The Consequence of Love

by Sandra Howard

  She was soon stuck in, dealing with the most urgent of her emails. She sifted through new books for review, which took time, and wrote the bones of the interview with Sadia while it was fresh in her mind. It flowed easily. Nattie wanted to do the girl proud.

  She knew the moment had come. It was hard, she was clenching and unclenching her fists. Bringing up the address for the very last time, she had a strange telepathic anticipation of finding something unexpected, some weird personal connection or contact in the predictable trickle of spam.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary in her in-box – offers from estate agents, airlines – Viagra sellers and money fraudsters in Trash. She scanned further down the list of mailboxes, past VIPs, Flagged, as far as Drafts.

  Nattie stared at the number beside Drafts in a disbelieving fog. It couldn’t be, she was seeing things . . . The number of messages had been stuck on 267 for six years. Today it read 268.

  It couldn’t be. She felt dazed, almost too scared to look; in a state of suspended panic, like being alone in the house, hearing footfall on the stairs and heavy breathing. Only it was her own loud heart she was hearing, her own raggedy breath.

  She clicked on Drafts and brought up the new message, tingling to the tips of her fingers.

  Hello, Nattie, I’m in London! Very much hoping we can meet.

  Her eyes were blurring as she read through Ahmed’s message. She worked out their old easy-to-decipher code and read the short sentence the letters made.

  I need to see you badly.

  There it was, the message she’d hoped and dreamed of seeing one day. Ahmed was alive; he’d made contact. Her heart was loud, pumping at a great pace, and she had to swallow hard.

  The message was two days old. Nattie was poised to respond right away; she had a thousand questions to ask and couldn’t rest now, without answers. But to see him again . . . and with the message making his feelings clear – or did it? I need to see you badly, that could be for a variety of reasons. Who was she kidding? The passion was there in the message, loud and clear.

  Where would it lead? She was in another life now, but just to meet, to hear what had happened, to explain her situation . . . He could be married too. Her stomach contracted at the thought. ‘Don’t be married,’ she mouthed silently. ‘I couldn’t bear it.’

  She had to make contact, but did she tell Hugo? It upset her to think of seeing Ahmed behind his back, lying and keeping secrets. It was of such fundamental enormity to their relationship. Suppose Hugo found out? Yet if she did tell him, he’d beg her not to see Ahmed again, certainly not alone. He’d do everything in his power, he would plead and cajole, say it would jeopardise five happy years of marriage; everything they had. No, she couldn’t tell Hugo.

  She had no idea how long she’d sat gazing at her screen, but began to absorb the shouts of goodbye, people packing it in. It was time to go home. She imagined the evening ahead with Hugo, trying with every fibre to act normally, however hard, and to resist constant looks at her laptop. It was going to be a test.

  Nothing compared to the test it would be to see Ahmed again, knowing what she’d have to say. She’d never stopped loving him and never would, but she was committed now, tied, married to Hugo and with two children.

  ‘Nattie? Are you okay?’ Ian was staring, pausing as he prepared to go. ‘Is there something on your mind?’ He looked quite hopeful; other people’s predicaments were his meat and drink. ‘All set for tomorrow’s meeting? You can’t have had much prep time, I’m sure, with being away. Anything I can help with?’

  The forward planning meeting had gone clean out of her head. Shit, she should have been online for the past hour, hunting out ideas, poring over newspapers and magazines, foreign ones too. ‘Not really, thanks, Ian. I’ll gen up at home later. I’ve been a bit distracted, thinking about this girl I interviewed at lunch; her novel is so powerful. It really stays with you.’ Nattie smiled, as unsure as ever of how far to trust her colleague. He had chin-length gingery-brown hair and was all bones – they stuck out in every direction; his cheeks were hollow and his thin nose twitched as it scented advantage.

  Ian lost interest and shuffled off.

  Nattie looked at the clock and phoned Jasmine. ‘I’ll be a bit late back, sorry.’

  ‘No rush, don’t you worry, just whenever.’ Jasmine was pure gold. Nattie felt so emotionally overloaded she had to wipe her eyes.

  She wrote a return email to save in Drafts, feeling tremors in her spine. It wasn’t easy to hit the right holding-back note.

  After a lot of backspacing and with shivering anticipation, she wrote, I can’t believe this is really you and I’m seeing this message after six years of no contact! I’ve been staring at my screen, stunned. There’s so much to ask and tell. Meet Tues or Wed next week – just for a catch-up? Coffee? Drink? Or I know a quiet Italian bistro near Baker St.

  She added a last sentence in code with her heart battering at her ribcage.

  Infants never exactly easy, do tumble often, such effortful exhausting young obstinate upstarts, toppling over obstacles!

  That was showing her feelings too much. Her finger hovered over the delete button, but she couldn’t bring herself to press it. He was here and she had to see him, she’d be in pieces otherwise, unable to function. But either way, seeing him or not, it could only end in tears.

  5

  A Dinner Party and Family Tea

  Jasmine was always relaxed about being kept late. Half-running home from the tube station Nattie found that far from being whingey and scratchily impatient for their supper, the children had almost finished it. Lily was asking to get down, Tubsy being fed a last few spoonfuls. He was wading through them with steady determination like a glutton putting away a seven-course meal.

  ‘I got on with their tea,’ Jasmine said. ‘Pasta with tomato and grated cheese, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Brilliant! Such a help, thanks. One of Tubsy’s favourites – but then, what isn’t.’

  ‘Well, I’d best be off,’ Jasmine said. ‘Just get me things.’

  She collected a straw-basket handbag with a pink heart on the side, and a red cardigan, despite temperatures still being in the high 20s, before squatting down on the floor. ‘Bye, bye, my lovelies, give us a hug then.’ Lily ran into her arms, happy to be squashed against Jasmine’s vast cushiony boobs. ‘And you too, angel boy, show Mum how many steps you can take.’ Tubsy wobbled to his feet, tottered like one of the Lego towers he was learning to build while they held their breath, but he made it. ‘See you tomorrow, honeybuns,’ Jasmine said, kissing their cheeks. ‘Be good for your mummy.’

  Nattie went with her to the door. ‘Thanks for helping out with the babysitting tomorrow. We won’t be late, Hugo will see to that.’

  It was twenty minutes to bath time, which was when he usually made it home. Nattie burned to open her laptop, but she played with the children and cleared up toys while Lily prattled on. ‘Jasmine’s got a new boyfriend. He’s called Pete. She showed us a photo and he’s got a little beard and sticky-out ears and he’s a meccaneec.’ Lily stamped her foot, making Nattie jump. ‘Mummy! I’m telling you things. You’ve got to listen. And your face is gone all pink.’

  ‘I heard you very well, cheeky thing.’ Blushing in front of Lily, how bad could that be? ‘Do you know what mechanics do, Lily?’ she asked, still feeling red in the face.

  ‘They mend cars, Jasmine said, and vans – and nee-naws.’

  ‘Yes, it’s very important that nee-naws don’t break down,’ Nattie said. ‘People need ambulances when they’re sick. It’s bath time now, upstairs we go.’

  Their living space was on one level, great for the children, though the stairs up to the first floor were very steep. The house was in Queen’s Park, inherited from one of Hugo’s aunts. His father, Adam, was the youngest of six and with five sisters had been smothered with girly love all through his childhood. Adam’s eldest sister, the only one to leave Oxfordshire, had joined the Civil Service and moved to
London. She’d never married, bought the Queen’s Park house in the late sixties and lived in it till she died.

  She’d always doted on Hugo, her only brother’s only child. Her will, Hugo said, had come as a shock and surprise; the estate had been divided between her siblings, but not the house, which she’d stipulated wasn’t to be touched for death duties. A couple of the sisters had grumbled bitterly, sorely put out as they had children too, but not to the extent of contesting the will.

  Nattie had grown to love the house. It had a long, thin back garden, a small patch in front, and was late-Victorian, very late, quite gothic-looking. They’d taken it over in grim nick, untouched for decades. Hugo’s aunt had been neither domesticated nor a gardener, she’d never even got round to putting in central heating. The house had been as damp as to have patches of mould, and smelled of cabbage and mouse droppings.

  Hugo’s savings had gone on rehab and Nattie, who was earning little anyway, was on maternity leave. They were newly married, living in his one-bed, rented Hammersmith flat, though, and only too glad to move in. Hugo had painted, put up shelves, dug the garden, and with his growing income, a mortgage and parental help, they’d rewired the place and put in central heating, a new kitchen and bathroom too, and, thanks to William who was a naturally expansive and big-hearted stepfather, the garden had been extensively landscaped.

  Nattie loved the way the pergola – covered with wisteria, climbing roses and evergreen clematis – disguised the garden’s long skinniness. Flowering shrubs and successfully transplanted small trees gave added form. Roses – Iceberg and sweet-smelling New Dawn – climbed up the back wall, lovely to look at from the garden in summer, their winter leaflessness unseen. She’d felt the pair of immense urns William had bought them was OTT, more for the middle-aged rich, but Hugo had been ecstatic. ‘Think of the resale value! They’d reach parts of prospective buyers nothing else could. Not that we’d ever want to sell . . .’

  She heard his key in the door, despite the noise the children were making, Lily complaining, Tubsy splashing in the bath, and felt her tension rise. Hugo sprinted upstairs calling out, ‘Hi, darling!’ and as he came into the bathroom to squeals of ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ she hoped he’d be distracted enough not to sense any stiffness or see wariness in her smile.

  He asked after her day, pulling off his tie and rolling up his sleeves. ‘I can take over here,’ he said, ‘if you want to go down to do Tubsy’s bottle?’

  ‘Thanks. Tubsy still needs soaping. I’ll be up in five.’ Darting downstairs, she couldn’t help flipping open her laptop while the bottle warmed. No new message in Drafts. God, the strain . . .

  After supper Nattie tried to get her head round the ideas meeting next day. She brought her laptop to the kitchen table, which had cream-painted legs and a scrubbed top, while Hugo washed up the saucepans. There was a refectory table at the garden end of the room where they entertained friends.

  ‘We have all the newspapers and mags at the office,’ Hugo said, turning from the sink. ‘Tell me next time and I’ll bring some home.’ Drying his hands on a tea towel, he leaned over her and gave her a kiss. ‘I’m done here. I’m going through to catch the news. You’ll come soon?’

  ‘Sure, but I must do a bit more yet.’ She listened for the sound of the television with her cursor hovering over Mailbox. She held back; he was only in the sitting room, could pop back any time and she’d hate to be seen to be acting furtively.

  Her good intentions lasted no time. She clicked on Mail, her heart beating loudly against her ribs, and saw a new number beside Drafts. She opened it up, shivering with trepidation, and was visibly trembling, reading Ahmed’s message.

  Quiet Italian bistro – perfect! Very glad about the code. Meet at 12.30? Can it be Tuesday? Message me address. And, for God’s sake, come!

  She deleted Ahmed’s message and all previous messages from years ago, deleted them from Trash as well. She quickly typed the restaurant’s name, Bella Cucina, the address and telephone, but with no signing-off message, no word from her. She had to cool it. Keeping Ahmed’s return a secret was forgivable, she believed, and meeting him a single time was too. She had to know what had happened, what he’d been through. But that had to be that; any suggestion of seeing him again would be like sailing where there was no lighthouse and without a rudder or guide. What chance would there be of survival?

  Nattie didn’t do well in the meeting the following day. She managed when her book pages were being discussed, enthusing about Sadia’s and other new novels, and her suggestion of a Reader’s Column that could be largely ghosted went down well. The editor, who didn’t often attend, looked interested – to Nattie’s relief. She was a tricky woman, the editor, easy to rub up the wrong way. Tall, with a thick white streak in her dark bobbed hair, she had an in-charge, don’t-mess-with-me manner, barking out orders like a baton-twirling majorette. Someone had once called her the Badgerette, which had stuck.

  Ian, true to form, had kept asking Nattie for her opinion whenever her attention wandered, which was often. She was high on anticipation, finding it impossible to concentrate, and had floundered more than once.

  She came out of the meeting shaking, but had been incapable of shaping up. She could have done without Ian enjoying himself so much at her expense, though, and stared at him truculently across their facing desks, spoiling for a fight. She contained the urge, however, and began to fill her book bag, preparing to go.

  ‘Well, that’s me done for today,’ she said, softening her look more diplomatically. ‘I’m off! See you Tuesday, Ian. Have a great weekend.’

  She’d decided to get her hair done; it badly needed some TLC after two weeks of sea and searing Portuguese sun. She didn’t trust herself to be at her sparkiest at Maudie’s dinner party; it would help to have tried to look her best.

  ‘Oooh, Mummy, you’re all dressed up, you look very pretty!’

  ‘Thanks, Lily, love. Sleep sweet. Daddy and I really have to go now.’ They blew kisses and slipped away and downstairs, where Jasmine wished them a grand time.

  ‘I can do better than “very pretty”,’ Hugo murmured, nuzzling her neck on the front path. ‘You’ve never looked more beautiful.’ He saw her into the car; it was a nearly new silver BMW, bought after a recent pay rise. ‘I’ll be staring across at you all evening at this wretched dinner. I can’t wait to get you home.’

  ‘You never know what bit-of-all-right you could be sitting next to,’ Nattie said. ‘Maudie will get in the glamour, she knows what her rich old clients want.’

  ‘Who says they’ll be old?’ Hugo raised an eyebrow before revving up and setting off down the quiet, tree-lined street. ‘They’ll be chatting you up whatever their age.’

  The last thing Nattie wanted was Hugo keeping his eyes trained. She’d avoided sex the previous night, hyper-tense, inhibited, Ahmed filling her heart and mind, but it would be harder tonight. Four more days before she saw him and the pressure was getting to her, her nerves and need spilling out of her like an over-filled kettle. Perhaps if Hugo knocked back the drink he wouldn’t pick up on any unresponsiveness. And he probably would drink, since he wasn’t into Maudie’s slick crowd; he was guarded with Maudie, whom he saw as a bad influence and sure to lead Nattie down decadent paths.

  Maudie was a tough go-getter, self-centred and mercenary, but she was Nattie’s best friend. She’d been a rebel at school, often in trouble, fun to be around; she was loyal in her way too, and always gave a straight answer. If a dress didn’t suit you she’d say so; if you asked a favour, she’d say openly that she couldn’t be bothered – and, anyway, old friendships died hard.

  She lived in a south-of-the-Thames penthouse, typically minimalist and white-walled with sumptuous views up and down the river. It belonged to her married lover, who’d bought it as an investment and let it to her for a peppercorn rent. Maudie had said it was a proper arrangement, but paying such minimal rent she’d be laughing if she wanted to break the contract and move on. She always fell on he
r feet. Nattie wondered if the lover’s wife was even aware that he owned an apartment. Perhaps she was – perhaps she had a lover herself. Who knew?

  Maudie had walked out on Nattie’s stepbrother, Tom, though, which was hard to forgive. Tom had been hopelessly in love with her and shattered when she left; he still wasn’t over it, three years on. He was an artist, successful and sought-after, up to a point, and had taught Maudie everything she knew. She’d taken it all in, got into the art world, used him and dumped him with no apparent regrets.

  Tom was no blood relation, but Nattie adored him; he was like a twin to her, sensitive and talented, always there for her, and he’d been a good friend to Ahmed too. They’d hit it off from the start. Tubsy was named after Tom. Hugo had been keener on Adam, his father’s name, but he’d soon been persuaded, as long as it could be Thomas; Nattie had her way.

  Tom had been there for her the day of her wedding. He’d known what she was going through, the trauma, the sense of finality and loss, the immense control she’d needed to manage her conflicting emotions; fondness for Hugo fighting with a burning urge to flunk it, to pick up her wedding skirts and run. Tom had transmitted his support even as she’d walked down the aisle. Nattie had known how much he understood and cared. She couldn’t have borne to do it to Hugo, though, and had gone through the ceremony with her head held high.

  Her mother still had a house in the part of Hampshire where she’d been the MP. She was no longer in politics, yet she and William loved the area and went as often as they could. Nattie and Hugo’s wedding had taken place there, in the tiny church in the local village. A simple, conventional wedding, but it had felt surreal; a day of swirling emotions, contrasts, rainy, yet with a symbolic, optimistic ray of sunshine when they stood for the photographs. The lump in Nattie’s throat as she spoke her vows, struggling for volume, yet so aware of what it meant to Hugo and happy for him. He’d had tears in his eyes, walking back up the aisle, a married man.