s time you found another man.”
“Anything but that.”
“I know how much you loved Jake, but it’s been four years, and the girls would love to have a father.”
“No, no, no. No way,” Mara screamed. And was ashamed of herself almost before the words left her mouth. Shouting like that at the woman who’d just done so much for her. “I’m so sorry, Amy, I didn’t mean to yell at you. But you don’t understand. I can never replace Jake. There isn’t another man for me. He was ideal in every way.”
The old lady took a deep breath. She knew Mara didn’t want to hear what she was about to say, but she owed it to her to try. Even if she was bellowed at. Surreptitiously, she turned her hearing aid down a bit. There. “Are you sure about that, dear? When he was alive…”
“What awful words those are. ‘When he was alive.’”
“Yes, dear. But you used to quarrel a lot. I recall you telling me that you locked him out of your bedroom on occasions. After he didn’t come home all night.”
“He never judged me. Loved me even though he knew what I was.”
“I know. That was wonderful of him. But he also used to annoy you. Remember how you wished he’d let you drive the car?”
“I loved him. From the first moment. He was perfect.”
“Mara, really. Nobody’s perfect.”
“I still dream about him. I wake up smiling from visions of him laughing at the TV or playing with the girls or leaning over in bed to kiss me…and then I look round and see his empty shelves in the wardrobe, the spaces where his hairbrush and pile of books used to be.”
“I know you miss him.”
“He’s still with me. Every day. Whatever happens, I know he’s looking down, proud of me, loving me. If I’m in doubt about anything, I think of what he’d’ve done. And I have my answer.”
“Yes, dear. Very nice. All I’m saying is, it might be time to move on.”
“I said I’d love Jake forever and I will. There’s no question of anyone else. Not ever. No question.”
twenty-six
“You haven’t?”
“I have. A week on Sunday, four o’clock, Stamford Bridge.”
“That’s…that’s…” Paul spluttered to a halt.
“Nice?”
“Brilliant. Cool.” Paul let out a whoop, ran ahead of Sean down the quiet, Sunday-afternoon street, swung around a lamppost, and then ran back. “Really? Chelsea?”
“Yes, Chelsea.” Sean had expected Paul to be pleased but hadn’t been ready for him to go through the stratosphere. He watched the boy jump up and down with excitement. At times, he could look almost grown up; at others, he was still a little kid, unable to contain himself or his feelings.
Once back at his house, Paul raced up the stairs to the flat. “Mam, Mam,” he shouted. Terry emerged from the living room. “I’m going to see Charlton,” Paul said. “I’m going to see Charlton.” He took the stairs to his room two at a time and disappeared inside with a final whoop.
Terry looked at Sean as he came through the door. “You must be a magician, you must. That’s the first time he’s spoken to me, unforced, in months.” She went over to him and gave him a hug. “Thank you, thank you.”
Sean smiled down at Terry. “Hey, hold on. If that’s what happens with one sentence, what’ll you do when you have a conversation?”
“I know, I know, it’s way too soon. But he was smiling, wasn’t he? I haven’t seen him smile for, I don’t know. It feels like forever.”
Ten minutes later, the two were sitting at the kitchen table, Terry with chamomile tea, Sean with strong, dark coffee.
“How come you’re so good with him? Paul, I mean. You sort of seem to know what’ll make him happy.”
“I was a difficult teenager myself. And I haven’t forgotten what it was like.”
“Do your kids know how lucky they are to have you as a dad?”
“I don’t know.” Sean tried to shrug the question away.
“How old are they?”
“Mark’s nine. Ben’s seven.”
Terry could hear the hollow misery in Sean’s voice when he mentioned his sons. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to…I mean—”
“Their mother ran away with them. I have no idea where they are.”
“God. I’m sorry. Stupid me. I should have realized that there was a reason you didn’t talk about them. I just didn’t think.”
“It’s strange how you miss people. To begin with, it’s all the time. Then time passes, you manage not to think about them for a minute here or there. Then maybe you can manage an hour. Two. Three, even. But they’re still there. You’re only blocking out the pain. It doesn’t go away.”
To Sean’s amazement, he found himself telling Terry all about the boys, about Isobel and Steve. Describing his frantic searches, the desperate hunt for clues here and in Canada, the various hired detectives, his bitter disappointment when they came up with nothing. And his eventual decision to give up looking. “I had to stop. I couldn’t deal with the hope anymore. Eve
ry week, I’d see the detective, I’d look forward to it, I’d think, This week, this week there’ll be something. And there never was. And after eighteen months of that, after seventy-eight weeks of anticipation always being followed by misery, I gave up. And I know it was the sensible thing to do. But I still feel I’ve betrayed my boys.” Sean leaned over to hide the tear he wiped away from his eye. He hadn’t cried since he’d first learned Isobel had taken Mark and Ben; he wasn’t about to start now.
Terry couldn’t think of what to say. She might rant on about Paul but she couldn’t bear the idea of losing him. She reached out across the cluttered table and touched Sean’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”
Normally, Sean couldn’t bear talking to anyone about his boys. Somehow he felt that his keeping them to himself allowed him to maintain a last, slender hold on them. Over the months since Isobel had taken them, he’d learned how to answer people’s questions so as to discourage any further interest. But some unexpected, irresistible impulse had driven him to spill his guts to Terry. He was glad he’d done so—though she’d said very little, he’d been able to sense how deeply she sympathized—but he hated the idea that she might discuss what he’d said with the others. “You won’t mention all this to anyone, will you?”
“Not if you don’t want me to.”
“I don’t. Lily and Jules wouldn’t…” That was not the relationship he had with them. “I’d just rather you didn’t. Is that okay?”
Terry couldn’t help but be flattered that he had chosen to tell her, that he trusted her. People often did tell her their secrets—she didn’t know why, she must look trustworthy, she supposed. “Course I won’t tell anyone.”
“I hate the idea of people talking about my boys. When I’m not even sure what they look like anymore.”
Terry’s stomach lurched in sympathy. Not to recognize your own children…Maybe to pass them by on the street and never know. She couldn’t imagine a more painful situation. And Sean had to live with that for the rest of his life.
If only she could think of some way to help. But there was nothing concrete she could offer him. Not even any consolation. How could she comfort someone who had lost his kids? “Of course I’ll not tell anyone,” she repeated softly. It wasn’t much, but if he didn’t want her to tell Jules or Lily, that was the least she could do.
“Thank you. You don’t mind that I told you?”
“No way. I’m pleased. Not that it happened, God, not that. That you wanted to tell me. You know.”
“You’re a great listener.” Sean attempted a smile. “Lily’s a lucky girl to have you as a friend.”
“She’s been pretty good to me too.”
Paul came into the kitchen, leaving the door ajar. “I’m hungry. When’s lunch?” he said to his mother. Who beamed from ear to ear. It might not have been the essence of politeness but it was a lot better than silence. Or insults. “I’ll get something together. Sean, you want to stay?”
Before he could answer, a small bundle of tan-colored electricity dashed into the room. “Paul! You let her loose. Quick, grab her before she can get to Sean!” And mother and son started to chase Minnie around the room, reaching down to try to capture her. But she was small and supple and very elusive. And determined. She darted through Paul’s legs, skipped around Terry’s attempted blockade, and went straight for Sean.
“Minnie!”
“Stop it! He’s a friend! Friend!”
Minnie leapt off the ground, toward Sean. She landed in his lap, reached up to lick his face. And settled down on his knees as if he were Lily or Mara.
“That’s incredible.”
“She’s never done that before.”
Sean laughed and scratched Minnie’s back. She raised herself toward him, accepted the caress, and then curled up in her chosen spot.
Terry leaned over to look at Sean more closely. “Are you sure you’re a man?” she asked.
twenty-seven
“Hi, it’s me.”
“Lils. What’ve you been doing? You’re almost purring.”
“Mmmmmm. Sean, of course.”
“Good night?” Terry smiled to herself, leaned back in her chair, phone in hand, and settled down for a good, long gossip.
“Great night. If he’s as fab with Paul as he is in bed…”
“God, Lils. He’s amazing, isn’t he? They get on so well. And it’s had a massive effect. Paul hasn’t told me to fuck off in three days.”
“A major improvement.”
“Don’t laugh. It is.”
“I know, babe. I didn’t mean to laugh. It just sounded so odd.”
“I guess it did. But trust me, this is a real step forward. Okay, he still isn’t talking much, but I’d rather nothing than being shouted or sworn at.”
“And if all that took was three weeks, think what’ll happen in three months.”
“You know, I did have my doubts, but this was definitely one of your better ideas.”
“Paltry. One of my best, you mean. You’re happy, I’m happy, and Jules is beside herself with excitement.”
“Any idea when?”
“She’s always been an off-and-on girl. Any week now.”
“She’s still going ahead?”
“You know Jules. If she wants something…”
“She gets it. Yeah. You heard from Mara?”
“No. You?”
“No.”
“I’ll call.”
“No, I will.”
“Let’s all call. Tell her how well it’s going. See if she’ll join in.”
“She’ll never. Not Mara. Didn’t you see her face when you first mentioned it?”
“Yeah, but she’s had time to think about it. Get over the shock. See the advantages.”
“Lils. This is Mara you’re talking about.”
“I know. I know. I just hate to see her still worshiping that bastard.”
“So do I. So does Jules. But you don’t want to tell her?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.”
“We agreed we’d keep quiet, didn’t we? That there was no need to hurt her.”
“That was years ago. The guy had just died. She didn’t need to know he wasn’t the ideal husband. We thought she’d gradually get over him, then move on. Instead, she’s made him into a saint. When he was anything but. She’s ruining her life cos of him.”
“No. Not ruining. Missing out on stuff, maybe.”
“And living in that tumbledown house. Keeping it as a shrine to her lost, perfect love. When all the time they were together…Fifteen women, was it?”
“Well, there were letters from seventeen. Might have been more, of course.”
“We should have shown them to her.”
“Lils, we couldn’t do that. Remember what she was like?”
“If she’d just felt up to clearing out his things, she’d have found them herself.”
“It’d’ve destroyed her, wouldn’t it?”
“I know. I know. But I can’t bear to see her stuck in that place, alone, damp, and broke. When she could be sharing Sean with us. Spending time with a man other than Jake. Learning how to date again.”
“She’ll never do it.”
“Maybe not. But I refuse to give in this easily. We’re going to have another go.”
“We?”
“Yup. We all call, we rave about the share deal, Sean, you know. Put some gentle pressure on her. Let her know what she’s missing.”
“She’ll say no. I can hear her now. ‘Jake wouldn’t like it.’”
“Then we do something else. Get her to meet Sean again, see how great he is. Okay?”
“It won’t work,” Terry warned.
“I know. But we’ve got to try. Okay?”
“Okay.”
twenty-eight
Jules stood over the plastic glass, staring at the dipstick, willing it to change color. But it remained stubbornly the same. Just as it had for the previous seven mornings. She was on tenterhooks, desperate to get started,
to try to make her baby. And get into bed with Sean. But she had no clear idea when she was going to be fertile; she’d always been irregular, and the best she could do was give herself a two-week window. She was now seven days in, and nothing. Surely it had to happen soon.
The testing kit had said to wait for two minutes. If nothing happened by then, it meant the time wasn’t right. Jules had been giving it first four, then five minutes, but it hadn’t helped. The dipstick still detected no change in her early-morning urine. Now she had to wait a full twenty-four hours until she could try again.
She looked out of her bathroom window at the gray light of dawn and yawned. She wasn’t sleeping well. She kept waking up to check the time, hoping the night was over so that she could do the test.
She threw the dipstick down the toilet, left her immaculate, navy-blue-and-white-tiled bathroom, and started to rummage through the clothes closets that covered two walls of her pretty, feminine bedroom. There was no point in her trying to go back to sleep, she was far too wide-awake. Besides, it would give her a chance to get some paperwork done before the workday began and the telephone started ringing.
She was going to have to wear something that would go all day and into the evening; she had a lunchtime function her company had arranged that she’d have to attend, then meetings all afternoon and an early-evening drink with a possible client before hurrying around to Lily’s for dinner.
She yawned again and rubbed her eyes. Normally, she enjoyed the dressing-up aspect of her job, but today she would have liked to be able to slop around in an old pair of jeans and a loose sweater. Still, that was out of the question. Her clients expected a certain standard from her. And Sean would be at Lily’s; she had to make sure that he saw her as an attractive woman, not as a shapeless mother type. But she mustn’t overdo it; it was supposed to be Mara’s night.
Jules moved past a red, flouncy cocktail number—way too blatant—thought about and discarded her much-loved navy blue suit—too sedate—and finally settled on a black, form-hugging but not overtight designer dress that she’d had for three years and worn over and over again. It was one of her favorite outfits. Attractive but not obvious, the vee neckline was just the right length to suggest a great deal and show very little. It was stylish, sexy…but understated. Perfect.
