More Than a Feeling

by Cate Woods

  I consider taking a taxi to the penthouse so I arrive in as flawless a condition as I have left the house, but for old time’s sake I hop on the bus. The first time I made this journey, I was blind drunk, the second I was terrified, but now, as I sit here on the top deck again, there’s just an overwhelming feeling of happiness and excitement. It’s been one hell of a week, but I have my darling daughter, brilliantly supportive friends and a night with a gorgeous man ahead of me: life could be a lot worse.

  I’ve just got off the bus and am walking the short distance to Westminster Reach, enjoying the sight of boats chugging along the Thames in the evening sunshine, when my phone starts to vibrate. I check the caller ID: Tabby.

  ‘Hey, sis!’

  ‘Annie! How are you?’

  ‘I’m good, just on my way to meet Sam.’

  ‘Of course, that’s tonight, isn’t it? Well, I won’t keep you. Have a fantastic time.’

  ‘Don’t go, I can talk a bit longer. How’ve you been?’

  She takes a breath. ‘Oh, fine, you know. A bit up and down, but I guess I should expect a few wobbles!’

  Something in her voice gives me pause. ‘Wobbles?’

  ‘Yes, you know – butterflies. But then it’s a major thing, isn’t it? Having a baby. Becoming a mum. Being responsible for another person for the rest of your life.’ Tabby literally gulps, like a cartoon character. ‘I’m sure everyone feels a bit . . . panicky. And then of course there’s the birth itself and, you know, all the pain and stuff. I’m sure the way I’m feeling is totally normal. Don’t you think?’

  Her voice is high and unsteady, as if she’s battling tears; I know my sister well enough to know when she’s putting on a brave face.

  ‘Is Jon there with you?’ I’m now standing outside the entrance to Westminster Reach; I can see the doors to the penthouse elevator through the glass wall.

  ‘He’s in Hong Kong on business. But I’m fine, Annie, really, and the last thing I want to do is worry you, tonight of all nights. Let’s speak tomorrow.’

  I imagine Tabby curled up on her sofa at home, all alone, overwhelmed by the enormity of what’s about to happen to her. I hate the thought of her struggling with this on her own.

  ‘Tabby, the way you’re feeling is normal, although that doesn’t mean it’s not bloody scary.’ I come to a snap decision. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but I want to come over.’

  ‘You can’t, you’ve got your date! Honestly, Annie, I’m just being feeble, I wouldn’t dream of ruining your night.’

  Just then I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the building’s expanse of glass: the usual flurry of anxieties over my hair, clothes and general blah-ness fails to materialise, and instead of the familiar inner turmoil, there’s a calmness and confidence that I haven’t felt for years.

  Hello, Annie, I think with a smile. It’s nice to see you again.

  ‘Tabs, I’ve made up my mind,’ I say firmly. ‘Sam will understand. It’s far more important that I spend this evening with you.’ I head back towards the road, my hand already out to hail a taxi. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  On the drive to Fulham I send a text:

  I’m so sorry, Sam, I’ve got a family emergency so I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. I really hope we can reschedule xxx

  A moment later I get a reply:

  Of course – I’m disappointed but I completely understand. I hope that everything is okay x

  Reading his text, I get a gut-churning flutter of panic: why didn’t he mention anything about rescheduling our date? Why only one kiss to my three? Perhaps, after I cancelled at such short notice, he won’t be bothered to rearrange. I think about our amazing kiss, and what tonight might have held, and wonder if I’ve just made an enormous mistake . . .

  No, that’s nonsense: Sam is a nice guy – of course he’ll understand. If the situation was reversed, I have no doubt he’d do the same for his sister. Besides, the most important thing right at this moment is Tabby, and that I’m there for her, just as she always has been for me.

  39

  Dot and I are just arriving at the playground on Saturday afternoon when the clouds that have been gathering all morning dramatically darken and burst. Rain is bouncing furiously off the swings and there’s a mini torrent pouring down the slide: it looks like we’ll have to go to the soft-play ‘fun zone’ at the leisure centre instead – aka, the seventh circle of hell.

  I’m just struggling to fit the impressively un-user-friendly waterproof cover over Dot’s buggy when my phone starts to ring.

  ‘Hey Fi,’ I say, wedging the phone under my chin inside the hood of my mac, while I try to work out which bit of Velcro sticks to what.

  ‘Annie, where are you?’

  ‘In the park with Dot – well, actually leaving the park en route to the soft-play centre, as it’s just started chucking it down. What’s up?’

  A long pause. ‘Did you see Sam for dinner last night?’

  ‘No, I couldn’t make it after all. Tabby was in a state about the baby, so I went to see her instead. The poor love was in floods of tears when I arrived, but we ordered a Chinese takeaway and by the time we’d had half a crispy duck and watched Bridesmaids, she was feeling loads better . . .’ I finally manage to fix the waterproof cover in place and struggle to my feet, soaked but triumphant. ‘I was gutted to have to cancel, but I’m sure Sam’ll be in touch to reschedule soon . . . or maybe I should phone him? I was the one who blew him out, after all. What do you think?’

  But there’s no reply.

  ‘Fi? Are you still there . . . ?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m here,’ she mutters. ‘Ah, feck it. I need to tell you something, Annie.’

  ‘Well, go on, then,’ I say, wheeling the buggy around the spreading puddles. Dot smiles up at me from under the cover, perfectly snug and dry; meanwhile, my jeans are clinging wetly to my skin and I can feel water sloshing inside my trainers.

  ‘Right y’are, then,’ says Fi. ‘Okay.’ Another long pause. ‘So, we had a viewing at the penthouse this morning at 10 a.m. – you know, Sam’s penthouse – and I went over a bit earlier to make sure I was there when the clients arrived. There was no answer when I pressed the buzzer – nobody’s home, I think to meself – so I head on up. Anyway, it was dark in the apartment, the curtains were still drawn, so I went around opening them all up – because, well, as you know it’s like a feckin’ mortuary in there now they’ve redecorated – and it was only when I got to the bedroom I discovered that . . . Sam was there, still in bed.’

  I laugh. ‘And how did that go down?’

  ‘Well, the thing is . . .’ She sighs unhappily. ‘He wasn’t on his own. There was a woman in bed with him. And they were . . . not wearing any clothes, as far as I could tell.’

  I freeze; the sound of the rain pelting on Dot’s cover seems to have intensified to a roar.

  ‘I didn’t get a good look, obviously,’ Fi goes on, ‘but there was definitely a lot of skin on show.’

  It takes me a moment to find my voice. ‘Are you sure it was Sam? You didn’t really meet him properly last time – is there any chance it could have been a different bloke?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, love. It was definitely the same bastard.’

  I swallow down the lump that has appeared in my throat. This cannot be happening. I wonder how long he waited after I cancelled our date before calling up the next woman? Or maybe he’d always intended to make last night a double bill . . .

  ‘Annie? Are you alright?’

  No, I’m not alright. Far from it. Turns out that ‘special connection’ I thought I had with Sam wasn’t that special after all. What is it about me that makes men so desperate to cheat? Am I a really bad kisser? I get a vivid flashback to Sam’s face close to mine, his eyes narrowed with lust, and tears threaten to join the raindrops running down my face . . . No. I’m buggered if I’m going to stand here crying over another man – even one I really, really liked and thought I might have had the ch
ance of a future with.

  I take a steadying breath. ‘I’m okay, honest. I mean, it wasn’t like we were in a relationship – we hadn’t even had sex!’ I force out a laugh. ‘It’s natural he should be seeing other people.’

  ‘Of course . . . but I know how much you liked him. I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘Don’t be. At least I now know where I stand. Besides, it was far too soon to rush into another relationship.’ But even I can hear how unconvinced I sound – and after a moment I can’t help asking: ‘Was she beautiful?’

  Another long pause. ‘She was . . . striking.’

  I can tell by Fi’s tone that what she actually means is ‘impossibly gorgeous’.

  She goes on: ‘Listen, work’s quiet this afternoon so I can easily nip out of the office – do you want me to meet you? I’ll come and watch Dottie in the ball pit with you.’

  ‘Thanks, love, but I wouldn’t dream of inflicting the torture of soft-play on anyone who didn’t absolutely need to be there.’

  ‘Okay, darl, if you’re sure. I’ll call you later, alright?’

  After ending the call, I trudge on through the rain towards the bus stop, a dull ache cramping my guts. What I’d really like to do is go home, climb into bed and watch some mindless weepy movie while possibly eating a family-size Dairy Milk, but I have Dot to think about – I don’t have the luxury of being able to mope. Regardless of what I said to Fi, though, this has come as a shocking slap in the face. I could never have imagined that the sweet, kind Sam I thought I knew would be capable of something like this: I thought he was far too much of a gentleman to have more than one woman on the go. It turns out he must be either a really good actor or – more likely – I’m just a lousy judge of character.

  40

  It really is remarkable how much money people are prepared to spend on professional photographs of their children, when they could basically just do the job themselves. Not that I’m complaining, of course, as it’s thanks to this fact that I have the makings of what could be a fabulous new career. Also, not to blow my own trumpet, but I like to think that my photos offer a little more than your average parent with an iPhone could achieve.

  ‘Right, Theo, do you see that old log over there?’ The little boy nods excitedly at me, his blonde curls bouncing. ‘I need you to run over to it – yes, Minty, you too – and then we’ll do some climbing and see who can jump the highest . . .’

  I’m spending the morning on the common with Margo, one of the power-mums I met at Raggy Rhyme Time, and her three kids: Theo, four, Minty, three, and six-month-old Hugo. When I first thought about setting myself up as a child photographer, I tentatively mentioned the idea to some of the mums I’d met there and at Little Splashy Quackers, and the response was overwhelming. Purely thanks to word of mouth, within twenty-four hours I’d had six enquiries and one firm booking; a month on and I’ve already done (and been paid for) four shoots – and that’s not counting my session with Rudy, who asked me to take some new headshots for his acting career.

  Although there are countless studios around here offering child photography, most seem to specialise in those pictures of sleeping newborns curled up in a shoe, or toddlers popping out of giant teapots wearing bunny ears: cute, but not my style. I’m offering what I hope is a cooler, edgier option: reportage-style photos, rather than meticulously posed portraits. And, as I’m doing the shoots on the common, I don’t need to pay for a studio – although I am looking into some possibilities, in case things take off. At this early stage, as my wise brother-in-law Jonathan (and now unofficial business advisor) has suggested, it’s sensible to keep my options open.

  Margo and I stroll towards the thicket of trees, where Theo and Minty are already scrambling up onto the fallen log.

  ‘I really love that turban thingy you’re wearing,’ says Margo as she pushes Hugo along in his buggy.

  ‘My headscarf?’

  ‘Yes, it’s very cool.’

  I smile, chuffed with the compliment. I spent an emotional day last week sorting through all my old clothes, which have been packed away in storage for years, and each skirt, jumpsuit and jacket told me a story; together they revealed an incredible collection of memories. I took some pieces to the charity shop and returned a few of the more eccentric items to storage (after all, you never know when you might need a skirt made out of peacock feathers and a diamante bikini) but everything else is now in my wardrobe at Jess’, ready to be worn. I’m remembering how much joy I used to get from clothes, and now that I’m no longer dressing for Luke or Riva, or anyone but myself, I’m starting to rediscover my personal style – including my fondness for headgear. Of course, these days I wouldn’t dream of wearing this headscarf with a kaftan and platforms – the full Streisand, if you will – but dressed down with a white shirt, jeans and slides I think it works a treat.

  ‘I thought I’d do some shots of the three of them playing together on the grass in front of the trees,’ I say to Margo.

  She nods, peeking in the buggy. ‘Oh, sorry, Annie, we might have to wait a bit – Hugo’s out like a light.’

  ‘No problem, we’ve got all morning. Let’s get some of Theo and Minty on the log first . . .’

  Dot is currently with Helen the childminder: as part of our co-parenting agreement, Luke and I have decided to keep her there two days a week, so I can focus on building the photography business. He’s being surprisingly supportive of my new career: I’m sure guilt plays a part, but he’s also said some very nice things about my photos. I’ve set up a new Instagram account – ‘Annie Taylor Photography’ – featuring my favourite Dot pictures, plus the best shots from my fashion days and a few from my new shoots as well. It’s only been a month since Karl fired me, yet my new account has already been getting a lot of interest: it really is astonishing how quickly everything has happened.

  Two hours later I say goodbye to Margo, whose face lit up in a very reassuring fashion when I showed her a few of the photos on my camera – including an adorable one of Minty lying with her baby brother amongst some daisies – and I’m now walking over to Curtis Kinderbey to meet Fi, as it’s Claris’ birthday and we’re taking her out for lunch. I haven’t been back to the office since the day I was fired, but apparently Karl is at a fitness boot camp in Malaga, so there’ll be no risk of him chasing me out with a pitchfork.

  Fi is on the phone when I arrive, so after a catch-up with the receptionist Irene (who very sweetly offers to spread the word about my new career amongst her book group ladies), I go and sit at Fi’s desk, making faces at her as she does her estate-agent spiel. It feels weird to be back here again – especially as Rudy’s desk is now occupied by a new guy – and although I’ve certainly missed the people, it now strikes me how little I’ve missed the actual place. Rudy was right: there was a real risk I could have got too comfortable and ended up stuck here, despite my heart never really being in the job.

  Fi is just winding up her call when out of the corner of my eye I see the door open and two blokes walk into reception. Although I’m not paying attention, something about one of them – some familiar sort of quality – makes me take a proper look. In a matter of milliseconds I go from mild interest to absolute stone-cold shock, because standing in reception, looking as handsome as ever, is Sam. My Sam, as I once almost thought of him.

  I immediately duck down beside Fi’s desk, my heart pounding and every muscle tensed as if ready to flee. All I can think is: What the hell is he doing here?

  Actually, that’s not all I’m thinking – there’s also: God, he’s gorgeous.

  And: Damn, I really wish I didn’t miss him as much as I clearly still do.

  After Fi told me about finding Sam in bed with another woman, I didn’t return a single one of his messages or calls. To give him his due, he was extremely persistent – he tried contacting me every day for a week, then several more times after that – but I knew how much I liked him and I was too fragile to risk my heart getting broken again. Better to have short-term p
ain now, I reasoned, than suffering a few months on when it would be so much worse – because once a player, always a player. That doesn’t mean I haven’t stopped thinking about him, though – far from it. I often find myself lying awake, obsessively turning over what happened between us, trying to work out if I missed any warning signs; it had all looked so incredibly promising.

  Fi’s head ducks down next to where I’m crouched on the floor. ‘What in Jesus’ name are you doing, woman?’

  I just shake my head, eyes wide, and mouth ‘SAM’, pointing in the direction of reception.

  Her eyebrows shoot upwards, then she disappears; a moment later she’s back.

  ‘You’re feckin’ right. He must be here about the penthouse – take a look, it’s safe.’

  Ever so slowly I raise my head, and when I see him I get another pang of gut-wrenching regret for what might have been. I can’t help it: I can remember how his kiss made me feel as vividly as if it happened a second ago.

  Sam’s now standing at the reception desk with another guy, speaking with Irene. He and his mate both look confused; the other bloke asks Irene something and she shakes her head, then points towards Fi’s desk. And now, to my horror, the pair of them turn to look straight in my direction.

  I drop back down again at once, breathless with nerves.

  ‘Do you think he saw me?’ I hiss, my eyes glued on Fi’s face to gauge her reaction. At that moment, her phone buzzes with an internal call.

  ‘Fiona speaking,’ she says, sounding as flustered as I feel. ‘I see . . . Ah . . .’ A sigh. ‘Yes, thanks, Irene, we’ll be right there.’

  With a grim expression, Fi peers down at me again.

  ‘Sorry, love, Sam wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Well, just say that I’m not here!’

  ‘Too late I’m afraid, Irene’s already told him you are.’

  I glance to the back of the room, wondering if I should try to make a dash for the fire exit . . . No, Sam would be sure to see me, and besides, it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, is it? I should go speak to him with my head held high: Sam’s the villain of the piece.