George’s dad stood well back, with folded arms, shaking his head. When the three of them turned back for the house, he muttered, ‘Not your best move, mate. The tides round here are very dangerous.’
Sam shrugged and ran on ahead. When his mum caught up with him he said, speaking in a great rush for fear of losing courage, that he was really sorry about Granny’s accident and running off and he would of course come to the hospital if she wanted, but he had thought of someone else with whom he might be able to stay, given that George wasn’t around and his dad was too busy.
‘Really?’ She looked astonished and almost happy, as if the unexpectedness of such a thing had driven out the other worries of the day. ‘Who’s that, then?’
Sam mumbled Rose’s name, then said it louder, looking her right in the eye, daring her to laugh or refuse, feeling suddenly that his new knowledge of her awful, gross secret gave him power – the power of not caring.
‘Rose Porter? But you… surely you…’
‘We’re friends now,’ Sam snapped. ‘Her dad might say no, but I’d like you to ask. I know they’re not going away because they were moving to that house, the one you liked.’
‘Yes… they were… Okay, then… Well, we can try, I suppose, if I can get hold of the phone number… Sam, darling, are you absolutely sure?’ Charlotte carried on staring at him, clearly amazed still, like she was seeing him for the first time and didn’t have a clue what else to say.
Tim’s morning had begun, unpromisingly, with a piece of tooth catapulting into the basin off the end of his toothbrush. Although the chip was small, the hole in his mouth felt, to the probing tip of his tongue, terrifyingly decrepit and huge. Tim had had fillings decompose on several occasions, but never a section of his own enamel, and could not help but regard the experience as a grim reminder that, no matter how hard he worked at the gym, no matter how solid a keyboard of abdominals emerged as a result, the next three decades would be about the creeping loss of physical resilience, teeth, hair, testosterone and all the other things that made life worth living.
With someone at his side to cosset him through such uncharacteristic troughs of pessimism and fan his ego with loads of rampant sex, he was sure he wouldn’t have felt so bad. But since the horrible anti-climax of his date with Charlotte, his personal life had deflated to the point of non-existence. Sitting alone with a can of beer on the sofa the previous evening, watching an episode of an American soap he had seen at least three times, surrounded by the usual domestic detritus of unwashed mugs, old newspapers and abandoned clothes too crumpled to wear but not yet worthy of the washing-machine, he had felt sufficiently misérable to click on his laptop and tap ‘dating agencies’ into the Google search engine. Scores of possibilities had come up – Perfect Partner, Lonely Hearts, Love4Life, Brief Encounters – and although in the end male pride, coupled with a reluctance to part with several hundred pounds, had got the better of him, Tim had felt greatly reassured that such options were there, should he ever decide he did need them.
Everyone required safety-nets, he had comforted himself, snapping shut his laptop and embarking on a clear-up that included swishing a duster across the leopard print and then, with more tenderness, the mounted photo of Phoebe in the Caribbean. The picture had only retained its prominent position because its removal would have displayed an unsightly square of dirt; but it was, in fact, a bloody good shot, Tim had decided, leaning closer to admire the sharp focus of his ex-wife’s face and the handsome backdrop of emerald sea and azure sky. How was she really doing now, he had wondered, in Dorset with – according to various grapevine reports – a lawyer boyfriend, platinum highlights in her hair and weekend riding lessons? Was Phoebe happy enough not to need a safety-net? Did she miss him as he, in unguarded moments, missed her?
Queuing at the dentist’s reception desk, Tim’s thoughts reverted, accusingly, to Charlotte. Talk about a knee in the balls. Lover to rapist in one second – when all he had done was follow her signals. She hadn’t said as much, of course – mostly, from what he could recall, she had apologized – but Tim had seen it in her eyes, the accusing hurt, as if he’d stuck a knife into her instead of his dick. Angry at the memory – at being in thrall to it still – Tim flipped open one of the magazines lying on the waiting-room table: ‘DENIAL ANGER ACCEPTANCE – GETTING HER OUT OF YOUR SYSTEM’.
‘Mr Croft, ah, yes, we’re squeezing you in. If you’d like to follow me, we need some forms filling in first.’ The young receptionist peered over her clipboard. Green eyes, Irish, creamy blonde hair – but flat-chested and an engagement ring. Tim, a little weary of his own relentless assessment of females, swallowed the quip he’d had ready about following her anywhere and stepped meekly past the other waiting patients.
He was fish-mouthed, jaw aching, palms damp, having a temporary crown glued into place when the jaunty ring-tone of his mobile broke through the hum of soporific tunes, which Tim had decided offered a sinister rather than soothing counterpoint to the experiences he was enduring in the sloping leather chair.
‘Just a minute or two and you’ll be able to answer that, Mr Croft.’
Tim released an agreeing groan that bore little correlation to his true state of wretchedness. The protective glasses that the nurse had slotted across his face were cutting into the top of his left ear. Novocaine always made him feel queasy, yet work was still manic and required him to be on top form. Worse, he knew of no woman who wished to spend time with him or to touch his body. A terrible tear squeezed out of the corner of Tim’s left eye, trickled down his cheekbone and into the corner of his mouth. He licked it away, steadying himself with the vicious reflection that a man with such cavernous nostrils might have thought twice before applying to dental school.
The phone, demoted to ‘vibrate mode’, buzzed again when he was struggling through numbed lips to rinse his mouth and then again when he was handing over his switch card and making an appointment to have the real crown installed. Not studying the list of missed calls until he got back to his car, Tim let out an involuntary cry of triumphant delight on seeing that they were from Charlotte. But steady, he warned himself, winding down the car window before replying, and taking a breath as deep as those required for a length underwater at his gym’s Olympic pool.
‘Tim?’
‘I’ve been to the dentist,’ he managed, all vestiges of steadiness or calm dispersing at the familiar, attractive sound of Charlotte’s voice and the reminder that half his face and mouth were immobile.
‘Poor you, and I’m so sorry to be a bother but, Tim, I need your help. My mother has had a fall and is in hospital and it’s too complicated to explain why but I need Mrs Stowe’s phone number – that is, I need the number of the person now living in her house, Dominic Porter. You probably remember him – the widower who hated my place. Unbelievable that he should end up with Chalkdown, but there we are. Small world and all that, and although I was upset at first I really don’t care now. He might have changed the number, of course, but I’d like to try and you’re my only hope as I’m stuck in Suffolk without my address book or list of class phone numbers, although that wouldn’t have it anyway.’ She breathed at last. ‘So, Mrs Stowe’s number, please, Tim, it’s an emergency so please don’t say anything about it being unethical.’
A woman in crisis, and he almost without the wherewithal to utter consonants… Tim could see no option but to swallow his misery and comply. Pressing his fingers to his cheek in a bid to encourage the functioning of the muscles, he managed a response to the effect that he would check his contacts list and text her the number if he had it. There was a rushed ‘Thank you,’ and that was it. All over. No hope, no recrimination, no regret, nothing. Tim stared out of his open window for several minutes, wondering if he might be sick.
The text took a little while to compose, not because Tim had any trouble finding or forwarding Mrs Stowe’s number but because he set about it with the intention of communicating a couple of things in addition to Charlotte’s requ
est – like the untruth that he shared her evident indifference to their failed romance, and a calculatedly vengeful release of the recent rumour about the two puffs selling the bookshop. He might have no power over her heart, but he could put the wind up her at least. With the elder of the two reputed to have AIDS, the pair were said to be planning to cut their losses and retreat to their pad in Spain. Ravens Books would probably be replaced by a chic café, or one of those local branches of the major supermarkets. ‘Here is tel. Hope ur mum get better. Sorry to hear ur bkshop up 4 sale. Life mad busy. T.’
Not much more coherent than anything he could have managed out loud. Nonetheless Tim pressed ‘send’ with a certain vicious glee, then phoned Savitri to explain he was in no fit state to work and taking his heavy heart and throbbing mouth home. He would go to the gym, he decided grimly, lift his mood with endorphins, make eyes at the chubby receptionist with big tits and a laugh like a strangled donkey.
But as he closed his front door Tim had to steady himself against the wall. His mouth tingled and the root of his tooth was pulsing. He couldn’t exercise without some food and he couldn’t eat, not for several hours, the dentist had said, and then only on the other side of his mouth. Nothing tasted good on one side of the mouth, nothing.
Tim sank to his knees and riffled glumly through the pile of post on the doormat. All the envelopes were brown, but the one uppermost, now bearing a faint imprint of the sole of his shoe, was particularly large and thick. Curious, Tim turned it over, only to find his spirits plummeting to a new low at recognition of the name of the company from which he had, with such buoyant hopes, purchased Charlotte’s fortieth birthday gift a few weeks and an eternity before. All those good intentions, all that money – the bitch! But there was no anger left to come, no petty spite, only a dizzying wave of recognition that it was over. It was over and it had never really begun. Acceptance, just like the stupid article in the waiting room had said.
Which meant his suffering wasn’t even original, Tim reflected grimly. It was just a feeling experienced by millions, a passing phase, suitable for packaging in glossy magazines. He prepared to tear the envelope in two, but hesitated, absently running his tongue along the familiar geography of his teeth, feeling for the gap. The temporary crown felt snug, solid. The throbbing was turning into a pleasant sort of prickle. The gift had cost a lot and the company might give him a refund. He slapped the envelope against his thigh as he got to his feet, scolding himself for so nearly losing focus, for almost allowing a woman to run rings round him when he had vowed never to do so again.
Keeping a wary eye open for police and cameras, Charlotte accelerated into the empty outer lane of the A20 until the speedometer needle was bouncing around ninety. The Volkswagen, thankfully, responded like a child to a treat, moving through its usual protesting coughs to a deep, steady purr.
The peculiar ordeal of posting Sam through the rose-fringed door of number forty-two Chalkdown Road was upon her still. Holstered and ready to fire with politeness and gratitude, she had been disarmed to find herself greeted not by Dominic but by the famous actor brother, with his dashing, tousled hair and piercing hazelnut eyes. He appeared to be dressed for high summer, in bright pink flip-flops, baggy knee-length shorts and a crumpled T-shirt. There were even sunglasses on his head, perched elegantly among the dark, perfectly messed-up waves.
‘This is so kind.’
‘Not at all. With me as her only playmate, Rose was dying of boredom, weren’t you, Rosie?’ He patted his niece, who was hanging on to the edge of his T-shirt, holding an awkward pigeon-footed pose and staring at the floor.
Charlotte wondered for by no means the first time whether the whole dubious arrangement should be abandoned. After some understandable surprise and a brief muffled consultation with his daughter, Dominic had agreed readily that Sam should come and stay. But now the girl looked decidedly reluctant, while Sam was lurking behind a flourish of roses somewhere to her left. They had had a horrible journey too, of bad traffic and punishing silence – hers on account of worry and Sam’s, she presumed, because she had seen fit to reiterate her scolding for his jaunt to the beach.
‘Dom was supposed to be home all day but something blew up at the office. He said to apologize. Do you have time for tea?’
‘No, I–’
‘Coffee? Gin?’ Rose and Sam caught each other’s eye and giggled.
‘No, my mother… I…’
‘Of course – Christ, of course. I’m so sorry – your mother’s accident.’ Benedict slapped a palm to his forehead. ‘She’s in hospital, I gather?’
‘Yes, a broken wrist, bruising. It could have been a lot worse.’ Charlotte reached for Sam’s arm and tried to extract him from behind the briar, managing only to scatter a shower of dusky white petals across the doorstep. The giggle with Rose had been encouraging, though. ‘It won’t be for long, probably just a night, with it being Easter this weekend. I know it’s a terrible imposition. If, for some reason, I’m not back tomorrow then Sam’s father…’ Charlotte let the sentence hang as a gust of fresh annoyance at Martin’s lack of co-operation swept over her. Lack of flexibility, work first, no question of Cindy stepping in – some things never changed.
‘As long as you want, Dom said. Easter, Christmas, no worries. Hey, Sam, good to meet you,’ Benedict added easily, ducking round the flowers to make eye contact. ‘I hope you’re good with bonfires. Rosie and I have had a bit of a clear-out in the garden. Just a tiny fire, nothing to upset the neighbours… or your mum,’ he added, offering Charlotte a broad grin, followed by an imperceptible wink as Sam, clutching his overnight bag, shuffled through the door.
On any other day it might have been rather thrilling to exchange complicit looks with a handsome celebrity, even one occupying the house of her dreams, Charlotte mused, moving across into the slow lane so as not to miss the turning off the motorway. The day, with its unexpected twists, seemed to have gone on for ever. It felt like years since the débâcle with Henry in the cottage kitchen, the dreadful hope in his blinking owl-eyes, her even more dreadful urge to respond to it. It felt like years and yet her stomach still churned with shame. How stupid she had been in not recognizing the signs – so obvious in retrospect – seeing only Theresa’s husband, seeing Henry, for goodness’ sake, solid, married Henry, safe to accept lifts from and even flirt with a little over a glass or two or on a country walk. Except not safe. Not safe at all. There were boundaries – she of all people knew that, she of all people should have been on the lookout for them.
Charlotte was well aware that the distressing news about her mother’s accident had been a tremendous help, not just in breaking the horror of the moment but also in seeing her through its aftermath. Although she would gladly have forgone the distraction of Sam’s walkabout, it had been a relief to have the phoning and packing to get on with, not to mention such a perfect pretext for early escape. What she was still agonizing over was the follow-up: what to do about what had happened. Henry, with what seemed to her to be sickening male predictability, had behaved like a shit, and part of her could not help thinking that this might be something Theresa had a right to know. She was so proud and strong, Theresa, the sort of woman who valued straight talking, who, having been presented with an unpalatable truth, would know exactly what to do with it.
It took some effort to shift the focus of her thoughts to her mother. In fact, Charlotte realized guiltily, shaking her purse for the right change for the machine in the hospital car park, thinking about her mother held very little appeal. She would be helpless, sorry for herself, with the bruising and the plaster. The situation was going to demand a show of daughterly bedside vigilance to which she would have felt unequal even without the horrors of the morning… horrors that had included – Charlotte froze, pound coin poised in the slot as her thoughts veered away from Jean yet again to the throwaway remark in Tim’s text. What would she do without her job? It would simply be too cruel to lose it now, just as she was getting the hang of things.
She was having a difficult day, she scolded herself, ramming the coin home and striding back to place the ticket in the car. She would not let the hopelessness back in. Life was about difficult days. All she had to do was keep her head, deal with one problem at a time and the lovely new sense of direction would return. And right now the problem requiring her attention most urgently was her mother. A decent interval at her bedside, saying the right things, taking down a list of what she wanted from home, stocking up the fridge, checking the house was clean and tidy – yes, she could manage that. And she would speak to the nurses about follow-up care too, secure the relevant forms and information in case a home visit or two was called for when Jean was discharged.
By the hospital entrance there was a large, circular flowerbed, a floral soup of colours – sweet williams, pansies, busy lizzies, all pert and freshly bedded. Charlotte paused, breathing in the scents, trying to get herself in the right mood. Instead her mind swung back – with sudden, winding force – to the moment when Henry had charged at her with the phone on the doorstep of the cottage. She’s dead, Charlotte had thought. She’s dead and this is how it feels and it’s not too bad, not too bad at all. Absorbing the rest of Henry’s sentence, that Jean had suffered a fall rather than perished, Charlotte had been aware of a diabolical pulse of anti-climax.
Unnerved, she hurried to the gift shop to make amends. Twenty minutes later, she arrived at the entrance to the ward, armed with a bunch of carnations, a bag of seedless grapes and the most expensive box of chocolates she had been able to find.
‘Ah, Mrs Boot’s daughter,’ exclaimed the nurse, after she had introduced herself. ‘Lovely – I think they’re nearly ready for you. I’ll see if I can find Nurse Telson to give you a hand getting her to the car.’
‘To the car? But I thought –’
‘Fortunately the break isn’t nearly as bad as the doctor first feared. It’s her confidence that’s taken a knock more than anything. Seeing as there’s someone to look after her, we’re very happy for her to go home. Recovery is always quicker there – especially with a loved one around. Lucky thing,’ the nurse added, beaming. ‘In these situations you wouldn’t believe how many children just don’t want to know.’
Life Begins Page 20
